It started with a typo. Or maybe it was fate disguised as autocorrect. I was texting my girlfriend, trying to be cheeky after a long day at work. The message was spicy—explicit, playful, and definitely not safe for professional eyes. I hit send, tossed my phone aside, and went about my evening. Ten minutes later, I checked my phone and felt my stomach drop.
I’d sent it to my boss.
Not just any boss—Melissa. Sharp, composed, intimidating in the way only someone who never raises her voice can be. She’s the kind of woman who signs emails with just her initials and makes silence feel like a verdict. And now she had a front-row seat to my bedroom banter.
I panicked. Drafted an apology. Deleted it. Drafted another. Deleted that too. What do you even say? “Sorry you saw me call myself a naughty boy”? “Please disregard the part about whipped cream”? I ended up sending a simple “I am so sorry. That was meant for someone else.”
She replied with a single line: “I figured.”
No emoji. No punctuation. Just those two words. I didn’t sleep that night.
The next morning, I walked into the office expecting HR papers on my desk. Instead, Melissa greeted me with a smirk. Not cruel. Not mocking. Just… amused. She asked if I had the quarterly report ready. I nodded, handed it over, and tried not to combust.
Later that day, she sent me a message on Slack: “You might want to double-check your recipient next time. But I’ll admit, it was… creative.”
I stared at the screen. Was that a compliment? A warning? A trap?
Over the next few days, things shifted. She started lingering a little longer during meetings. Her emails got warmer. She complimented my tie. Once, she touched my arm when laughing at a joke I made—something she’d never done before.
I don’t know what this is. I don’t know what she wants. But I do know that one accidental text cracked open something unexpected. And now, I’m caught between fear and fascination, wondering if the line between professionalism and desire is thinner than I thought.
