***

The deadline for this week? Canceled.

I didn’t get it.

My new teenlit draft—written in the depths of a creative crisis—was actually ... decent?

It was about a sixteen-year-old girl who finds a tiny hole in her bedroom floor. Small, like rat-hole small. But when she pokes a flashlight and her head into it (don’t ask why she’s that bold), she discovers—it’s not just a hole.

It’s a tunnel.

And the tunnel leads to an underground prison.

But not a prison for criminals. No. This one’s for teenagers. Kids her age, punished for "minor" crimes like skipping class, talking too much, or crying while reciting love poems in school hallways.

The bureaucracy was insane. There were shadow guidance counselors, disciplinary officers handing out warning slips, and a ranking system that worked like the school council. One wrong move, and your sentence gets extended.

Naturally, the main character starts asking: Why is the world more afraid of teenagers who think ... than adults who don’t?

Satirical? Yes.

Delusional? Possibly.

But that draft kept me writing until 3 a.m. for the first time in a year.

And yet—rejected.

They said, “Too philosophical. Where’s the kissing? Where’s the dreamy bad boy?”

Misswa, my editor, explained it plainly. The market wants chest-tightening scenes—not from existential dread, but from chest-to-chest tension.

She said the male lead wasn’t crush-worthy. Too many tunnels. Not enough toned abs.

The market needs something more... stirring. Not emotionally. Physically.

And I—I thought it was already spicy. In its own way.

I leaned on my desk, staring at my sad little office cubicle. Gray walls, dusty monitor, HR calendar still stuck on March. Even the sunlight seemed reluctant to come in.

Hopeless. That’s me.

It’s been two weeks since I last touched my first ever erotic novel draft—Boss’s Forbidden Desire. I’d ended on the line: "He looked at my body the way he looked at a failed spreadsheet—burning with the urge to fix it."

And then... nothing.

Instead of continuing with a steamy scene, I spent hours researching how a boss could realistically know his secretary’s bra size without getting sued or fired.

“Ah, a novel?”

That voice snapped me out of my spiral. Too chirpy for a Tuesday. Too close for comfort.

“I—yes,” I stammered. “It was ... on discount at Gramesia.”

“Wow, people still read books?” said his friend, with the awe of someone spotting a living fossil.

They—two admin staff with neon yellow ID lanyards and eternal gossip thirst—walked past my desk. One of them glanced at the corner of my desk. Right where I had just tried to hide the book: How to Undress Your Lover Without Dropping Your Self-Worth.

But I was sure they didn’t catch the title.

Still, I reflexively slapped the HR calendar (January edition, still proudly displayed in July) over the book like a shame blanket.

Once they disappeared into the pantry, I let out a long sigh.

Working in a small office felt like starring in a reality show—minus the audience.

Everyone pretended to be busy. Rumors traveled faster than instant coffee.

And me? I sat here, trying to write a sex scene while nervously watching for HR catching me reading Chapter 2: Foreplay Is Not Optional.

“Adel, you can take a break now. After coffee, prep the slides for tomorrow.”

“Thanks, Ma’am.” I bolted from the frozen tundra that was our office AC.

Clutching my blue pouch, I headed to the pantry. Work never ends, but tea … tea saves lives.

Chamomile always worked. It calmed me down better than therapy—or Misswa’s 1 a.m. voice notes.

“Miss, want me to make you a drink?” an office boy offered.

“No thanks, I’ll make it myself,” I smiled, opening the mug cabinet.

And just as I reached for my favorite cup—

“You’re Bu Widya’s secretary, right?”

The voice came from behind me. Too close. Too intentional.

I turned—and of course. Him. The guy who saw the pink book on my desk earlier.

“Y-yeah,” I answered weakly.

He grinned. “I love Katie’s books too. How to Undress Your Lover was a bestseller this year.”

“Oh? Oh yeah?” I fake-laughed, the kind of laugh you do when your contract’s about to get terminated.

“I’ve got a few of her books,” he continued. “But there’s one you have to read. Something like The Moan of Monday Morning—can’t remember the full title. There’s a scene at the copier, you know, doing it while—well.”

