• Intern Diary Part 1 — Day 1 (aka The Disaster Begins) • So, my grand debut at "Omni Logistics" in Dallas? Total train wreck. It all started in my apartment. I thought, "Hey, let’s eat a quick PB\&J before work", right? Wrong. The sandwich betrayed me. A glob of jelly launched itself onto my shirt like it had a personal vendetta. Cue wardrobe change. Cue panic. Cue me nearly missing the bus on my very first day. Fate: one! Dignity: zero!! When I finally got to the building—wow! Shiny glass, modern vibes, the kind of place where you’d expect important people to walk around looking like they own the world. Naturally, I was so busy staring that I forgot how to walk. BAM!!! Straight into some guy in an expensive suit. And because fate clearly hates me, his coffee ended up all over him. All! Over!! Him!!! I think I said “I’m so sorry!” about fifty times before bolting into the elevator and riding up to the 17th floor. There, I greeted by a very polished blonde woman who looked like she could crush me with a single raised eyebrow. “Mr. Brown, you are ten minutes too late.” Yup. That was my welcome to "Omni Logistics". My face went tomato-red, my voice cracked like I was thirteen again, and she—Andrea—marched me straight into the boss’s office. Fast-forward seven weeks, and honestly? Nothing’s improved. Every week I manage to screw something up and end up in your office for another round of “What did you do this time?” No wonder everyone calls you "Mr. Grumpy". Honestly, at this point, I’m starting to think it’s a company tradition.

• Intern Diary Part 2 — The Casual Friday Confusion • This morning, I walked into the office feeling… actually good. I had my favorite cap on, a black hoodie that always makes me feel at home, my worn-but-perfect Jordans, and jeans that hug in just the right places. Honestly? I thought I looked cool. Fashionable but casual. Street-ready chic. The kind of vibe Taylor Swift would totally write a song about. The moment I stepped into the lobby, people started looking at me. Not quick glances—actual stares. At first, I thought, FINALLY! They’re noticing my style. Maybe I was setting a trend. Maybe today, I was the mysterious, fashion-forward intern who dares to be different. Then the elevator doors opened. Inside were six people, all in sharp suits, ties perfectly knotted, shoes shining like mirrors. And there I was… the lone hoodie-wearing rebel. My stomach dropped. My reflection in the glass walls looked less “trendsetter” and more “lost student who wandered into the wrong building.” By the time I reached our floor, the truth hit me like a ton of bricks: I was the ONLY one not wearing a suit. Apparently, it wasn’t casual Friday—it was NEVER casual Friday. Nobody told me. Or maybe they did and I just… forgot. Typical me. The worst part? I do own suits. Two, to be exact. But they’re both far too fancy. One is practically red-carpet ready, the other makes me look like I’m about to host an award show. If I wore either to work, I’d look like I was trying way too hard. So here I am, stuck in fashion limbo. Too overdressed if I bring out my suits, too underdressed if I stick to my hoodies. And of course, every time Mr. Grumpy passed today, I felt like a kid lost on a field trip. His suits are always flawless, making me want to sink into the carpet. So here I am, trapped in fashion purgatory. Do I blend in and look boring? Or stay me and risk looking like a misplaced student? Why is adult life just one endless dress-code disaster?

• Intern Diary Part 3 — The Ultimate Blueprint Catastrophe • Today was supposed to be simple: deliver the blueprints for the new warehouse to Mr. Grumpy. SIMPLE! Ha. Apparently, the universe thinks I deserve chaos. I had my coffee in one hand and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich in the other—multitasking like a “responsible adult.” Or so I thought. Of course, that was my first mistake. Halfway down the hallway, my elbow caught a chair. Coffee flew through the air like some caffeinated rocket, and my sandwich—oh, my poor sandwich—decided to leap from my grasp in perfect slow motion. Brown and red splattered across the blueprints in what I can only describe as modern art gone horribly wrong. Cue the internal screaming. Cue the panicked shuffling into Mr. Grumpy’s office, blueprints wobbling and sticky coffee and jelly dripping onto the floor. I could feel my cheeks burning hotter than a kiln. He didn’t yell—thankfully—but that raised eyebrow could have triggered an earthquake. I started mumbling apologies faster than my brain could even form coherent sentences. Somehow, by some miracle of the cosmos, I managed to hand over the coffee-and-jelly-smeared blueprints without totally destroying the project—or myself. But, of course, the humiliation didn’t end there. I spent the next hour hiding behind my desk, imagining a warehouse built with sticky floors, walls smeared in peanut butter, and jelly fingerprints in every corner—all because of me. And there he was, probably reviewing the plans, probably noticing EVERY little smear, probably silently judging. Why does something as simple as delivering blueprints feel like defusing a bomb on a tightrope over a volcano ONLY when Mr. Grumpy is watching?

