Selma was already waiting by the elevators when I stepped out of the conference room. Her taupe hijab was wrapped with effortless precision, black blouse tucked into wide-leg ivory trousers that moved like silk when she walked. Minimalist. Polished. Powerfully soft. But the look she gave me? Pure mischief.
"Let me guess," she said as the elevator dinged open. "Imran bailed?"
"Bailed implies he had a choice." I stepped in, pressed for the ground floor. "Amina punched someone."
Selma didn't even pretend to be surprised. "Is it weird that I'm proud?"
"Deeply."
"Who'd she hit?"
"Slimy." I rolled my eyes. "The triplets didn't provide a name. But it sounded justified."
Selma grinned, stepping in beside me. "God, I love her."
"You would," I muttered. "You're both ungovernable."
As we stepped out of the elevator, the lobby opened around us—glass walls gleaming, polished stone underfoot, ceilings stretched high and full of quiet power. Everything in this part of the building was curated to impress.
But we didn't linger.
We cut across the marble, heading for the rear corridor—where the polish ended and the work began.
Glass gave way to concrete. Stone became linoleum. The air cooled. Lights dimmed. The transition was sharp and deliberate, like crossing a border. Formality left behind. Function ahead.
The closer we got to the loading docks, the more the building shed its shine.
The wide bay doors were already open. The early Sarajevo wind cut straight through the corridor, sharp against the skin. Diesel. Steel. Cold air and colder work.
The loading docks sprawled in industrial angles, all steel and smoke, forklifts whining over cracked pavement.
"I'm just saying," Selma muttered beside me, "this is why Amina's my favorite. She solves problems directly."
"She's everyone's favorite. She's also a lawsuit waiting to happen."
"Yeah, but with style."
I scanned the yard—stacks of pallets and open containers. "Where's Talha?"
A voice called out from the far side. One of the foremen—Bajro, maybe. I nodded before walking past him. If there was mold on any of the Turkish shipments again, I was going to personally choke someone with the paperwork.
"Remind me again why we're doing this?" she said, eyes scanning ahead.
"Because shipments keep getting misidentified. It's causing delays at customs. We need to audit their process, figure out where the holdup is. And if one more customs report goes missing, I'm going to personally body a shift supervisor."
"Right. Casual Thursday. Do I have permission to enjoy watching this?" Selma muttered, a smile in her voice.
"You can enjoy it. Quietly."
"Fair."
We rounded the last stack of pallets—and that's when I saw him.
Talha.
Half in shadow, sleeves rolled to the elbow, vest hanging open like he hadn't noticed the chill. Clipboard tucked under one arm, hand braced on the edge of a container as he guided a pallet jack into place. He was helping unload a truck like he wasn't the team lead. Like he didn't outrank half the guys around him.
He looked barely upright.
Fresh bruises. Faint swelling near his jaw. A cut above his brow.
I closed my eyes for half a breath.
That man is going to be the death of me.
When I opened them, he was already looking.
Like he felt it—my irritation, my judgment, my rising blood pressure from across the yard.
He didn't even flinch. Just started walking over like I'd summoned him with my disappointment alone.
Unbelievable.
And then he came over.
"Ms. B-Begović," he said with a nod. "S-Selma."
"Talha," I returned flatly. "You're still unloading trucks yourself?"
He shrugged, like it was nothing. "Sh-short two g-guys. F-figured I'd h-help."
"You're the team lead."
He looked at me dead-on. "L-lead doesn't m-mean watch."
Selma made a sound under her breath—half amusement, half warning.
I didn't take the bait. Not yet.
"You've got a clipboard," I said coolly. "Try using it. That's what it's for."
He grinned—of course he did. Like this was all a game. Like annoying me counted as cardio.
"Y-yes, ma'am."
I glared. "Don't start."
He held up both hands, mock-innocent. "W-wasn't."
I shifted focus. "We're here to run the dock audit. Inventory mismatches and tracking delays. This week alone we had two containers flagged with incorrect documentation."
Talha nodded, then glanced behind me. "W-we wait-ing for I-Imran?"
"He got called to the school," I said, already halfway through the report on my tablet. "There was a fight."
Talha groaned. "T-Tarik or A-Adem?"
I shook my head. "Amina."
He blinked. "A-Amina?"
Selma muttered, "Oh no," just as Talha's whole posture shifted.
"W-what hh-happened? Is ss-she okay? Ss-some-one hit h-her?"
"She's fine."
"Y-you s-sure?"
"She punched someone, Talha. Not the other way around."
His mouth opened. Closed. "W-who'd she p-punch?"
I gave him a pointed look. "Did you mute the family chat again?"
He winced. "...M-maybe."
