Falling for my fake boyfriend

Truth be told, I was a bit sceptical about this whole internship thing. Not because I don't like engineering, because I do, I freaking love engineering. This is my thing. My scepticism was not a result of the truckload of obvious red flags.  I was well aware that committing to the 2 years of unappreciated, underpaid, long workweeks might not be good for my mental health.  Those nights spent racking my brain in front of the computer and deciphering the secrets of AutoCAD instead of going out clubbing with my other University friends, or doing something essential like sleeping, should have been enough torture on my young self.  And now devoting my mind and body to the pursuit of an ideal career by voluntarily signing up for this internship program might not be a wise choice. I am well aware, and yet none of it worries me. Or maybe it does, a tiny bit, but I'm fairly certain I can deal with it. For the most part. No, in all honesty, it was something else that held me back from surrendering myself to the most notorious and soul-sucking circle of hell, also known as a post graduate internship programme. Held me back, that is, until I was invited to interview for a spot in Vauxhall Engineering Programme, specifically in the wipers engineering and design department, and came across the man.  The man, whose name I never really got. The man I met after stumbling blindly into the first bathroom I could find, or what I thought looked like a bathroom.  The man who asked me: “Just wondering, is there a reason as to why you are crying in my bathroom?”  I jumped my poor heart feeling like it was about to burst from the scare.  Trying hard to open my eyes through the flood of tears, and only barely managing to c***k one open. Frankly, my entire vision was blurry at best. All I could see was a fuzzy, shaky outline of someone tall, most likely dark haired, dressed in black, and definitely a man. That’s about it.  “I... uhm is this the ladies’ room?” I stammered.  A long pause between the man and I. Awkward silence.  And then the answer I didn’t want to hear. I was hoping not to hear.  “Nope.”  His voice was deep. Really deep and intense, scary yet thrilling, enticing somehow. “Are you sure?” I tried again. “Certain.” He clipped. “Really?” I just had to keep trying for some odd reason, even if I knew that I was only making it worse for myself. “Yup, since this is my private bathroom.” Well s**t. He had me there.  “I’m so sorry. Do you need to use the…” I gestured towards the general direction where I thought I saw a toilet. My cheeks were burning worse than my eyes by this point. My eyes stung, even closed, and I had to screw them shut in an attempt to dull the burn. I tried to dry my cheeks with the sleeve of my shirt, but the material was cheap and flimsy, and not even half as absorbent as cotton.  Ah, the joys of buying things because they are on sale and not just because you desperately need them.  “I just need to pour this glass down the drain.” he said, but I didn’t hear him move. Maybe because I was currently blocking the sink. Or maybe because he thought I was a stalker and was contemplating calling security on my arse.  That would put a rather quick end to my engineering dreams, wouldn’t it?  “Other people don’t typically use this bathroom, just me…” He felt the need to share that information in another form. “Oh my God, I’m so sorry. I thought…”  I din’t actually think, did I? I failed to think things through, as was my habit and curse.  “Are you alright?” The man must be really tall. His voice sounded like it came from ten feet above me.  “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Why do you ask?” I attempted a smile. “Uhm, because I found you crying. In my bathroom.” I thought I saw an arm moving. Probably him trying to make his point.  I giggle, or I try to. It comes out weird. “No, no. I’m not crying. Well, I sort of am, but it’s just tears, you know, without the emotional cause?” I tried my best to explain, but failed.  “I actually do not.” He clipped again.  I sighed, slumping against the vanity. “It’s my eyelashes. Or the glue, to be precise. It may have expired some time ago, and frankly, it was never that great to begin with. It always made my eyes teary. I’ve taken the lashes off, but… ” I shrugged, eyes closed tight, and hopefully facing in his direction. “It takes a while, before my eyes get better, I only just washed the glue off.”  “You deliberately put expired, dodgy glue on your eyes?” He sounded personally offended.  “Only a little expired.”  “What does ‘only a little' mean?” His voice sounded amused but just a little. Pun intended. “I don’t know. A couple of months?” I tried to remember the best before date written on the white tube of lash glue. “What?” His voice rose, like my heartbeat. Steady and pleasant in a thrilling way. “Just like a month or two. Three at most. I think. It’s totally fine. Best before dates are a marketing scheme to make you buy another product.” A sharp noise, probably some kind of snort, came out of the man.  “Actually, best before dates are so I don’t find women crying in my bathroom.” Unless this man was Mr. Vauxhall himself, there was really no need for him to be claiming the bathroom. We were in an office building, not a private residence.  “It’s fine. I‘m fine.” I waved a hand. Normally I would have rolled my eyes if they hadn’t been on fire. “The burning usually lasts only a few minutes.”  “So this is not the first time you've done this? I furrowed my eyebrows. "What?”  “Slapped expired glue on your eyes”  “I may have done it a few times. I don't wear fake lashes often, only on special occasions, and I can't go buying a new tube of glue every time. It's not cheap, trust me." Neither are the lashes, which I carefully wash, pat dry, and reuse. "I'm no expert, but I can't imagine eyes being cheap either." He tsked. I had to give it to him, he had a point.  "Have we met?" Suddenly remembering my manners, I asked the man. "Downstairs, at the mixer party with the engineers and internship candidates?”  “Nope.”  “You weren’t there?” I asked, surprised, not seeing another reason to be in the building on a Friday evening. "It's not quite my scene.”  "Not even for free drinks?”  "Trust me, it's not worth the small talk.”   The all knowing tone of his voice made me think he was one of the engineers, the next step up after finishing the internship. He had to be, all engineers were like that, thinking they were better than everyone else just because they had the privilege of building prototypes in the name of engineering for 7 pounds an hour. In the grim, dark hellscape of the automotive industry, engineers were the lowliest of creatures and therefore had to convince themselves that they were the best.  I was no clinical psychologist, but it seemed like a pretty clear defence mechanism.  “Are you thinking of joining the program?” The man asked.  “I am. I might get a spot in the wipers engineering and design team.” My eyes were burning so bad that I admit, I did think about how my life would change if I went blind. Obviously, I would need a change of career.  "And you?” I asked, trying again to use my sleeve and wipe my eyes.  “Me?” I nod. “Have you been working here for long?”  A silent moment passes. I was getting the feeling that the man loves awkward pauses. “Eight years, more or less.” I picked up on his hesitation and instantly felt guilty. Maybe he was happy being one of the many that remain in the shadows and do repetitive work of the same element. I was already dreading having to work for two years only on the wipers system, and I hadn't even been accepted. I wished I could see his face, like actually see him. Social interactions were hard enough to begin with for me, but being stuck there with the man while I hoped for my vision to come back was threatening to become physically painful if we remained in silence. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like your nan at Christmas dinner.” He laughed softly. It did things to me. “Trust me, you don't even come close.” I felt compelled to smile. “Annoying family?”  “And even worse Christmases.”  Awkward silence overcame, I held out my hand in what I hoped was his general direction. “I’m Lily, by the way.”  Just when I was starting to wonder if I'd just introduced myself to the toilet, I heard him take a few steps closer. The hand that clasped mine was dry and warm, and so large it could have enveloped my whole fist. Everything about him must be huge. Height, limbs, voice. That thing in the more southern region of his body. I have to say, it was not entirely unpleasant even if I had to think about my brain being affected by that nasty glue if those kinds of thoughts started plaguing my mind. Since I wasn’t offered a name by the man, I considered it fair to ask for a favour. “Hey, would you mind not mentioning this incident to anyone? I fear it might make me seem like a less than stellar candidate.”  “You’d think?” The man deadpanned. Trust me, I would have glared at him if I physically could. Though maybe I was doing a decent job of it anyway, from under my closed eyelids, because he laughed. It was mostly an amused snort, but I could tell. And I didn't mind it.  I felt a gentle tug on my hand and realised that I’d been gripping his hand all this time. “And why the fake eyelashes? Were you trying to impress someone?” He asked, my answer preceded by a shrug.