All Chapters of Hooking up with my best friend’s crush: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

The water cascades over us, oh it’s hot and relentless, steam curling like smoke in the dim bathroom light. “Just a Fan” by Teezo Touchdown hums faintly from my phone on the sink—slow, sultry beat syncing with my racing pulse, just the right kind of music to set the mood. Christian’s soft lips are on mine, gentle at first, always gentle at first, but I feel the hunger building, his tongue slipping in to taste me deeper, like he’s drinking me in. My fear and anxiety immediately spikes to the idea of Gwen walking through that door but for some reasons the imagination of it makes me feel even more aroused. I shouldn’t. We shouldn’t. Gwen’s asleep just down the hall, drunk and oblivious, but oh God, the thought of her only makes this feel dirtier, hotter. My hands slide up his chest—wet, hard muscle under my palms, water sluicing over his shaved head, dripping from his beard. He’s naked, gloriously so, his cock already thick and rigid, pressing against my thigh like a promise I ca

The morning light filters through the curtains, pale and thin, cutting across Gwen’s bed like a reminder that the night is over. I wake up slowly—head pounding, mouth dry, stomach sour from too many shots and too little sleep.My stomach still feels unsettled and uncomfortable but I know it will pass soon. My eyes are itchy, heavy, crusted at the corners. I yawn wide, stretch, and reach for Selene beside me. She’s not there. The sheet is cool. Pillow empty. No note, no sign, nothing. I immediately imagine her and CK making out in a corner and I certainly do not know why my mind immediately thought of that due to her absence. I shake my head in disbelief that she wouldn’t hurt me like that. I sit up too fast. The room tilts. “Sel?” I mumble, voice thick. Silence. I swing my legs out, feet hitting cold floor. The apartment feels too quiet—except for faint sounds drifting from the living room. Low moans. Breathless gasps. Something rhythmic. My stomach drops. God please don’

The office is emptying out fast, colleagues packing up their belongings and shuffling toward the elevators in small groups, the sound of briefcases snapping shut and chairs scraping back echoing through the corridors. Lights flick off in blocks, casting long shadows across the desks as the space grows darker and quieter with each switch. Goodnights murmured down the hall, soft voices bidding farewell, some laughing about the day’s events, others sighing in relief at the end of the workday. Aisha left an hour ago—last thing she said was “Don’t stay too late, Christian. You’ll need your energy tomorrow.” That smirk again, lingering in my mind like a puzzle I can’t quite solve, her lips curving in that mysterious way that leaves me wondering. I still can’t tell if she’s flirting or just built that way, her personality naturally teasing or something more intentional. I grab my jacket, feeling the fabric slide over my shoulders as I shrug it on, lock my computer with a few quick clicks

The hallway stretches long and quiet after the elevator doors close behind us, the kind of sterile corporate silence broken only by the soft click of Megan’s heels on the polished marble and the muffled thump of my own steps echoing slightly off the glass walls. She’s walking a half-pace ahead, shoulders squared like she’s leading a charge into enemy territory, but I catch the subtle tells she’s never quite managed to hide: the way her fingers flex and curl at her sides, the slight forward tilt of her head as if she’s already rehearsing every comeback she’ll throw at me just like she used to. We pass a row of frosted conference rooms, empty this early, their long tables gleaming under recessed lights. We reach the file room at the far end of the corridor—a windowless, climate-controlled vault lit by unforgiving fluorescents that buzz faintly overhead. Rows of tall gray cabinets line the walls like silent sentinels, each drawer labeled in crisp black print: Ramirez, Vol. 1–3; Ram

The office bullpen is quiet now—the kind of heavy, artificial silence that only exists in the late afternoon when the frantic energy of the morning has burned out. Most of the junior associates have scuttled away to the sanctuary of their apartments or remain buried in glass-walled conference rooms, their silhouettes flickering against the blue light of monitor screens. Overhead, the fluorescent lights hum with a persistent, low-frequency buzz that seems to vibrate inside my skull. The shared desk between Megan and me is a battlefield of paper. The Ramirez case: a mountain of depositions, labyrinthine contracts, thousands of emails, and endless amendments that seem to contradict one another with every turn of the page. Aisha’s order had been clipped and uncompromising: find every typo, every inconsistency, every potential weak spot. Fix it. Together. That last word had hung in the air like a threat. Megan sits directly across from me, her posture a study in rigid precision. Her