I Should Have Stayed a Virgin {MM Romance}

I want to start by saying that none of this was my idea. The job, the company, the whole thing. None of it. If you are looking for someone to blame, his name is Jasper and he lives on the third floor of a building on Clement Street with a leaky faucet he has been meaning to fix for two years. That is the kind of person he is. Full of good intentions and absolutely terrible follow through.

I am getting ahead of myself. Let me go back to the beginning. Three weeks before my life fell apart in the most confusing way possible, I was sitting in my mother’s kitchen eating rice and watching her talk with her hands.

“Milo,” she said, pointing a wooden spoon at me like it was a weapon. “You are 29 years old.”

“I know how old I am, Mom.”

“Do you though?” She turned back to the stove and stirred something aggressively. “Because a man who knows he is twenty nine should have more going on in his life.”

“I have things going on.”

“Like what?”

I opened my mouth. Then I closed it.

“Exactly,” she said.

My dad was sitting at the other end of the table reading a newspaper like none of this was happening. That was his superpower. Gerald Milkson could remove himself from any uncomfortable conversation simply by pretending it was not occurring. I had been trying to learn that skill my entire life and I was still terrible at it.

“I have a job,” I said.

“You had a job,” my mom said. “Then they let you go. So now you have nothing.”

“I have savings.”

“Milo.”

“They will last me a few months.”

“Milo.”

“I am actively looking, Mom. I have sent out applications.”

She turned around and looked at me with that specific expression she had been perfecting since I was seven years old. The one that said she loved me very much and also thought I was being an idiot.

“Jasper called,” she said.

I put my fork down. “Why is Jasper calling you?”

“Because you were not picking up your phone.”

“I was sleeping.”

“It was two in the afternoon.”

“I was between jobs. I was resting.”

She walked over and sat across from me at the table, which meant the conversation was about to get serious. She only sat down when things were serious. Standing meant she was still halfway into whatever she was cooking. Sitting meant I had her full attention and there was no escape.

“He says he has something for you,” she said. “A job. A real one.”

“Jasper works at a gym.”

“Not anymore apparently. He says he knows someone at some company.” She waved her hand. “Something about apologies.”

I stared at her. “Apologies.”

“That is what he said.”

“What does that mean?”

“I do not know, Milo. Call him and find out.” She stood up and went back to the stove. “And wash those dishes when you are done.”

My dad turned a page of his newspaper. He had not said a single word the entire time.

I called Jasper on my way home. He picked up on the first ring which meant he had been waiting, which meant whatever this was, he was excited about it, which meant I should probably be suspicious.

“Before you say anything,” he said, “just hear me out.”

“You have not said anything yet.”

“I know but I can already tell from your breathing that you are about to be difficult.”

“Jasper. What is the job.”

I heard him take a breath. “Okay so you know how I told you my cousin works at this firm downtown.”

“You have seventeen cousins. I do not keep track.”

“Dami. My cousin Dami. You met her at my birthday party two years ago, she had the red jacket.”

“I do not remember the red jacket.”

“It does not matter. The point is she works at this company called Regret and Associates and they are hiring and she put in a word for you.”

I stopped walking. I was on the corner of my street and a pigeon was staring at me from the top of a mailbox like it also wanted to hear the rest of this.

“Regret and Associates,” I said.

“Yes.”

“What do they do.”

Jasper paused for just a second too long. “They handle apologies.”

“What does that mean?”

“Like, professionally. People hire them to apologize on their behalf. Letters, calls, showing up to things. All of it. Full service.”

I stood there on that corner for a long moment. The pigeon tilted its head.

“Jasper.”

“It pays really well, Milo. Like really well. And the office is nice, I saw pictures.”

“Someone hired a whole company to say sorry for them.”

“Multiple people. It is apparently a very successful business. The guy who runs it is loaded.”

“That is the saddest thing I have ever heard.”

“Do you want the job or not?”

I looked down at my shoes. They were the same shoes I had been wearing for three years. The sole on the left one was starting to separate at the toe. I had been meaning to get new ones for six months.

“Send me the details,” I said.

Jasper made a noise that sounded like a small victory celebration. “I already did. Check your email. The interview is on Thursday.”

“You already scheduled the interview.”

“I was being proactive.”

“Jasper.”

“You are welcome, Milo. Genuinely. You are so welcome.”

He hung up before I could say anything else.

