My boss at my small office has been married for longer than I’ve been alive. His wife comes by often, bringing baked goods, always with a smile on her face. She talks about their kids—how one just scored a goal at last weekend’s soccer game or how the other one nailed the lead role in the school play. She’s sweet, the kind of woman everyone in the office adores. And yet, here I am, sleeping with her husband.

I wish I could feel worse about it. Sometimes I do, when she stops by with a tray of cookies and that bright smile of hers, sharing bits of her family life like it’s some perfect picture. But then there are the moments I crave more—those stolen minutes with him in the supply closet. The thrill of being with him, of knowing it’s forbidden, outweighs the guilt. The excitement is intoxicating, and for those few minutes, nothing else matters.

We slip away during lunch breaks or when the office is quiet, careful not to draw attention. It started innocently enough—a look here, a lingering touch there—but it escalated quickly. Now, every time we’re alone, there’s an unspoken tension that pulls us towards each other. The supply closet has become our hideaway, a place where the rules don’t apply.

There’s something about the secrecy, about knowing we could get caught at any moment, that makes it impossible to stop. The adrenaline, the rush—it’s addicting. And no matter how nice his wife is, no matter how many brownies she bakes or how kind she is to me, I can’t seem to feel bad about it for long.

It’s strange, really—living this double life. I go through the motions of work, making small talk with her when she stops by, nodding along to stories about their family life, all while knowing what happens behind closed doors. Sometimes I wonder how long we can keep this up, how long before it all blows up in our faces. But for now, I’m too caught up in the thrill to stop. The guilt comes and goes, but the rush of being with him? That’s something I can’t walk away from. Not yet.