Connor Storrie and Hudson Williams have matching tattoos that say “Sex Sells” on their inner thighs, and maybe my boss and I should, too. “Boss” is probably the wrong term—one that he is surely offended by right now—because my “boss” is someone I have known since we were both in middle school together, when I was a meek kid who wore Purple Supras and rocked Bieber flow (a haircut he prefers to the one I have today). At 16, we decided to build a life together—we started a Gen Z marketing agency that works with brand clients to decode culture and demystify our demo, which ultimately grew to a full-scale operation with millennials on payroll and offices in midtown Manhattan. The correct term for this omnipresent character in my life is one that has long been in the corporate zeitgeist: He is my work husband. Contrary to popular belief, we haven’t, nor will we ever, kiss. But if you were already speculating that we had from the first paragraph of this article, you wouldn’t be the first. In many ways, the ambiguous promiscuity of it all is an integral part of the thoughtfully rehearsed shtick we have put on for years when navigating corporate spaces. Because, as I’ve seen up close over the last decade, the marketing and advertising industry has many powerful women and gay men behind it, and there is nothing that my peers love more than a will-they-won’t-they plotline. As Connor and Hudson know, sex sells, and we’re good at selling it. But somewhere along the way, we went a little too method, and I think I married my work husband. Heated Rivalry is actually an apt analogy. We are two up-and-comers in our industry (in this case, marketing and advertising), and we constantly befuddle audiences at the prospect of what we might be (colleagues? friends? lovers? enemies?). In many ways, he is the closest thing to a serious relationship that I’ve ever had. He notices when I buy a new article of clothing. He texts my mom. I know when he has a doctor’s appointment (he doesn’t). I text his haircutter. We call every single night (Monday–Friday) before we go to sleep. In the way that so many spouses cannot imagine living without their partners, I genuinely cannot imagine ever working without him somehow as my coconspirator. And in a world where the lines between work and life are increasingly blurred, the question then becomes: Is there really a difference between the two feelings? In many ways, he is the closest thing to a serious relationship that I’ve ever had. He notices when I buy a new article of clothing. He texts my mom. I know when he has a doctor’s appointment (he doesn’t). Finding success as teenagers and now 20-something executives has meant that we often stand out in the rooms in which we find ourselves. I travel the world with him for 50 percent of my life (TurboTax told me it was 50 percent to the day), sharing hotel rooms and opting for airplane middle seats to be next to his window ones. I have been asked the “what are we?” question by more Fortune 500 CEOs about us than actual situationships in my life. In other words, corporate conferences are the high school hallway, and the class wants to know if we’re kissing. Unlike most of the gay relationships I come across, this doesn’t feel like an open one. Perhaps that is why, much to my parents’ chagrin, I’ve never had someone serious enough to bring home to the OOO moments of my life. I know it may be daunting to consider adding more vocabulary to the already confusing lexicon of Gen Z relationship slang. I, myself, am wondering how this relates to words like “ethical non-monogamous.” Simply put, this is the equivalent of my aunt’s “roommate” growing up. They sure seemed to spend a lot of time together! No follow-up questions. Of course, there is nothing radically new about two people who work in such proximity becoming close. But the personal and the professional continue to converge, and the office spouse dynamic is only further complicated in a world where the office is quite literally the bedroom. The workday used to end. But not only is there no longer an office to leave, there is no longer a partner to go home to. I recently learned from a Hinge prompt (yes, I’m trying) that Gen Z is the most single generation to date. Apparently, it’s embarrassing to have a boyfriend now? I wouldn’t know. On the contrary, my work husband has no problem finding himself in romantic entanglements, but they never seem to work out. They never even seem to be healthy, perhaps because they are threatened by the boy on the other end of FaceTime (read: me) saying “love you,” while they’re on a date. Sorry to the 37 of you reading this article who fit that description. This is also not a new phenomenon. People with tunnel vision on their outrageous sense of ambition and career aspirations have been disgruntling spouses since the dawn of the three-martini lunch. As someone who has never been in a serious relationship and thus lacks a certain understanding of what that looks and feels like, I have had to interrogate whether my fulfillment in one aspect of my life has meant that I am not-so-filled, pun intended, in others. As a culture, we have long had sensitivity to the ways in which platonic relationships may cross boundaries and threaten romantic ones; it seems we may now have to add the professional to that calculus as well. My LinkedIn DMs are indeed flooded with solicitations. As a culture, we have long had sensitivity to the ways in which platonic relationships may cross boundaries and threaten romantic ones; it seems we may now have to add the professional to that calculus as well. People like to feel needed. In a world with less romance, jobs provide us with an architecture of constant necessity. If anything, Gen Z seems to care more about yearning than sex itself. Remember, it’s episode 5 of Heated Rivalry that is rated 9.9 on IMDb, an episode filled with tender dialogue, not ass shots. In a capitalist society that has monetized my partner’s thoughts and opinions, it is his thoughts and opinions that I see as most valuable, and I imagine he would say the same about me (he’s obviously editing this, but let me feign humility). Whether we’re walking out of pitch from an AI-enabled startup or Reneé Rapp’s birthday party, we want to debrief everything together. We mutually desire each other’s attention above all else, and what is that if not love? In the oversaturated media landscape that we live in (I have yet to succumb to ), we are sold the idea that we can have it all and that others do. In reality, I’ve found we…kind of can??? It seems the only way to check every box is by blurring every line until there is seemingly only one box to check. Our coworkers are friends and in some instances, our deepest and most intimate partners. As someone who exists to optimize, I have taken the parts of my life that thrive and piecemealed companionship into a Frankenstein groom, the face of which resembles my boss. And while we may not be reenacting Ilya and Shane in room 1410, I have to contend with the fact that there’s an invisible ring on my finger that others can see. Is my work husband the reason I haven’t found love, or is he the solace to that reality? Is he the reason that I am susceptible to loneliness or the reason that I am comfortable with it? Is this a sacrifice or the only way to have it all? Whereas Heated Rivalry leaves nothing up to the imagination, I guess we do.