Chapter 5: Forbidden Fantasies

Work at the firm swung between hectic and dead slow.

Some days, we’d be buried in blueprints and deadlines, barely looking up from our desks. Other days, the phones barely rang, and the silence was heavy with unspoken boredom.

When things were slow, hormones started bubbling up.

That’s when people started lingering by the coffee machine longer, cracking more jokes, and the mind wandered to places it shouldn’t. Even the ancient office printer seemed to groan in solidarity.

I was at the age of raging desires, always daydreaming, and the mature, intellectual Lillian became the star of my fantasies.

I’d catch myself zoning out during staff meetings, imagining Lillian reading a book in a sunlit cafe, or smiling at me from across a table at a fancy restaurant. The fantasies became more elaborate with every passing week.

Lillian and Natalie usually buried themselves in their own work, barely speaking, secretly competing.

It was like a silent standoff—both focused on their screens, only breaking the silence to one-up each other on project updates. The energy was always tense, like something might snap at any second.

Lillian would chat with me occasionally, but most of the time she was frosty.

Her words were clipped and professional, but every once in a while, she’d let her guard down and ask me about grad school or my family back in Dayton. Those moments were rare, and I clung to them.

Natalie was a smooth talker—sometimes we’d chat all morning, then she’d drag me to lunch at the deli downstairs.

She was the queen of the small talk—could turn any story into an office-wide joke. She’d have me cracking up one minute, then suddenly switch to career advice the next. Our lunches were like little therapy sessions, with pastrami sandwiches and pickles on the side.

Lillian noticed, assumed I was in cahoots with Natalie, and turned even colder toward me.

Her glances became sharper, her replies shorter. I could feel the temperature drop whenever she was in the room. Even Natalie started to notice, raising an eyebrow at me during meetings.

Once, Lillian waited until Natalie left, then said coldly, “If you want to chat, do it outside. How’s anyone supposed to work?”

She didn’t bother lowering her voice. I felt like I’d just been called out in front of the whole school.

I was caught off guard, then quickly apologized: “I’ll be more careful next time.”

I tried to sound sincere, but my voice wobbled. I avoided her eyes, staring down at my hands.

Lillian snorted, tossed a file onto my desk, and stalked off.

The file landed with a thud, making me jump. I watched her stride away, my face burning.

After that, maybe because I was anxious and guilty, Lillian kept popping up in my mind—I couldn’t shake her.

Her voice echoed in my head, and every time I passed her desk, I felt a weird mix of shame and longing. I replayed our brief interactions, searching for some hidden meaning.

Before I knew it, I realized I’d fallen for her.

It snuck up on me, the way a cold creeps in. One day I was just annoyed, the next, I was counting the hours until I’d see her again. The realization hit hard.

Lillian was mature, intellectual, elegant—a real gem. The more I looked at her, the more I liked her.

She had this way of listening that made you feel like you mattered, even if she only gave you a few minutes. The lines around her eyes hinted at late nights and laughter. I started to notice every little thing—the way she chewed on her pen, the way she organized her workspace, the slight Southern lilt in her voice when she was tired.

People are weird—sometimes, the more someone dislikes you, the harder you fall.

It’s like gravity works backwards for the lovelorn. The more distant she was, the more I wanted to get close, to prove her wrong about me.

Whenever Lillian glided past my desk, I’d drift off into wild fantasies, unable to focus on work at all.

I’d stare at my screen, pretending to be lost in CAD drawings, but really just replaying every accidental touch or lingering glance. I was hopeless, a walking cliché.

Especially when I caught a whiff of her perfume and took in her graceful curves—my heart felt like it was crawling with ants, unbearably itchy.

That scent—floral and clean—would linger in the air long after she’d left. I’d find myself leaning back in my chair, just to catch one last trace of it. It drove me nuts.

Let’s just say, my browser history was more wishful thinking than work-related, and my to-do list didn’t stand a chance.

Even though Lillian was married with a kid, I barely felt any moral guilt.

It sounds terrible, but my conscience was on vacation. All I could think about was her laugh, her smile, the way she ran her hands through her hair when she was frustrated.

Let’s be honest—morality and hormones are inversely proportional.

Maybe it was the stress, or maybe it was just being young and stupid, but every line I’d drawn in my head blurred the longer I spent in that office.

But I was all bark and no bite—big desires, little courage, thin skin. At most, I’d just scroll through her Instagram photos, never daring to cross the line in real life.

Late at night, I’d find myself double-tapping her photos from months ago—her with her son at a pumpkin patch, her holding a cup of coffee on a rainy day. I’d imagine what it would be like to be part of that world, even if only for a moment.

During those late-night self-reflection moments, I’d hate myself for crushing on a married woman.

I’d lie in bed, scrolling my phone, then toss it aside in disgust. I’d promise myself I’d focus on work, keep it professional, but the promise never stuck for long.