He found me at the edge of death. In my clan, the weak are abandoned without mercy. Any member who can no longer serve the tribe’s future is cast out, and that became my fate. As the chieftain’s only child, I was meant to inherit his role—so my purity had to remain untouched until marriage. But one of my father’s rivals sought to destroy him in the cruelest way. He kidnapped me… and stole what my future depended on. When my father learned what had happened, rage overtook him—but not for my sake. In his eyes, I had been defiled. Ruined. He banished me and left me in the desert to die beneath the burning sun. I thought my end had come. That was when he appeared—among the ruins of an ancient temple our clan had abandoned centuries ago. A tall figure cutting through the heat, his shadow falling over me like a final mercy. “Poor thing,” he said as he lifted me into his arms and carried me to the helicopter waiting in the scorching light. His name is Vincenzo Bellamy—“Vince.” CEO of one of America’s largest weapons manufacturers. The most desired man in his forties. And, secretly, the greatest supplier of black-market weapons in the country. He brought me to Washington D.C. “Where better to sell illegal arms,” he said with a smirk, “than beneath the President’s nose?” Vince has never cared about laws—only power, profit, and the people he chooses to keep. It has been three weeks since he saved me. I’ve lived with him in his penthouse ever since—a fortress sealed tighter than Fort Knox. I haven’t stepped outside; my body and mind needed time to heal, and even now, I’m not sure I’m whole. Vince is kind sometimes. Unexpectedly gentle. But he has more dark days than bright ones, and his moods shift like storms rolling in over the horizon. When the temper in his eyes flares, sharp and dangerous, I can’t help but wonder: Did he rescue me… or simply claim me?

• Intern Diary Part 9 — The Rainstorm Rescue • I should’ve known the day would be cursed the second I left my apartment without checking the weather app. Dallas skies looked fine—sunny, clear. I even thought, “Maybe today won’t be a disaster.” Ha. Joke’s on me. Halfway to work, the heavens EXPLODE! Buckets of rain poured down like I was in some tragic music video. My hoodie was no match. Within minutes I was soaked to the bone—hair plastered, sneakers squelching, jeans sticking in all the wrong places. By the time I stumbled into the office, I looked like a drowned rat that had lost a fight with a fire hydrant. Everyone stared. Andrea pressed her lips together like she might laugh. I muttered something about “surprise rain” and bolted to my desk, trying to hide the puddle forming under my chair. Of course, luck hates me, because five minutes later Andrea told me Mr. Grumpy wanted to see me. I nearly cried. I shuffled into his office, dripping all over his perfect floor. He looked up, one eyebrow arched in that terrifying, elegant way, and I braced myself for the scolding of a lifetime. But instead, he sighed—soft, almost… tired. Then, without a word, he stood, shrugged off his blazer, and draped it over my shoulders. His blazer. Warm. Expensive. Smelled like cedar and something sharp I couldn’t name. My heart practically combusted on the spot. I squeaked out a thank you, cheeks burning hotter than a toaster. He just nodded, already back at his desk, like it was nothing. NOTHING. Meanwhile, I sat there gripping the sleeves like it was a holy relic. Now I’m home, blazer carefully folded on my chair, praying he doesn’t notice the faint smell of rain still clinging to it when I return it. Honestly? Part of me doesn’t want to give it back at all.

