Chapter 7 Seven
Seven was nobody’s strongest soldier. In fact, he might have been the weakest. When Enzo had posed the question about trust all those months ago, Seven had given himself a stern talking to.
Don’t expect too much. Stay strong no matter what.
There was also the possibility that Enzo’s question could have just been hypothetical.
What if Seven let his guard down only to find that Enzo hadn’t meant it?
It was a risk he wasn’t willing to take, so he vowed to guard the wall around his heart.
He wouldn’t let Enzo take a bazooka to it.
But Enzo was a lawyer for a reason. He was highly persuasive.
He hadn’t come in, guns blazing, attempting to blow up Seven’s defenses.
He’d snuck in, dismantling them brick by brick so slowly that Seven didn’t see the holes until it was too late.
And it was too late. Because Seven was weak, weak, weak.
When he talked about Enzo to his friends, he maintained that the older man was just an annoyance, a thorn in Seven’s side.
But in reality, they had wandered into this gray zone—an area that existed somewhere between “just friends” and “more than friends.” And Seven had no idea what to do about it.
They’d both been dancing around it for months, so much so that they’d become the firm’s own reality television show.
It started with the silly presents. Enzo still left gifts of necessity like headphones, highlighters, neon color tabs to flag his documents.
He still left him a protein shake whenever Seven had to come in for a full day.
But now, they were left in cute reusable cups with sticky notes that said things like “Definitely not poison” or “I didn’t spit in this. ”
It became a ritual. Each morning, Enzo left the full cup on his desk, and every afternoon, Seven returned it, washed, with a note of his own.
“Still alive. Assassination attempt 7/10. Try harder” or “All I could taste was your tears.” Seven stopped dreading going to the office and began to find excuses to show up before and after classes and on his days off.
Next, came the office supplies. Sticky notes that had “Criminally Hot” emblazoned across the top.
An expensive pen labeled “definitely not a bribe.” A coffee mug dubbing Seven “The World’s Okayest Intern” filled to the brim with his favorite candy.
A brain-shaped stress ball with a card that read, “For when you’re tired of using your own. ”
When Seven had said Enzo could still leave him gifts, he hadn’t expected it to be a near daily occurrence.
But six months in, Enzo was still going strong.
His gifts had graduated from practical to truly absurd.
A small gavel with a fancy tag that said, “I object to your indifference.” A tiny rubber duck in a suit labeled “Emotional Support Litigator.”
Seven’s favorite and most shameful gift was the one he kept in his middle drawer.
The one only he and Enzo knew about. He’d bought him an erasable chore chart and a pack of gold stars.
Each week, Enzo would sneak in and write new reasons to give Seven his gold stars.
This week, he’d received stars for looking hot, not killing anyone, not rolling his eyes at Lourdes during the round table meeting, and using “hearsay” in casual conversation.
Maybe Seven should have found it infantilizing, but it really just made him laugh. It made him feel special. Enzo made him feel special.
Seven arrived at the office at ten after nine, smiling when he saw the metal tumbler covered in kittens. He huffed out a quiet laugh at the masculine scrawl on the Post-it note.
Because coffee won’t fix your personality.
He bit his lip to hide his smirk, but he knew the whole office watched him.
The “star intern” and the “fuckboi litigator.” It was too juicy to ignore.
If it had been anyone else, Seven would have been the one doling out the popcorn.
But it wasn’t. So, he was forced to roll his eyes and say they were just friends. Because they were. Probably.
Seven dropped into his office chair, frowning when he saw a manila file folder on his desk.
When he flipped it open, he found a legal document and a pencil.
His gaze snagged on the pencil, which had something engraved on it.
His face flushed as he read the words. Daddy’s Good Boy.
He flicked his gaze upward to find Enzo watching him with a smirk on his face.
Seven made a show of taking the pencil and tossing it into his otherwise empty garbage can.
Enzo laughed, then opened his drawer, fanning out a dozen more pencils, his brow raising in challenge.
Seven rolled his eyes, then ducked his head when he couldn’t wipe the smile off his face.
He made a point of ignoring Enzo while he signed into his computer.
The moment he was in, a message appeared.
L. Conti
I wouldn’t leave that in the trash. You know the others will fish it out the minute you go to get your coffee.
S. Symanski
Good. Then they’ll all know what I have to put up with every day.
L. Conti
Fine with me. Let them know how good you are for me. Show them all your gold stars. I bet they’d agree.