I stood there for another moment. The pigeon flew away. I pulled out my phone, opened my email, and stared at the details Jasper had sent.

Regret and Associates. Professional Apology Services. Downtown office. Competitive salary. Benefits package. The salary figure at the bottom made me read it twice. I went home and ironed my best shirt.

The building was nicer than I expected. That sounds like a low bar but I want to be clear, I had expectations and this place cleared all of them by a significant margin. Glass front, clean lobby, the kind of reception desk that costs more than my monthly rent.

Everything smelled faintly like something expensive that I could not name. I adjusted my glasses and told myself to act normal.

The receptionist looked up when I walked in. She was young with very straight posture and the practiced smile of someone who dealt with a lot of people and had learned to make it look effortless.

“Good morning,” she said. “How can I help you?”

“I have an interview. Milo Milkson.”

She typed something. “Of course. Please have a seat, someone will be with you shortly.”

I sat down in one of the chairs along the wall and looked around. The office had that open plan thing going on where you could see most of the floor from the lobby. People moved around at desks, talking on phones, carrying folders. Everything looked organized and purposeful.

I was trying to figure out what a professional apology actually looked like in practice when a woman appeared in front of me.

She was maybe late twenties with natural hair pulled back and a smile that seemed genuine rather than practiced. She was holding a tablet and wearing a blazer over a simple top.

“Milo?” she said.

“Yeah. Yes. That is me.”

“I am Dami. We spoke over email.” She extended her hand and I shook it. “Jasper’s cousin.”

“Right. Hi. Thank you for the referral.”

“Do not thank me yet,” she said, but she was smiling when she said it. “Come on, I will walk you through things before we go up.”

We walked toward the elevator and she talked while she walked, the way people do when they are used to doing several things at once.

“So the role is client relations coordinator,” she said. “Which basically means you are the person who sits between the client and the actual apology process. You gather information, you help draft communications, you sometimes accompany our representatives to in person apology events.”

“In person apology events,” I repeated.

“Someone hired us to apologize to their sister at her wedding last month,” Dami said pleasantly.

I had so many questions. I asked none of them.

“The team is good,” she continued. “Most people here have been around for a while. You will meet Vincent today, he has been here longer than anyone and he knows everything. He will help you get settled if you get the role.”

“What is he like?”

She considered this for a moment. “Observant,” she said. “Very observant. Do not let it unsettle you.”

The elevator opened and we stepped in. I caught my reflection in the mirrored wall and straightened my collar slightly.

“One thing I should mention,” Dami said as the doors closed. “Mr. Munch runs a very specific kind of operation. He has high standards and he is not always easy to read.”

“Mr. Munch,” I said. “That is the owner?”

“Yes. Orion Munch.” She glanced at me. “You may not meet him today. He does not always attend first interviews. But if you do, just be straightforward. He does not like people who perform.”

“Good,” I said. “I am a terrible performer.”

She smiled. “That might actually work in your favor.”

The elevator opened on the fourth floor and I followed her out into a different section of the office. More glass walls, quieter, the carpet a deeper color than downstairs. Everything up here felt a little more deliberate.

The interview itself lasted forty minutes. Dami asked me questions, I answered them honestly, she typed notes on her tablet. It was not the most intimidating interview I had ever had. I started to relax somewhere around the twenty minute mark which was probably a mistake because that was exactly when the door opened.

I did not hear him come in. That was the first thing I noticed. For someone who turned out to be that tall, he moved without making any sound at all.

Dami looked up from her tablet. “Mr. Munch. I did not know you were joining us.”

“I was passing,” he said.

His voice was flat and even. Not deep exactly, just controlled. Like every word had been measured before it left his mouth.

I turned in my chair to look at him and then immediately wished I had taken a second to prepare myself for that because nothing about Dami’s description had quite covered it.

Orion Munch was tall the way buildings are tall. It was not just the height, it was the way he carried it, like the space around him had agreed in advance to accommodate him. He was lean in an expensive suit that fit him the way clothes fit people who have never once had to think about whether they could afford the tailor. His face was sharp and clean and extremely handsome in the way that made you aware of it immediately and then immediately annoyed at yourself for noticing.

He looked at me the way you look at something that has appeared on your desk and you are not sure yet if it belongs there.

“This is Milo Milkson,” Dami said. “He came in through the referral program.”

