At Your Desk

I showed up at your office today under a perfectly believable pretense, you told your team you’re “holding interviews.” Clever, right? A little cover story for me to stroll past reception like I belong here, file in hand and eyes only on you.

You’re at your desk when I arrive, your laptop humming and coffee steaming beside you. You glance up, and I can see the amusement in your eyes and maybe a little recognition, even though you try to hide it. I smile, pretending to fuss with this file on your desk, but really, I’m just close enough to watch you. The way you lean back, the subtle shift in your posture and the quick intake of breath when you realise exactly why I’m here.

I perch on the edge of your desk, glancing down at the “interview notes.” You lean back, eyes narrowing in that delicious way that says you know exactly what I’m doing. Our little game hums between us like a secret current. We are professional on the surface and entirely charged underneath.

A whispered joke, a smirk, the brush of hands over the desk. The office carries on around us, oblivious, but inside this bubble, it’s just us. The thrill isn’t in the deadlines or the emails. It’s in the stolen moments, the tension of knowing the world thinks we’re working while we’re completely distracted by each other.

When someone passes by, we straighten, masks back in place. But the spark lingers. Those interviews? Just an excuse. I was really here for you and you know it.