• Intern Diary Part 8 — Coffee Chaos • Why, oh WHY did Andrea have to trust me with HIS coffee order? Like, of all people, me—the walking disaster magnet of Omni Logistics. She handed me a little sticky note and said, “Just grab Mr. Grumpy’s usual from the café around the corner.” Easy, right? HA! Famous last words. First problem: the line. Twenty minutes of pure torture, my knees bouncing, rehearsing the order in my head like it was a Shakespeare monologue. “Large Americano, splash of milk, two sugars.” Simple. But when it was finally my turn, my brain short-circuited and I blurted, “Uh, latte? Extra foam? Cinnamon?” What is WRONG with me?! Second problem: I panicked, tried to fix it, and ended up with THREE cups. I’m juggling them like some circus act, praying not to trip. Spoiler: I tripped. Just a little splash, but enough to stain the cardboard tray and my sleeve. My whole life is stains. By the time I made it back to the office, the coffee was lukewarm, my hands were shaking, and I looked like I’d just lost a fight with a bakery. Andrea gave me THAT LOOK, but I had no choice—I had to knock on his door. He looked up from his desk, sharp suit immaculate, eyes colder than iced espresso. I placed the cup down like it was a bomb about to explode. “Here’s your coffee, sir,” I squeaked. He took one sip, paused… and kept drinking. Didn’t say a word. Not even a glare. And that silence? Way worse than any scolding. Now I’m sitting at my desk, hoodie hood pulled over my face, replaying every second. Did he notice the cinnamon? Did he hate it? Did he think I was trying to be creative with his coffee? God, kill me now. Still… a tiny part of me couldn’t help but notice how his fingers curled around the cup, steady, elegant, like even drinking coffee was some kind of power move. And me? Just the klutz who’ll never get it right.

• Intern Diary Day 7 — The Overtime Incident • I should’ve gone home earlier. Everyone else had already left, and there I was, stuck finishing reports like some loyal little intern hamster. By the time I finally dragged myself out of the office, it was dark. Too dark. The streets near Omni feel different at night—like the shadows are watching. That’s when it happened. A group of guys leaning against the wall started whistling. At first I ignored them, kept my head down, but then came the words—ugly, sharp. “Hey, pretty boy! Where you going?” My stomach twisted. I walked faster, Jordans slapping the pavement, but they followed. One grabbed my arm. My pulse exploded. I tried to shake him off, stammer something, but my voice was useless. Another blocked my way, and suddenly I couldn’t breathe. My hands shook, my mind screamed: "not here, not like this!" And then—his voice. Calm, cold, cutting through the night like a blade. “Let him go!" Mr. Grumpy.! Out of nowhere, standing there in his dark coat, eyes like ice. The men hesitated, muttered, and backed off under his stare. I nearly collapsed, but he was there, catching me before I could. Only then did I realize my arm was scraped from the struggle, blood trickling. “Idiot,” he muttered, pulling me closer. Not cruel, just… steady. He walked me to his car like it was the most natural thing, shielding me the whole way. Now I’m in HIS bed, arm bandaged, wearing one of his oversized shirts, heart still racing. Every time I close my eyes, I see those men closing in—but I also see him. Standing between me and the dark. For the first time, his sharp edges didn’t scare me. They saved me. And God help me, that makes my crush even worse.

• Intern Diary Part 6 — The Missing Document • If clumsiness was a sport, I’d be world champion. Today proved it. Andrea called, sharp as ever: “Sasha, Mr. Grumpy needs the blueprints immediately.” I checked my bag. Not there. My desk? Empty. And then it hit me—I’d left them at home. On the kitchen table. Next to a peanut butter knife and a mountain of empty mugs. I was already panicking when HE appeared. Mr. Grumpy, looming like some well-dressed executioner. “You left them at home?” His tone could’ve frozen lava. I babbled about running to fetch them, but instead he said, “Fine. Show me.” Which is how I ended up unlocking my apartment door with shaking hands, praying for divine intervention. But no—God hates me. Clothes draped over chairs, sneakers in piles, half my closet spilling into the living room. It looked like a tornado sponsored by Vogue. He stepped inside, silent, eyes sweeping over everything. My pulse nearly exploded. I snatched the blueprints off the table so fast I nearly sent a mug crashing. “Here! Got them! Sorry, I—uh—you can go now!” But he didn’t. He took the blueprints, set them down, and sat. On MY couch! Like it was the most natural thing in the world. “I’ll wait,” he said simply, crossing one leg over the other. “Organize yourself. You clearly need the practice.” So there I was, running around like a headless chicken, shoving socks under cushions, stacking plates in the sink, while he sat there—perfect, calm, a storm in a suit. Every move I made felt clumsier under his gaze. He STAYED! In my space. Surrounded by my mess. And somehow, that felt more intimate than any kiss could...

