What’s so great about sitting at an office desk?

You have to clock in on time—even though traffic never does.

Clocking out? Overtime isn’t a rare occurrence. It’s a tradition.

Your outfit must be neat, your hair well-behaved—I hope my curls behave today—and everything must align with your college major, which somehow never taught you how to deal with bosses like ... Ms. Widya.

But hey—

Salary.

A paycheck lands in my account like clockwork every 25th of the month at exactly 12:00 AM. It’s not a fortune, but it’s enough: to pay rent, to buy sweet tea (Sometimes a fancy French tea, if I’m feeling classy and delusional), and to purchase quality novels—ones that might inspire me again.

Writing?

It’s not just a hobby.

But it’s not a paying passion either—not yet.

Reports come in, meetings pop up—like podcasts no one asked for. But amidst it all, my fingers still find time to type.

Secretly.

Because the words I hide behind spreadsheets... are the only thing keeping me sane.

Yep, like a spy behind enemy lines. As long as I can write—I haven’t lost. Not completely.

2 PM. I glance around:

Sleepiness drifts like fog in this air-conditioned room. My coworkers have entered zombie mode—half-lidded eyes, fingers tapping soullessly on keyboards.

Perfect.

I open a secret document tucked between financial reports.

Boss’s Forbidden Desire.

Okay. New draft.

The past five days have been a blur of steamy books, Misswa’s endless ranting, and an identity crisis that won’t go away. I have to submit a few chapters this weekend.

Making sure the coast is clear, I turn back to my laptop. Last night’s scene awaits:

[Cristy accidentally pushes open the executive bathroom door—

And there.

He.

Is.

Boss Nathaniel, stark naked, towel-drying his wet hair. Water drips from his sculpted body—]

Dear God, why so muscular?

[-onto the marble floor.

“G-Get out,” he growls, but his hand—]

STOP.

I slap my own forehead.

This is ridiculous.

Executive bathroom?

My office doesn’t even have a decent pantry.

Drying hair? Okay, but that’s a little too dainty.

Naked? Where’s the towel? Where’s basic human decency??

But then...

"Del, it just has to feel forbidden! Readers want fantasy, not logic! Boardrooms symbolize power. It’s hotter if he’s naked where people usually meet!"

Misswa’s voice rings in my head like a Black Friday ad I never asked for.

Okay. Fine. I’m curious—can a brain trained on wholesome teen fiction really write a 'his body pinned her to the boardroom table' scene without puking?

Without gagging?

My fingers type again.

[Nathaniel pulls Cristy in. The door locks behind her—like her fate, now sealed.

The towel slips from his hips, falling in slow motion, like gravity itself was holding its breath.

Her eyes follow the movement—down the sculpted lines of his torso, the droplets tracing over his skin, the sharp cut of his hipbones.

He stands still, letting her look. Letting her want.

Steam clings to the air, but it’s nothing compared to the heat suddenly blooming beneath her skin.

"You shouldn’t be here," he says—low, rough, the kind of voice that leaves a mark. But his body doesn’t move away. If anything, it leans closer.

She should speak. Should turn. Should run.

But his hand lifts—fingertips brushing her wrist like a question he already knows the answer to.

And—]

"YOUR Q2 REPORT HAS A MISTAKE ON PAGE 17!"

I slam my laptop shut as Ms. Widya’s voice explodes.

"Fix it before 3 PM!"

"Y-Yes, Ma'am!" I sigh as hard as this month’s deadline.

On one screen: Nathaniel grabs Cristy’s wrists, pins her against the door. On another: Q2 report revisions, page 17.

And me—

Stuck in between,

half my brain wondering 'is it erotic or arotic?'

The other half counting minutes ‘til 3 PM.

Maybe ... maybe I can sneak in one more paragraph about the naked CEO.

Just a small part where Cristy isn’t thinking about Surabaya’s minimum wage while being pinned to a conference table.

***

Misswa sits with her back to the window, face glowing in the light of her laptop like a cracked glacier.

Wrinkles run down her forehead like dry riverbeds—deeper than the creases in her shirt, which looks deliberately unironed as a silent protest against my manuscript.

The coffee in her hand is out of style—its steam gone, like my spirit.

"Del ..." Her voice is hoarse—like the office printer running out of ink.

"You seriously didn’t learn anything from my feedback yesterday?"

She flicks my draft like flicking trash that missed the bin.

"I need something more ... combustible. Like gasoline," she says, waving her hand like swatting a cockroach.

"This is flat. Bland. Like soup without MSG. I feel like I’m reading two robots making love—with no power, no pulse! There’s no kick!"

I squint.

Robots making love in a boardroom—plugging into each other?

Absurd.

"So ... like, you want a fire scene, Miss?"

She pounces, her eyes lighting up like a neon café logo.

"Yes! Spark! Not just some pantry bang. I want Bridgerton-in-the-carriage energy! Hands flailing from too much pleasure. Or Fifty Shades viewers pretending to care about BDSM contracts but really just waiting to see who ties who up!"

