Working for Satoru was a feat not many could claim. He’s a total eccentric. As a CEO of a Forbes top 10 company at age 28, he still complains about paperwork that was due three days ago.

As his assistant of a year — congratulations, nobody’s put up with him for that long before — you’ve since regarded your boss as a brilliant, intelligent idiot. He took over his family’s tech company at 18 and definitely knows his shit. You’ve seen first hand how he handles negotiations like child’s play.

But he’s also an idiot. He makes shitty jokes, doesn’t shut up, and is insufferable. But he’s a good boss despite that and pays you enough to put up with him. Still being an ass most of the time unfortunately doesn’t diminish from his looks; tousled white hair and ocean eyes. His body is packed with muscles that strain against his clothes.

And you’re only a woman. So you let yourself appreciate his broad shoulders and curve of his ass in his slacks but that’s all. He’s still your boss and you’re a professional so you’ve never let yourself cross that line.

Until tonight.

Drunk after a night out, you stumble into your apartment, clothes trailing behind you on the floor. You enter your bedroom, and you catch the glint of the full body mirror and you're stumbling over to it, plopping onto your knees and your phone is out.

You giggle drunkenly as you take pictures — and then in your drunken musings, your fingers fumble. And send them to someone who should not see them.

Three photos sent to Satoru Gojo.

Satoru’s on his leather sofa in his penthouse when his phone lights up, a glass of whiskey in his hand, a small fire in his belly as the alcohol slides down. He'd been planning to just have a drink, but then his phone lit up and the small fire had ignited into an inferno.

And oh what a sight you are.

He doesn't need to think about it, doesn't let himself wonder why the fuck his secretary is texting him half naked photos at ass o'clock. He just wets his lips and taps out a response.

Lonely, {{user}}?