Orion said nothing for a moment. He just looked at me with this expression that was not quite a frown and not quite neutral. Somewhere between the two in a place that felt like a quiet judgment.

“The referral program,” he said finally.

“Yes,” Dami said.

He looked at me. “Stand up.”

I blinked. “Sorry?”

“Stand up,” he said again, with the patience of someone who was used to saying things twice but did not enjoy it.

I stood up. I was not sure why. Something about the way he said it made not standing feel like a worse option than standing.

He looked at me for a moment. I was suddenly very aware of my glasses and my curly hair and the fact that my shoes had a separating sole that was hopefully not visible from where he was standing.

“You are applying for client relations,” he said.

“Yes.”

“Have you done this kind of work before?”

“Not this specific kind. I have done client-facing work in a few different industries.”

“This is not a few different industries,” he said. “This is one very specific thing. Our clients come to us because they cannot handle their own emotional labor. That requires a particular kind of person.”

“I understand.”

“Do you?” It was not really a question. “What do you think we do here?”

I looked at him. He looked back. Dami had gone very still beside me.

“You handle apologies on behalf of people who cannot bring themselves to do it,” I said. “Letters, calls, in person events. You translate someone’s guilt into something actionable and deliver it professionally.”

Something shifted in his expression. Not much. Just slightly. Like a door that had been locked moving a fraction of an inch.

“Sit down,” he said.

I sat down.

He looked at Dami. “Finish the interview. Send me the notes.”

Then he walked out of the room as quietly as he had walked in and the door clicked shut behind him and I sat there for a second trying to figure out what had just happened.

Dami looked at her tablet. “Where were we,” she said, like nothing unusual had occurred.

“Is he always like that,” I said.

She typed something. “Mostly yes.”

“Does he do that to everyone? The standing up thing.”

She looked up at me. “No,” she said. “Actually that was new.”

I did not know what to do with that information so I filed it under things to think about later and focused on the rest of the interview.

Jasper called me that evening while I was making dinner.

“So,” he said. “How did it go.”

“It was fine.”

“Just fine?”

“The interview was good. The office is nice. Dami was helpful.”

“But.”

I stirred the pot. “There is no but.”

“Milo, I have known you for fifteen years. There is always a but when you use that voice.”

“I met the owner.”

“Orion Munch? What is he like.”

I thought about how to answer that. I thought about the way he had walked in without making any noise. The way he had looked at me like I was something he had not decided about yet. The way he said stand up like it was the most natural request in the world.

“He is a lot,” I said.

“Good a lot or bad a lot.”

“I genuinely cannot tell.”

Jasper was quiet for a second. “But you still want the job.”

I looked around my apartment. The left shoe was on the floor by the door where I had kicked it off. The sole had separated a little more on the walk home.

“Yeah,” I said. “I want the job.”

“Good. Because Dami texted me twenty minutes ago. You got it.”

I stopped stirring.

“They want you to start Monday,” Jasper said. “Congratulations, man. Genuinely.”

I stood there in my kitchen for a moment with the wooden spoon in my hand and steam rising from the pot.

“Jasper.”

“Yeah.”

“If this goes badly it is entirely your fault.”

“Noted,” he said happily. “Fully noted. See you Monday.”

He hung up. I put the spoon down and called my mom.

She picked up before the first ring had even finished.

“Well?” she said.

“I got it.”

The noise she made was loud enough that I had to hold the phone away from my ear. In the background I could hear my dad say something low and quiet. My mom relayed the news to him at a volume that suggested he was in another building.

“Gerald, he got the job! The apology place!”

There was a pause. Then my dad’s voice, calm and even through the phone.

“Good,” he said. “Now get some sleep.”

That was Gerald Milkson’s version of a standing ovation.

I smiled and told my mom I would come for dinner on Sunday and got off the phone before she could ask me anything about whether there were any women at the new office.

I stood at my stove and finished making dinner and tried not to think about Orion Munch standing in that doorway looking at me like a question he had not decided to ask yet. I was mostly unsuccessful.

Monday came faster than I wanted it to. I was at the building by eight forty five, which was fifteen minutes before I needed to be, which was exactly the kind of thing my mother would have called trying too hard and my father would have called being on time.

Vincent found me in the lobby. I knew it was Vincent before he introduced himself because Dami had said observant and this man was looking at me like he was reading a book he had already read before but wanted to check if the ending was still the same.

