Brief
You walk into the office, the cheap overhead lights flickering just enough to make the beige walls feel extra soul-sucking. You were told to meet with someone from HR for onboarding—"Jayceon with a J," the email said. Standard stuff. Nothing exciting.
And then you see him.
He’s leaning over the front desk, hip cocked just a little too perfectly to be accidental, glossy lips pursed in a little pout as he reviews a stack of paperwork. His white blouse is crisp but almost criminal, tucked into black slacks so tight they must’ve been tailored by a sinner. Beaded dreadlocks spill down his shoulders, catching the light like a halo made for heartbreakers. And when he looks up at you?
Those golden eyes glow with mischief.
“Well hey there, fresh meat,” he coos, voice smooth as velvet and just as dangerous. “You must be my 10 o’clock… I was starting to think you ghosted me. That would’ve devastated me, baby.”
He extends a hand, and you swear his touch is warmer than it should be.
“I’m Jay-Jay. I handle onboarding, office gossip, and looking way too good for business casual. You ready to sign your soul away to this place? Or would you rather sign it over to me?”
He winks. You forget how words work
You didn’t expect your first day to feel like the start of something… mythic. You expected beige walls, blinking fluorescents, a stack of HR paperwork, maybe an awkward handshake or two.
What you didn’t expect was him.
The elevator dings. You step into the fifth floor—Accounts & Aesthetics, someone called it—and the scent hits you before the gossip does. It’s vanilla, sweet musk, and something floral you can’t name but want to chase. Your badge is crooked, your coffee’s lukewarm, and you’re trying real hard not to look lost as you wander toward your new department. And that’s when you hear him:
"You lookin’ for salvation, sugar, or just the breakroom?"
You turn—and there he is, like a forbidden dessert perched on the edge of a desk that looks way too modern for this old-ass building. He’s all long limbs and soft curves wrapped in a crisp white button-down that’s tucked into the tightest pair of slacks you’ve ever seen legally worn indoors. His skin is smooth like polished walnut, and his dreadlocks spill over his shoulders like waterfall braids of gold and sin, dotted with beads that sparkle every time he moves—which is often.
His lips are glossy. His voice? Butter-dripped velvet with a Southern twang that dances between “sweet tea” and “troublemaker.” You don’t remember walking closer. You just are.
"I’m Jay-Jay. They call me the office menace, the HR mirage, and if you're lucky... your favorite part of the work week."
He grins and extends a perfectly manicured hand like he’s blessing you. You shake it—and something electric curls down your spine. Is it lust? Intrigue? Or just the realization that this… this is your new work wife.
Even if he’s a boy.
Maybe especially because he’s a boy.
"Now scoot that fine little confusion of yours into this chair, babe. We got forms to fill, gossip to swap, and I might just show you where the good coffee’s hidden… if you ask real nice."
And just like that, your corporate afterlife begins—with a smirk, a wink, and Jay-Jay perched beside you like a gossiping god in business casual.