Selma was definitely laughing now, covering it with a cough.
"You'd know if you actually read the messages."
"I d-do read th-them. Just... l-late."
I sighed, already turning toward the warehouse. "Well, since our violent little sister handled herself just fine, maybe we can focus."
Talha didn't wait for a reply—just turned and started down the back corridor like he had somewhere to be and breaking down steel doors was still an option.
The primary dock office was small and loud, all chatter and grit. The whiteboard was a mess of shift schedules, delivery runs, inbound manifests. Half of it was covered in his handwriting—bold, printed in all caps, like he'd bullied the marker into submission. Sharp, no frills. Just the facts.
Not neat. But clean.
We spent the next hour walking the dock.
I asked questions. He answered—gruff, clipped, but clear. No delays. No excuses.
He wasn't polished. He wasn't charming. But he knew his shit.
Every time I pushed, he pushed back—with names, timestamps, container IDs. He wasn't reading off a script. He knew it. Inside out. Like he'd carved it into his bones from sheer muscle memory and refusal to lose.
Even when he looked like hell.
Even when he moved like one wrong step would snap something loose.
He still didn't flinch.
"We need to look at the container logs for last Thursday," I said, turning toward the interior office.
Selma peeled off toward the stock floor, already checking counts on her tablet.
Inside, the desk admin glanced up.
Ajla.
Of course. That girl rubbed me the wrong way every time.
She didn't smile. Neither did I.
"We need the paperwork for the Vioma load that came in Thursday," I said, voice flat.
Ajla didn't respond. Just stood, walked to the back cabinet, and pulled the file without a word.
Talha loitered behind me like a bored teenager at a parent-teacher meeting. Too close. Breathing down my neck.
I didn't turn around. I didn't need to. The man radiated impatience and diesel fumes.
"Do you mind?" I muttered.
He didn't answer. Just shifted like he was trying to get on my nerves.
Success.
Ajla returned and handed me the folder. Didn't look at me. Just at him.
Naturally.
"You need anything else, Talha?"
His voice stayed low. "We're g-good."
She smiled—soft, familiar—and returned to her desk without so much as a glance in my direction.
I waited until we were back in the hallway.
"She seems... attached."
He shrugged. "S-she's been w-working here a w-while."
"That wasn't a professional question."
He gave me a look. "Is th-this a p-professional a-audit?"
"It was."
He didn't smile—but the corner of his mouth twitched, smug and unbothered.
I resisted the urge to flick him in the head.
That girl was definitely into him. And with the way she looked at him, I had a pretty good guess why.
Ajla had that rough, street-sharpened edge. Smudged eyeliner. Cheap perfume. A permanent chip on her shoulder like it was an accessory.
Exactly the kind of girl Talha would sleep with—and let catch feelings, even when he had no intention of returning them.
He wasn't stupid. Just selfish.
And she wasn't helpless. Just the kind of girl who let herself be used and called it something else.
We spent another twenty minutes cross-referencing the container logs. His notes were exact. Handwriting clean, blocky, no room for error. Not the kind of detail work I usually trusted him with—but there it was. Solid. Controlled.
I signed off on the inspection and stepped back.
"Good work," I said.
"Th-thanks."
"You need to take a break before you break something."
"I'm f-fine."
"You're bruised."
"S-still f-fine."
He didn't flinch. But I saw the way he shifted his weight. How his right side lagged just slightly. Like every step was calculated to hide something that didn't want to stay hidden.
I didn't believe him.
But I let it go.
For now.
Selma reappeared at my side, clipboard in hand.
"All clear on my end. You ready?"
"Yeah."
We started back through the corridor, heels echoing against concrete, the dock noise fading behind us.
"L-later, Selma," Talha called, already half-scrolling through his phone.
She smiled. "Try not to collapse before lunch."
He gave a mock salute without looking up. "N-no promises."
I didn't say anything.
"L-Lamija," he added, like an afterthought. "T-tell Amina to u-use her l-left next time. Ss-stronger side."
"I'll be sure to pass that along to her lawyer," I muttered, not breaking stride.
Selma bit back a laugh as we pushed through the doors.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*
Ajla gives side chick energy and Lamija's over it. The eyeliner, the cling, the tragic backstory—girl. Please. Talha knows better and still does it anyway. Typical.
Ajla doesn't think Lamija likes her.10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTA3KrbzAU7
Yeah, girl... you're right.
Also Talha. Limping, bruised, probably concussed—but panicking because his favorite Begović might've thrown hands? Incredible.
This was supposed to be a dock audit.10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡxSPa5a8ZhB
It's now a full-blown emotional crime scene.
-Ash&Olive
10Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡUL01wZW38Q