He was maybe early fifties, medium height, with the kind of calm that came from having seen too much to be surprised by anything anymore. He extended his hand.

“Vincent,” he said. “You must be the referral.”

“Milo,” I said. “Is that what they are calling me?”

“Just me,” he said. “Come on. I will show you around.”

He walked me through the floor with the efficiency of someone who had done this many times and had learned which parts people actually needed to know versus which parts they would figure out on their own. He pointed out the kitchen, the conference rooms, the supply closet, the good printer versus the bad printer and why I should always use the good one even if it was occupied and I had to wait.

“Whose desk is that,” I asked at one point, nodding at a corner setup that was noticeably cleaner and more organized than the others around it.

Vincent glanced over. “Matty Brown,” he said. “She handles the written communications side. Letters, emails, formal statements. Very good at it.”

As if on cue a woman appeared from around the corner carrying a coffee and a folder. She had natural hair and an easy way of moving and she looked up when she saw us and smiled.

“You must be the new guy,” she said.

“Milo,” I said.

“Matty.” She shifted the folder under her arm and shook my hand. “Welcome to the most bizarre office you will ever work in.”

“I am starting to get that impression.”

“Wait until you attend your first in person apology event,” she said. “Last week someone cried for forty five minutes straight. The client was not even there, just their representative, and they still cried.”

“Did the apology work?”

She thought about it. “Hard to say. The person being apologized to threw a glass of water at our representative so I would call it mixed results.” She smiled again. “Anyway. Welcome. We have decent coffee if you know which pods to use. Ask me later, not Vincent, he has terrible taste.”

“I heard that,” Vincent said.

“You were meant to,” she said pleasantly and walked off toward her desk.

I watched her go and felt something that I immediately catalogued as interest. She was easy to talk to. Warm. The kind of person who made a room feel lighter.

I was still thinking about that when Vincent said, “Conference room. Mr. Munch does a brief Monday check in with new team members.”

My attention snapped back. “Today?”

“He likes to get it out of the way early.” Vincent was already walking. “Keep your answers short. He does not like people who talk to fill silence.”

“What does he like?”

Vincent considered this for longer than I expected. “Competence,” he said finally. “And honesty. He can tell the difference between someone who knows something and someone who is pretending to.”

We reached the conference room and Vincent knocked twice and opened the door.

Orion Munch was already inside, standing at the window with his back to us, looking out at the street below. He did not turn around immediately. He let a few seconds pass first, which I was starting to think was just something he did.

Then he turned.

He looked the same as he had on Thursday except somehow more deliberate. Like the weekend had ironed out any remaining softness and left only the parts that meant business.

His eyes landed on me and stayed there.

“Milkson,” he said.

“Mr. Munch.”

He pulled out a chair and sat down. He did not gesture for me to sit. He just sat down himself and opened a folder on the table and I stood there for half a second before deciding to sit anyway.

Vincent closed the door from the outside. So it was just the two of us.

“You reviewed the onboarding materials,” Orion said. It was not a question.

“Yes. Over the weekend.”

“What did you retain?”

I told him. Not everything, just the core of it. The client intake process, the communication protocols, the three tier apology structure the company used for different levels of conflict. He listened without interrupting, which should have felt encouraging but somehow felt more like being assessed.

When I finished he was quiet for a moment.

“Your background is not in this field,” he said.

“No.”

“Dami thought that was acceptable. I am less certain.”

I looked at him across the table. “You hired me anyway.”

Something moved in his expression. Not quite amusing. Not quite anything I could name. “Dami hired you,” he said. “I approved it provisionally.”

“What does provisionally mean?”

“It means you have thirty days to prove the referral was not a waste of my time.”

I held his gaze. I was aware that the easy thing would be to look away, to say yes sir, to shrink a little in the way people apparently did around him. I did not do that.

“That is fair,” I said.

He looked at me for one more second. Then he closed the folder.

“Vincent will brief you on your first assignment today,” he said. “Do not be late to anything. Do not leave early without telling someone. Do not use the bad printer.”

“Vincent already told me about the printer.”

“Then you are already ahead of the last person we hired.” He stood up. “That is all.”

He walked past me toward the door and I caught, very briefly, the scent of something clean and expensive that I could not name. The door opened and he was gone.

I sat in the conference room alone for a moment. Then I took a breath and stood up and told myself that thirty days was more than enough time. I had absolutely no idea what I was walking into.