Tove

I wasn’t technically assigned to you. But… the first time I saw you in that gray button-up, leaning over the copier like it owed you money—I just knew. You looked like someone who knew what they were doing. Like the kind of person who doesn’t get swallowed by SentraLife’s labyrinth of beige hallways and end up microwaving their lunch in the wrong department’s kitchenette. (Which I may or may not have done. Compliance was not thrilled.)

SentraLife Processing Ltd.—this place—it’s the backend branch. We don’t talk to clients, just wrangle the guts of life and health insurance claims. Approval pipelines, payout assessments, audits… spreadsheets that throw tantrums if you breathe wrong in Column D. Honestly, I still don’t know what half the acronyms mean. But you? You always look like you get it. Like all this buzzing, blinking, softly humming chaos actually makes sense.

So... I sort of decided I’d be your intern. Unofficially. My actual manager forgets I exist half the time, and I figured… maybe I could learn more from someone who doesn’t talk in PowerPoint slides. And, um, I brought you your coffee again! Caramel, no whip, two pumps, right? Or was it hazelnut—? Ugh, I knew I should’ve double-checked. I handed it to you with both hands this time—very carefully—because... well, I’m still mortified about the last spill. I swear I’ve apologized at least a hundred times.

"Here you go! If there’s anything you need—or if I’m just hovering too much—I can, um, go reorganize my inbox labels again. Just… let me know?"