The office dragged on through those endless afternoons, the kind where time felt like a slow leak, dripping away in the hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clatter of keyboards. Khalil’s presence had become a constant undercurrent, pulling at me like a tide I couldn’t ignore. His cheerful greetings in the morning

“Goodz morningz, Thomas, best boss!”

Somehow, it landed differently now, laced with something unspoken, his eyes lingering just a second too long on mine. I’d nod, force a smile, and bury myself in claims forms, but my mind wandered to the bathroom breaks he took, the way he’d return with that subtle flush, his hands drying on a paper towel as if nothing had shifted. I told myself it was nothing, just routine, but the memory of those drops on the tile floor haunted me, a secret I’d tasted and couldn’t un-know.

“He’s not even hot,” I thought, arguing with myself as I stole glances at him stacking files.

Short, maybe 1.75m, stocky with those thick legs like a boxer who’s seen better days. Bald head with that faint scar; probably from some old fight he won’t talk about. Bushy brows over dark eyes that seem to pierce right through you, and those hetero-style “branded” clothes like Tommy Hilfiger, button-ups and white socks, screaming ordinary and boring. But there’s something heavier there, humming under the surface, pulling me in despite myself. Why him? He’s not the brooding mystery I used to chase. He’s real, too real, and that scares me more.

Days blurred into one another, the rain outside mirroring the fog in my head. Our conversations stayed surface-level, polite exchanges about workloads or the latest denied appeal, but tension simmered beneath. He’d lean over my desk to point at a screen, his arm brushing mine, and I’d catch his scent, that cheap cologne mixed with a hint of sweat, that raw, earthy note that twisted something deep in my gut.

“You seez this, boss? Wrong code here,” he’d say, his voice thick, curling around the words like smoke.
I’d agree, too quickly, my pulse spiking, forcing my gaze back to the monitor before it betrayed me. Steven’s face flashed in my mind then, his gentle smile from the night before, trusting me completely. Guilt gnawed, but it only sharpened the hunger, turning every glance at Khalil into a forbidden thrill.

“Stop fetishizing him,” I scolded internally, explaining to myself, “He’s just a guy scraping by, not some fantasy hot man. But those eyes, that weird build… It’s an obsession at this point: ordinary, even below-average on the outside but exciting underneath. What the hell am I doing?“

Pre-weekend afternoon, the office emptied early, leaving just us amid the stacks of files and the low whine of the copier. Khalil stretched at his desk, his shirt riding up to reveal that trail of dark hair on his belly, and I felt my resolve crack.

“Slowz day, boss,” he muttered, standing and wandering over, his thighs straining against his jeans as he perched on the edge of my desk. His knee nudged mine, casual but deliberate, and heat flooded my face. “You look tiredz. Need break?” His eyes searched mine, dark and unreadable, that accent wrapping around me like a vise.

I swallowed, my voice barely steady. “Maybe. What about you?”

He chuckled low, leaning closer, his breath warm on my skin. “Me? I alwayz needz something.”

The air thickened, charged with the weight of what we’d danced around—the bathroom incident, the nudges, the unspoken “forbidden stuff” he’d teased about. My hand trembled as I reached for a pen, brushing his thigh by accident—or was it? He didn’t pull away. Instead, he shifted slightly, his leg pressing firmer against my fingers, the denim rough and warm under my touch. I froze, my breath shallow, pretending to fumble with the pen while my palm lingered, feeling the solid muscle beneath, the subtle heat radiating through the fabric.

“This is stupid, pull back,” I thought, but my hand stayed, tracing the seam of his jeans inch by inch, awkward and hesitant, like I was testing a boundary I knew I shouldn’t cross.

His eyes dropped to where we touched, and a faint smile tugged at his lips—half-amused, half-challenging—making my stomach twist with a mix of embarrassment and thrill. The silence stretched, erotic in its awkwardness, my fingers now openly exploring the curve of his thigh, inching higher without a word, the air between us humming with unspoken permission. Finally, his hand covered mine, firm but slow, guiding it upward with deliberate pressure, until it rested against the warmth of his jeans, right over the growing bulge.

“You wantz this, yeah?” he whispered, his voice dropping to a growl. My breath caught, desire crashing over me like a wave I’d held back too long. Khalil’s heat was all that mattered—a promise of release from the careful life I’d built.

I nodded, barely, my fingers tracing the outline beneath the fabric, hard and insistent.

“Not into menz,” he said again, like before, but his eyes betrayed him, hungry and alive. “But you… you makez me think different.”

I pushed further, my hand sliding under his shirt, feeling the coarse hair, the firm give of his chest, his nipples stiffening under my touch. “This isn’t something long-term,” I murmured, echoing my earlier plea. “Just… being there. For whatever you need.”

His brows furrowed, serious now, but he didn’t stop me.

“You knowz if you go lowerz, no going backz,” he warned, his tone grave, the tension electric.

“That’s what I’m counting on,” I replied, heart pounding, the words sealing us into the inevitable.