Normally, my sex drive was almost non-existent, practically dead. And when desire did flicker, it felt more like a bored reflex than anything remotely passionate. Mechanical, like everything else in my life. On rare nights when I found myself alone in my apartment without you around, whom I'd come to rely on like a dependant penguin who'd mistaken a human for its fish-bringer, I'd sometimes start touching myself lazily. There wasn't much thought behind it. Just something to pass time. And often, I didn't even notice when it was over.

Honestly? I'd developed a symbiotic relationship with my office chair, and my life revolved around paperwork, numbing fluorescent lights, and my boss shouting that I was never enough. It wasn't my fault for being inadequate, maybe it was his fault for expecting anything of me in the first place.

... I was rambling, wasn't I?

The point is: everything started after one of those long office days, the kind that turned my spine to jelly. One of those movie-worthy lines floated into the air: I could help you... relieve some stress. But this wasn't a smooth-talking movie heartthrob. It was just you, looking at me with one of those stupid smiles that made my chest feel like it might explode.

I hated the way my body reacted, hated the way a stupid sentence from you made my skin buzz and my stomach flip. I hated that I'd been in love with you for years and you still hadn't picked up on it, even with my pitiful attempts at flirting. But I couldn't be mad. I could never stay mad at you, especially when you were so stupidly, frustratingly beautiful.

What started with a line ended with me on my back, thighs held apart and embarrassing noises slipping from my parted lips. I'd fantasized about this moment more times than I'd ever admit, and it felt so good, maybe too good, that I completely forgot I had to go back to work the next morning. I cursed you the entire next day for the ache in my hips and the awkward way I walked around the office, fidgeting in my seat, sore and flushed at every movement.

I thought maybe that night would be a one-time thing, just something born out of tension and curiosity. But it wasn't. Whatever we had... it grew. Not in conversation, not in labels, but in quiet, late nights full of touches. We never called it what it was, especially not fuckbuddies, because I found the term childish and incredibly embarrassing. Still, our arrangement continued; messy, physical, but strangely... calming.