• Intern Diary Part 5 — The Business Party Disaster (…Or Was It?)• So last night was the big "Omni Logistics" business party. My first “real” company event as an intern. I swore I’d behave, keep it professional, and not make a fool of myself. Spoiler: I failed spectacularly. It started out fine—lots of suits, champagne flowing, me nervously hovering near the buffet so I’d look busy. But then someone shoved a glass into my hand. And another. And another. Champagne is DECEPTIVELY sparkly, okay? Before I knew it, I was laughing too loud, wobbling in my shoes, and feeling like Taylor Swift had personally written the soundtrack to my evening. And then it happened. I kissed MR. GRUMPY!! Not a little “oops” bump on the cheek. No. A full-on, lips-on-lips, what-was-I-thinking kind of kiss. And here’s the terrifying part: I… liked it. Like, really liked it. The suit, the cologne, the sheer shock of it—ugh, my brain keeps replaying it like a broken record. Now it’s the morning after, and reality has hit me like a truck. My head hurts, my dignity is missing, and I can’t stop blushing every time I picture it. Did anyone see? Did HE hate it? Is he going to fire me on Monday? Or worse… what if he didn’t hate it either? Note to self: free alcohol is not your friend. Also… neither are forbidden crushes.

• Intern Diary Part 4 — The Business Trip from Hell • When Andrea told me I’d be going on a business trip with Mr. Grumpy, my brain short-circuited. Why me? There are at least ten other interns who can actually walk in a straight line without knocking over office supplies. But nope. She picked me. Lucky me... So I crammed my suitcase with my two most “professional” suits (the ones I guard like crown jewels) and a couple of streetwear pieces, because honestly, I can’t survive without them. I spent the whole trip overthinking every possible disaster: what if I said something stupid, what if he scolded me in front of clients, what if I spilled coffee on him again? Turns out, none of that compared to the real disaster. The hotel was overbooked. Every room full. Every. Single. One. Except for—yeah, you guessed it—one. So now here I am, in a shared hotel room with Mr. Grumpy himself. The room has two beds, but trust me, they might as well be bunk beds for how close they are. One bathroom, one TV, no escape hatch. He’s been pacing in his perfectly pressed suit, looking like he’s modeling for some luxury ad, while I sit here pretending to write important notes… when actually I’m writing this. I keep whispering to myself: It’s fine. It’s just one night. Act normal. But how am I supposed to “act normal” when he’s right there, folding his shirt with military precision while I try not to trip over my own shoes? Even his toothbrush looks expensive. If I survive this night without humiliating myself, I deserve a medal. Or at least a week off. But let’s be real—I’ll probably talk in my sleep and say something that gets me fired...

“Alright, son. Take this box into the living room, will you?” Your father presses a moving box into your arms, and you carry it inside the new house. Your mother inherited the place from her aunt—her reason for uprooting the family from New York to Oakland, California. Over forty hours in the car. You had to leave everything behind: your school, your friends… your whole world. Just as you’re about to set the box down, the deep, rattling growl of a motorcycle cuts through the air. “Oh, great. Bikers.” Your mother wrinkles her nose in distaste, peering out the window. You follow her gaze. Across the street, a low bungalow sits at the end of a driveway. A man swings off an old motorcycle, his worn leather jacket hanging heavy on his shoulders. He rakes his fingers through a mess of wild, black hair—then his eyes lift to meet yours. Even from this distance, his piercing blue gaze seems to lock onto you, burning through the space between you both. Weeks passed. Slowly, you began to adjust to life in the suburbs, though the ache of what you’d left behind never fully faded. After another long day at the new high school, you find yourself standing at the bus stop, waiting for the ride that will take you back home…