"Picture this," she continues, half-standing. "They argue. Then a detailed kiss—with tongue. Then—bam! Financial reports go flying—"

"—and they fall onto the sofa ..."

I finish her sentence in a deadpan tone. Like a text-to-speech bot.

Because that scene? It’s in a thousand adult novels already.

Silence.

Then Misswa sighs. Deep. Like counting patience beads.

"Del ... you’re 24, right? Ever liked anyone?"

I tilt my head.

My milk tea has separated—milk sunken, the clear tea on top looks... depressed.

"I ... I’ve never dated anyone."

"WHAT? Are you kidding me?!"

Her voice jumps an octave. Half the café turns to look.

Some even remove their earphones.

Great.

But for me, it’s not a shock.

Growing up, my life was all about studying. My parents were crazy strict.

Fun? None.

Friends? Maybe one or two, for group projects.

Boys? Off-limits.

My escape? Books.

I discovered writing in 10th grade after falling in love with a novel—and I could only write what I knew: teenage life.

Now that I’m older and a writer?

Well, I interact more with Microsoft Word than with real people.

Misswa narrows her eyes, leans in.

"Wait ... are you a virgin?"

She grins—like an editor spotting a fatal plot hole.

My jaw clenches.

That tone ... It’s like being diagnosed with a rare, unmarketable condition.

"Ugh, what’s the big deal, Miss?"

She exhales dramatically, like she’s staring at a doomed manuscript.

"Del ... how can you write chemistry if you’ve never even been in love? Or at least held hands with a guy?!"

I flash a fake smile.

"So what do you suggest I do?"

"Well, this affects your contract. If you don’t submit a new book by year’s end—it’s over."

I bite my lip.

"If you want, I can write a more teenlit—"

"NO! NO!"

She snatches her phone, shoving it at me. "Let’s not even talk books. Here, look at this platform."

Her screen lights up. The site bursts with colorful covers, most with hormone-stirring titles.

"Bestsellers. See for yourself!"

I scan the titles: 'My CEO Is Cold, But His Hands Are Hot,' 'Fake Wife, Real Husband,' 'Sins in the HR Department.'

"So?" I say weakly.

"Do something, Del. As your editor, I can guide you—but the next step is yours."

"I ... honestly don’t know."

Misswa stares like she’s watching a baby plant start talking.

"So ... all your kissing scenes were based on what? Wikipedia?"

I scratch my cheek. Embarrassed.

"I ... read a lot of romance novels. Sometimes ... the steamy ones."

"OH. MY. GOD."

She facepalms—part mad, part ready to jump off the balcony.

"Del, you’re like a chef who’s only read recipes ... but never fried an egg!"

I gape.

"This is about taste, Del! Spark! That thump in your chest when the buttons pop open—rough hands near the thigh, that kind of thing!"

Yeah. I might really suck.

"There’s a lot you can do! Tinder? Bumble? Find a guy! Like someone—ANYONE!"

Then, the bomb:

"You’re... not into girls, are you?"

A couple at the next table chokes on their matcha latte—probably because Misswa's voice just hit crazy woman frequency.

"What? No! I mean—not that there’s anything wrong with that! I'm just... not!"

But I slump.

All that work last night—the draft, the research, even the bathtub trauma—feels pointless.

"Oh, come on. Don’t deflate like that."

Misswa chugs her coffee three times, like rinsing out disappointment.

"Look around this café. Anyone catch your eye?"

I half-heartedly turn—like I’m doing market research for a fictional character.

**Candidate 1: Guy in blue shirt, corner seat.**

Pros: Neat hair, executive vibe.

Cons: Counting loose change for his coffee.

**Candidate 2: Bearded bartender.**

Pros: Muscular arms, James Bond shaker style.

Cons: On a cutesy video call with his girlfriend—bunny filter on.

**Candidate 3: Uncle near the restroom.**

Pros: Wearing a watch probably worth more than my salary.

Cons: Yelling at the barista because “the coffee isn't sweet like it used to be!”

I sigh.

"Miss ... they all feel like NPCs I wouldn’t even name in my novel."

Misswa winks.

"Perfect! That means you have full control to create Nathaniel."

I nod half-heartedly. "Yeah ... I guess?"

"If you wanna write an interesting male lead, you’ve gotta start noticing guys. Try liking one. At least be curious."

I roll my eyes.

Notice guys in real life?

"That’s crazy! They’re all strangers!"

Misswa shrugs. "Up to you. But you need material. Inspiration doesn’t fall from the sky, Del!"

I groan softly. "Ughh... you’ve got a point."

She leans back, lifting her cold coffee.

"It’s simple, Del. You can fail at writing—lose your contract. But hey, at least your day job’s paycheck keeps you breathing."

I fall silent.

Her words sting. Not just because of her tone—but because they’re half true.

But also wrong.

I am a corporate employee.

But if my contract’s canceled, I owe a penalty—of millions I don’t have in my bank account.

"I... I just need more time, Miss."

My voice is barely a whisper.

"I'll finish writing—before the year ends."

***