S. Symanski
When do I get to cash those in anyway? At this point, you owe me a Mercedes.
L. Conti
Name your color and it’s yours, brat.
S. Symanski
The sad part is I know you’d do it.
L. Conti
The sad part is that you won’t let me.
S. Symanski
I can’t just quit my job and let you support me. My mother would kill me.
L. Conti
Please, your mother loves me.
S. Symanski
She won’t love all the money I wasted on school.
L. Conti
Poor you. Born to be a sugar baby. Forced to be an attorney.
S. Symanski
I’m going to print out this conversation and give it to the HR lady to use as an example in her Workplace Harassment seminar this afternoon.
L. Conti
I already did. Look down.
Seven frowned, giving the filing in the folder his full attention, then snickering. It was a few lines from their messages the previous day. He’d red-lined them.
CASE FILE: Seven Symanski v. Lorenzo Conti (Re: “Just friends”)
SUBMITTED TO: The Intern Who Makes Loafers Sexy
DATE: September 10th
*PREPARED BY: Lorenzo Conti, Attorney at Law
L. Conti:
“Did Grayson make you use Comic Sans for this slide deck or is this a cry for help? Blink twice if you need assistance.”
Line 1 – Exhibit A, Enzo Initiates Contact: Classic “negging” technique used as a thinly-veiled excuse to start conversation.
? Annotation: Defendant is seeking attention through typographic aggression.
S. Symanski:
“I’ll stop using Comic Sans when you stop staring at my ass.”
Line 2 – Seven Counters: Plaintiff clearly acknowledges the defendant’s ongoing flirtatious behavior.
? Annotation: Also suggests spatial awareness of the defendant’s gaze patterns. Highly sus.
L. Conti:
“Then be prepared to use Comic Sans forever, brat baby. Your font choices are tragic, but your ass is criminally distracting.”
Line 3 – Enzo Doubles Down: Direct flirtation disguised as banter.
? Annotation: Use of “criminally” = textbook Daddy language. Irrelevant but hot.
S. Symanski:
“It is, isn’t it. Also: This is why we’re just friends. Emphasis on ‘just.’”
Line 4 – Seven Attempts to Reinstate Boundaries: The friend zone defense is invoked.
? Annotation: Weak. Jury may be swayed by consistent texting habits, body language, and smile frequency when reading these messages.
Final Summary:
This document has been submitted as proof that you’ve been flirting back this whole time despite protestations of friendship. For the record, the defense would like to add:
You laughed at my gifts.
You texted me “don’t be cute” last night, which implies acknowledgment of my cuteness.
Last week, you ate the cookie specifically labeled “Not a ‘just friend’ cookie.” You knew what it meant.
Respectfully submitted,
—Lorenzo Conti, Attorney at Law (still patiently waiting in the friend zone, but with slightly bluer balls)
Seven shook his head. The man was a menace.
He drank down his protein shake, hoping it would cool him off a bit.
He was in trouble here. He had no problem hitting pause on Daddy Enzo, overbearing Enzo, and foot-in-mouth Enzo.
But flirty, adorable, charming Enzo was lethal to Seven’s defenses.
His walls were crumbling. But the fear was still there.
The fear that once Enzo got what he wanted, he’d realize the challenge was what he’d really craved, not Seven himself.
Still, it was getting harder and harder to say no.
Seven didn’t want to say no. He wanted to fling himself into Enzo’s arms and end his own tragically long dry spell.
Enzo’s balls weren’t the only ones turning blue.
It was impossible to look at the man every day and not remember what it felt like lying beneath him.
He slid the file folder into his bag, then fished the pencil from the trash and did the same with it. He’d never admit it to a single soul, but he kept every one of the notes Enzo gave him in a box beneath his bed like a twelve-year-old girl with a crush.
When he looked up at Enzo again, he was locked in on his computer screen, his handsome face a mask of concentration, his colorful tattoos in direct conflict with his expensive Canali suit. He’d hung the jacket on the rack beside his desk, then rolled up his sleeves to the elbows. The bastard.
L. Conti
If you don’t stop staring at me, we’re both gonna be brought before HR.
S. Symanksi
Then put away those slutty forearms. They’re distracting. How is a man supposed to concentrate?
Seven watched Enzo laugh, then make a show of flexing said forearms.
S. Symanski
Shameless hussy.