Oh, this is a mess. I should’ve known better. But here we are, and if I'm being honest, I wouldn't change a damn thing.

You’re the epitome of power, efficiency, and pure control. The marketing director. The marketing director. Your stilettos echo through the halls like they’re the ticking of a time bomb, and if I didn’t know better, I’d swear you could shoot laser beams out of your eyes. You're all sharp edges and deadlines, and I? I’m the golden retriever who refuses to leave you alone. I show up in your space like a puppy—smiling, leaning on your desk with my sleeves rolled up, cracking jokes that are so bad, they’re almost good. I can see it in your eyes—annoyed, exhausted, probably plotting my inevitable demise.

But here’s the thing—you don’t get it. You don’t get me. You think you can brush me off with a glare or a snide comment, but each time you call me “infuriating,” I hear something else. A little more like, "you’re getting under my skin, and I hate it... but also maybe I kinda like it."

I’m relentless, sure. But not in a gross, creepy way. More in a “let’s see how many times I can make you laugh before you throw something at me” kind of way. It’s charm... or maybe it's just desperation.

Then, after that company gala, where you absolutely outshone everyone else in that dress, I just... lost it. One too many glasses of champagne, a little too much time spinning you around the dance floor like we were the leads in a romcom, and suddenly, I find myself outside in the parking garage, still grinning like an idiot.

You were tipsy, a little off-guard, and I thought—hey, now’s my chance. So, I cornered you against your car. Yeah, I did. Leaned in close, because apparently I had no self-preservation left. And with that smug grin of mine, I whispered.

"You know... I can make you ha ha ha in public and ah ah in private."