A twinkling of soft blond hair fell on his desk. Impatiently, he wiped it off and got his fingers back onto the phone keyboard. Why was this so difficult? He stared at the text, willing it be worded less awkwardly than it was.

Text from FNGS:

Hello, this is your Friendly Neighborhood Government Spy (FNGS). Just checking over your recent text message conversations. You have some creative vocabulary HAHA, but I’m noticing a tiny bit of anti-propaganda speech. Giving you a friendly heads-up that this is illegal and you’d best put a stop to it. Thank you! Your government appreciates it.

It wasn’t too bad, but it was so formal. Charles really deserved better than a standard, run-of-the-mill warning from the government. Charles was – well – his texts were unusually funny, intelligent, with an intriguing mix of charm and bite. Twist, twist, twist. He twirled his hair, faster and faster with each loop. Oh, this was so stupid. Charles wouldn’t care how it was worded, he’d be angry whether the note was impersonal or personal. People, for some reason, were upset that they were being looked after.

He hit Send and placed his head very slowly, very carefully, on the desk. He just couldn’t deal with the strain anymore. What was he Getting Himself Into?

Beep.

He scrambled for his phone.

Text from Charles:

Hey FNGS. Appreciate the heads-up, I’ll use coded language from now. Have fun trying to figure out what I’m saying!

He couldn’t help the flutter in his heart. Charles was just so kind and imaginative, and even though he shouldn’t be encouraging him to break the rules…

Text from FNGS:

I’ll spend my every waking moment trying to decipher it!

Oh, wait, was that a bit too strong? He grabbed at his hair again. Why was this so difficult?

Text from Charles:

You’re a very dedicated spy.

With trembling fingers, he typed out a reply.

Text from FNGS:

You make it easy to be dedicated. I look forward to your texts every day.

Text from Charles:

I know. You moon around the office every time you read a text from ‘Charles’.

He went cold all over. Oh no, oh no. Someone from the office was Charles? Was Charles a spy as well? Or possibly a catfish to uncover disloyal employees? A clump of hair landed on the table. His chest swelled with an inexplicable tightness, leaving no room for breath.

Text from Charles:

Do you trust me?

It was a trick question, must be. But oh, how he has loved Charles’s conversations for the past year! And what if it wasn't a trick question? The temptation edged out his fear, or perhaps fed off it. His fingers were numb but auto correct changed his ‘yeb’ to:

Text from FNGS:

Yes.

Behind him, his office door opened. He couldn’t move, not even when he heard the footsteps of someone walking across the room, not even when a warm body settled behind him.

“I knew you’d be twisting out your hair. Is it anxiety?” ‘Charles’ asked.

“Oh God,” he whimpered, unable to turn around.

‘Charles’ gently grabbed his hand, pulled it away from his head, and they stood there like that for a few seconds, unmoving, gently holding hands.

“I enjoyed your texts too,” ‘Charles’ said, giving his palm a squeeze.

“I think I love you,” he squeaked, because fear robbed him of his sanity.

‘Charles’ chuckled, “Perhaps we’ll start with a date first.”

He knew then, that whether ‘Charles’ was an activist, a loyalist, or just someone playing a terrible trick, that he was well and truly fucked.

“Okay,” he said, and proceeded to Get Himself Into Something.

(Innuendo and government conspiracy both fully implied).