You’ve always been trouble. Raised in high society, born with a silver spoon in your mouth, life has given you nothing but luxury—money, designer clothes, endless parties. And you’ve never once thought about the consequences of your reckless behavior. But this time, you’ve gone too far. After your latest party ends in disaster, the hotel bans you for destroying an entire suite, your brand-new Audi A6 is totaled, and now you’re facing charges for public disturbance. Your father, Michel, has finally had enough. At his breaking point, he sends you away—to Texas, of all places—to live with an old friend of his. His goal? To teach you responsibility the hard way. Suddenly, the glittering city nights are gone, replaced by wide-open skies and long, dusty days. Life on a ranch is nothing like the lavish world you’re used to… and it just might be the one thing that changes you forever.

Christian is always in the spotlight. Whether in the ring, on the street, or in training: he always has to play a role. Married to top model Sarah Craft, he lives in a penthouse apartment in Miami, from where he has a breathtaking view of the ocean. But there's more behind the perfectly constructed facade of fame and marriage! Christian is gay, but doesn't let the public know. Only in the "Blue Lounge" bar can he be himself. In the quiet ambiance, where soft blue light and R&B music help guests forget their hectic reality, he met you a few months ago. You work as one of the waiters at the bar, and from day one, you've been open to Christian. If he doesn't want to go back to his wife, you let him stay in her small apartment next to the bar...

Rebirth Corporation Five years ago, a virus wiped out almost all men on earth. Only five survived, the so-called "Holy Five"! These men are locked away by the "Rebirth Corporation" within the walls of a research facility, away from the outside world, in the hope of repopulating the Earth through "reproduction." Lonny came to from cryogenic sleep seven months ago, confused by his new situation. He felt like running away when he heard he was supposed to be responsible for repopulating the Earth. As the former hockey player ran panicked through the halls of the institution, he bumped into you: his new caretaker! He begged you with pleading eyes as he held your hands: "Please help me, I don't want to end up as a stud farmer!" Since that day, you've spent every day in his room, his only support in this new world. You, the only person he can trust. His anchor in his loneliness. The only person who seems to give him warmth and love. Today, too, you lie in his bed, him clinging to you like a drowning man clinging to a lifeline when the alarm clock next to his bed rings, signaling that he has to get back to his duties.

Rebirth Corporation Six years ago, a virus wiped out almost all men on earth. Only five survived, the so-called "Holy Five"! These men are locked away by the "Rebirth Corporation" within the walls of a research facility, away from the outside world, in the hope of repopulating the Earth through "reproduction." You're new to the institution, having decided to work there as a caretaker a few days ago. Everything went well so far: training, getting to know the other caretakers, finding your way around the huge Rebirth Corporation facility. Then, in your second week, you get the news: the caretaker in charge of "Number Three" has become pregnant, by none other than Number Three herself. After all, that's the Corporation's goal: to repopulate the world. So you give your all to your new job: you organize Ike's meetings with the women, make sure Ike eats healthy, and take care of his room while he works out in the institution's gym. But today, you're exhausted from your work, barely able to keep your eyes open. Completely drained, you lie down on the bed in Ike's room, resolving to get just one hour of sleep before continuing to clean up. You don't notice Ike coming back into his room and seeing you curled up on the blanket in his bed...

Rebirth Corporation Ten years ago, a virus wiped out almost all men on earth. Only five survived, the so-called "Holy Five"! These men are locked away by the "Rebirth Corporation" within the walls of a research facility, away from the outside world, in the hope of repopulating the Earth through "reproduction." Valentino once underwent cryogenic treatment for medical treatment and thus survived the virus. When he awoke from cryosleep five years ago, he didn't know what had happened. He was called "Number One" because he was the first to awaken. Since then, he has lived in the institution, chosen to repopulate the Earth. Valentino, however, feels irritated. Constantly swarmed by women he feels no affection for, he prefers to spend his time in the institution's gym to distract himself. By his side: you, his caregiver. Your job is to make sure he's comfortable. You manage his diet, ensure his "meetings" with the women are arranged, and that Valentino is happy. He treats you differently, almost like a friend. Even though he's worshipped like a star in a world full of women, only with you does he feel like a normal person...