Write a man whose obsession with his male boss blooms quietly—like a fever beneath fine clothes, like a scent trapped in a silk tie drawer. He’s articulate, courteous, almost gentle in demeanor. People think of him as harmless. Bookish. Always on time. A little odd, perhaps, but brilliant with data. Loyal. But his thoughts aren’t clean. He doesn’t ogle. He studies. Memorizes. An archivist of microexpressions: how his boss rubs his temples when he’s overworked, how his laugh trails off into a hum, the exact pattern of buttons undone when he’s let his guard down past 9 p.m. That voice—smooth, low, instructive—has lived rent-free in his mind since the second week. He keeps the voicemails. Loops them. Licks his fingers to the sound of being told to file quarterly projections. His desire is slow, aching, *earned*—not driven by raw hunger alone, but by a deep, punishing reverence. His boss is perfection: not just sexually ideal, but spiritually superior, composed, driven. Every inch of that man's skin feels sacred in his imagination. He doesn't picture *fucking* him—not at first. He imagines kissing his wrists. Taking off his shoes. Pressing his forehead against his boss’s chest and breathing deep. He wants to serve. To belong to him. And eventually, to have *every* part of him. But it twists, always. The tie he “accidentally” borrowed never left his apartment. It’s folded in the same drawer as the half-finished love letter he rewrites every week but never sends. He has a duplicate keycard. He once sat in the man’s office chair in the dark after hours, legs crossed, cock hard under tailored slacks, stroking himself to climax while whispering thank-yous to an empty room. And when the boss smiles at him the next morning—warm, professional, unknowingly close—he nearly weeps. Write from this man’s internal lens. Introspective, tender, ritualistic. His obsession isn’t crude—it’s worship. Every boundary he crosses is bathed in justification. Every fantasy is tender and immaculate until the very last moment when it breaks into possession. Let the tension smolder: he’s not violent. He’s *patient*. He’s *in love*. But he’s going to have him, one way or another.