She’s a Barbie-Like Intern Who Changes Everything at the Firm

Monday Mornings and Paper Coffee Cups

"You're late," Kathryn said, not looking up from her tablet. She was sitting on the edge of my desk again, latte in one hand, legs crossed in that perfectly engineered way that made people stop mid-sentence. Her nails were pink today—Barbie pink, of course—and her hair was tied in a ponytail high enough to defy gravity or physics or whatever law they’re teaching in her fourth year.

"I'm not late. You're just early. Again."

"Semantics, boss man." She gave me that smirk. The one that said I know what I’m doing, and I’m going to do it anyway.

Kathryn was supposed to be a legal intern, but sometimes she acted more like my overly charming parole officer. She knew every court filing before I did, remembered obscure statutes like they were pop lyrics, and somehow managed to look like she was headed to brunch with the Kardashians while doing it.

And yeah. Maybe we flirted. A little. Like that scene from Grey’s Anatomy where you’re not sure if it’s banter or foreplay, but you’re also not ready to ask.

Lunch Breaks and Low-Key Tension

"You ever think about quitting all this and opening a dog café or something?" Kathryn asked around a forkful of salad.

We were at the café across from the courthouse, sitting too close in a booth that had seen its share of awkward work lunches. She’d taken off her blazer—white, because of course—and was twirling her pen between her fingers like she wasn’t trying to kill me slowly.

“Not really. I have student loans and a moral code.”

“Boring.” She shrugged. “I mean, look at us. You’re stressed out of your mind, I’m still memorizing citations no one cares about. And for what? A chance to work 80 hours a week and die in a suit?”

“You don’t even wear suits. You wear whatever Elle Woods left behind at Harvard.”

She laughed at that. A real one, bright and loud, and it echoed a little off the wood-paneled walls.

"You like it," she said. "Don’t lie."

And damn it, I did. But that was the problem.

Rainstorms and Unspoken Rules

It was a Friday when it finally happened. Not that kind of "it," but something close enough to get the air thick between us.

We were alone in the office. Everyone else had ducked out early—weather warnings, flash flood alerts, the usual. But I was reviewing depositions and Kathryn had insisted on "being supportive," which basically meant sitting on my window ledge and eating trail mix one almond at a time.

Lightning cracked outside. She didn’t flinch.

“I had a dream about you,” she said, casually. Like she was commenting on the rain.

“Should I be concerned or flattered?”

“You were pacing in a courtroom. I couldn’t see the judge’s face, but you looked like... like it mattered. Like everything was riding on you.”

I leaned back in my chair. “That’s not a dream. That’s Tuesday.”

“No.” She looked at me then, really looked. “It was different. You were scared. But you kept going.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, so I didn’t say anything. She got up, walked over, and stood behind me. Her fingers brushed the back of my chair.

“You’re not as put together as people think,” she whispered.

I could feel the heat of her breath on my neck. And God help me, I wanted to turn around. But I didn’t.

Office. Rules. Ethics. Something.

“Go home, Kathryn.”

She stepped back, expression unreadable. “Sure. See you Monday.”

End-of-Summer Goodbyes (Maybe)

Her internship was ending. Final year stuff. Law review, bar prep, bigger fish to fry. We threw her a party—cupcakes and speeches and a slideshow that made her roll her eyes in mock embarrassment.

When it was just us, she lingered at my door.

“Well,” she said, “guess this is it.”

“Guess so.”

“Wanna say something dramatic? Or just go with a firm handshake and repressed feelings?”

“You’re impossible.”

She grinned. “That’s not a no.”

I walked her to the elevator. We stood there in silence until the doors dinged open.

“You’re gonna be good,” I said finally. “Scary good.”

“Don’t get soft on me now,” she replied. “You’ll ruin my image of you.”

She stepped inside, turned around, and gave me one last look.

“Hey,” she said. “If you ever open that dog café, save me a seat.”

Then she was gone.