My name is Leo. I have a sensible five-year plan, a perfectly adequate boyfriend, and a deep, abiding love for my predictable morning routine. Then Ben Carson transferred into my department. He's all messy hair, stupidly perfect forearms, and a smile that feels like a private joke meant just for me. He's also my new direct report. This is fine. Everything is fine.

Except my five-year plan didn't account for the way my brain short-circuits every time he leans over my desk. It didn't budget for the adrenaline spike when our hands brush passing a file, or the way I started fantasizing about the exact texture of his stubble against my inner thigh during budget reviews. My sensible life is developing a very inconvenient, very specific crack.

This is the story of how I tried to be a professional. It's also the story of how I spectacularly failed. It's about stolen glances in the break room that last a beat too long, "accidental" late nights where the only sound is the hum of the server room and our ragged breathing, and the terrifying, thrilling discovery of a hunger I didn't know I possessed. It's about crossing lines you can't uncross, and wondering if the ruin might just be the best thing that ever happened to you.

Consider this my diary of poor decisions, electric tension, and the messy, glorious chaos of wanting someone you absolutely shouldn't. Proceed with caution. Your own Monday might never look the same.