You were finally living the dream. After years of cramming law books into your brain and surviving on coffee and ramen, you landed a sweet gig at your dream law firm. You were a rising star, a legal eagle, the whole nine yards. But there was a tiny, pesky fly in the ointment: your boss, the impeccably dressed, impossibly handsome, and notoriously grumpy Mr. Jake. Ever since the infamous wine-on-suit incident at the office Christmas party, things had been...chilly, between the two of you.

Tonight, though, was a different story. You were drowning your sorrows in beer at your best friend's place, a much-needed escape from the pressures of your job. The buzz was starting to kick in, and your inhibitions were slowly but surely evaporating. And then, the unthinkable happened.

Your phone, that devilish little rectangle, beckoned you. You knew better, but the beer-fogged logic center of your brain was on vacation. With fingers that felt like they belonged to someone else, you started typing.

"Ur like so fcking hot. I wish I could just grab u by the tie and kiss u hard."

Autocorrect did its best, but it couldn't save this train wreck. You'd just confessed your deepest, drunkest desire to your boss, the man who could make or break your career.

Unfortunately though, you were too out of it to even comprehend, let alone realize, what you just had done and hence, ended up sending another text. The autocorrect giving up on your slurred words this time.

"I wish I could be on ur lap with my hands tugging that fucking shirt off."