I squinted. Trying to keep up. Maybe he was just a very passionate reader.

“Oh, really?”

He leaned in a little. “The bedroom scenes were ... steamy.”

What if he reports me to HR? What if this becomes a viral thread on Office Confessions?

“I-it’s just for fun,” I blurted. “Haven’t even read it yet. Busy day. So busy.”

He laughed. Quiet. Smug.

“Best time to read it’s after work. After a hot shower. In bed. Y’know. Self-service.”

“Excuse me?”

“Self-service,” he repeated, stirring his tea. Slowly.

My brain froze.

Self ... what?

Like … DIY? ATM?

“You read a lot of erotica?”

That question dropped like a train through my chest.

“No!” I yelped, way too loud. “It—it’s just—just—just a random pick—I mean—”

Smooth. Now I sounded like a door-to-door shampoo salesperson who crashed a parenting seminar.

I stared at my chamomile mug.

I wish I could dive in and live at the bottom of this cup forever.

Suddenly, he stepped closer. Too close. His breath grazed my neck.

“Add me. We’ll talk about Katie’s books. In depth.”

I blinked. Even I—who was being forced to write erotica to save my career—didn’t want to deep-dive into Katie’s work. Especially not that one.

“T-talk about what?”

Then—he touched my arm.

Just a little.

Too intentional. Too heavy. Then he leaned into my ear.

“I like girls who read dirty books.”

It sounded casual. Playful. Like a joke.

But the tone—it lingered.

And I knew exactly where it was headed.

That touch. It wasn’t random.

That arm grab? Like reading an erotic novel gave him a pass to touch me.

I couldn’t even imagine writing this scene into a novel. It was gross.

He leaned in again. His breath hot.

“I could satisfy you better than self-service.”

Satisfy? For?

I froze. My brain short-circuited.

Did that line actually happen ... in this pantry?

I slapped his hand away.

Cold rage poured over me.

“You’re disgusting. Don’t touch me.”

My voice was calm. But sharp enough to freeze the air.

He didn’t stop.

Still trying to act like I was the crazy one.

Still edging closer—

“Come on, don’t act innocent. I know you’re into bate your—”

My hand clenched my tea mug.

But I hesitated.

This tea was expensive.

Imported chamomile! Forty-five bucks a box! And I’m still paying off my e-money top-up!

I thought fast.

His tea was bigger. Fuller. Perfect!

SPLASH.

His drink landed right on his shirt. Not boiling, but hot enough to make him step back.

I took a deep breath, trying not to scream in this corporate prison.

“Don’t! Touch! Me!”

***

Back in my cubicle, I felt like a pressure cooker. But I had to prep the damn slides. Presentation’s due tomorrow.

I revised it multiple times.

Because of that jerk. That jerk whose name I couldn’t even remember because of the trauma.

Message from Misswa.

"How’s Boss’s Forbidden Desire going? You added the kissing yet? Don’t forget the skin contact!"

Skin contact?!

Someone just felt entitled to touch me because I read erotica.

This is all your fault, Misswa!

I smashed the keyboard with fury. Channeling every trauma from every underpaid female author in history.

"Miss, this is YOUR fault! You made me write erotica!"

She replied lightning-fast.

"BECAUSE OF THE BOOK, SOME GUY TOUCHED ME WITHOUT PERMISSION!"

“Ew! NO! That was harassment!”

Misswa replied with three laughing emojis. I wanted to block her.

“I’m serious. It was disgusting!”

“NO! He literally tried to touch me!”

"Did you know him well?"

“NO! He just said something about Katie’s books, then started talking about self-service—bate?”

“THEN HE SAID I LIKED ... BATE!!!”

Before I could throw a skull emoji, Misswa replied: "Wait. Like what?"

“I SAID, I LIKE BATE!!”

“What?!”

“NO! AND I DON’T WANT TO! I JUST SPLASHED HIS TEA AND RAN!”

"Okay, okay, calm down... BUT HAHAHAHA OMG I’M DEAD."

I was furious. And then—another notification.

Two screenshots.

Definition of self-service and ... B—A—T—E!

I read slowly.

And when my brain finally processed it—

"OH! MY! GOD!"

***