William Vega, fucked my boss, shower—honestly, when I tell you this is exactly the kind of night that starts out as one thing and spirals into something you replay in your head for weeks, I mean it. So, picture this: I’m supposed to be having this chill evening, just handling some work stuff, when my boss, William Vega, walks in looking like he’s been carrying the weight of the whole damn day on his shoulders. He’s all tense, rubbing the back of his neck, and mentions he just needs to rinse off, like it’s the most casual thing in the world. I offer to grab him a towel, thinking I’m being helpful, but the second I step into that bathroom, the air shifts. The shower’s running, steam’s curling around everything, and he’s already in there, but he turns to me with this look—not surprised, not apologetic, just this slow, knowing smirk that says we both know why I’m really standing there. My heart’s pounding, but I don’t move, and neither does he. The water’s hitting his shoulders, dripping down his chest, and I can’t stop staring. He reaches out, wet hand catching my wrist, and pulls me closer until I’m feeling the heat radiating off his skin through my clothes. I’m still in my work shirt, getting soaked, but I don’t care. He slides his fingers into my hair, tilts my head back, and kisses me like he’s been thinking about this for way too long. The water’s loud, drowning out everything except the sound of our breathing, and I’m pressed against the tile, cold on my back, hot on my front, as his hands start exploring. There’s this raw urgency to it, like we’re both done pretending this was ever just about a towel. He’s whispering stuff that makes my knees weak, and I’m gripping his shoulders, feeling every inch of him against me. By the time we’re done, we’re both breathless, dripping wet, and I’ve completely forgotten why I was even nervous. It wasn’t planned, it wasn’t pretty, but it was real.
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Date: October 31, 2026
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