The sky had turned the color of wet slate by the time they wrapped the last task.
Emily stood by the tall window of Damian's study, watching rain lash across the glass in long, slanted lines. Distant thunder rolled over the city like a slow exhale. It was clear the storm wasn't going anywhere.
She turned to Damian, who was already checking his phone. Probably tracking road conditions, driver availability—everything she hadn't even thought to consider.
"You should stay," he said, looking up.
Her heart did a small skip.
"It's not safe for you to go out in this," he added, his voice calm. Certain. "And you brought clothes."
She had.
That little overnight bag Chloe had insisted she pack was now sitting neatly by the guest bedroom door. "Just in case," Chloe had said with a grin.
Emily swallowed. "Are you sure?"
He nodded. "The guest room is ready."
There was nothing flirtatious in his tone. Nothing pushy. Just the same quiet command she'd come to expect from him—except now, it was laced with something else. Consideration.
She nodded once. "Okay. Thank you."
________________________________________
The thunder had quieted into a slow, steady growl outside the windows. Rain smeared across the glass like brushstrokes, and flashes of distant lightning briefly illuminated the edges of the room. Emily lay awake in the guest bed, tangled in the duvet, staring at the ceiling.
She had changed after her shower — soft cotton shorts, her most comfortable oversized T-shirt, and nothing else. She hadn't thought much of it when she dressed. She was alone in a private guest room, in a house so large she could barely navigate it. Damian would be in his own wing or sleeping like the rest of the city.
At least, that's what she told herself.
But the house was too quiet. And her body, tired as it was, refused to rest. Her throat was dry, lips slightly parched. Too much coffee earlier. Too much… everything.
She threw the covers back with a sigh, slipped on her slippers, and tiptoed into the hallway. Her bare legs prickled in the cool air. The silence wrapped around her, broken only by the soft creaks of the hardwood floor beneath her steps and the whisper of wind outside.
The kitchen was dim, lit only by soft under-cabinet lights and the bluish hue from the storm flashing through the windows. She padded across the marble floor and opened the cabinet for a glass, then turned to the fridge.
The door opened with a soft pull—and she bumped right into something warm and solid.
She gasped, stumbling slightly.
A hand went to her hip. Another to her arm.
"Careful," came the deep voice. Familiar. Low. Sleep-rough.
Her chest met his. Firm. Bare. Warm.
She realized, in one horrifying rush, that she wasn't wearing a bra.
And he had felt everything.
Her nipples had hardened instantly from the cold and the contact, and now pressed against the thin cotton of her shirt — against him. She could feel the heat of his bare skin, the taut muscle beneath, the tension in his arms as he caught her.
Her heart slammed in her chest.
She didn't dare look up. But she couldn't not look.
Slowly, she tilted her head back.
Damian stood in front of her — shirtless, barefoot, wearing nothing but a pair of loose black lounge pants that hung low on his hips. His chest rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, though his expression was unreadable.
Their bodies were still close. Too close.
"I—I didn't hear you," she breathed.
"Same," he said, voice quiet. "Didn't expect anyone down here."
"I couldn't sleep," she said quickly, stepping back, cheeks on fire. "Needed water."
He nodded, but didn't move. "Same."
She turned toward the counter, trying to pretend her entire body hadn't just caught fire. She poured water into the glass with trembling hands and tried to act like she wasn't aware of every inch of his bare skin behind her.
Silence settled again, thicker now. Awkward. Charged.
He hadn't left.
And for a moment, she didn't want him to.
She turned back, meeting his eyes. "I'll head back now. Sorry for… running into you."
His eyes flicked down for the briefest second — just one — before he looked away and gave the barest nod.
"No harm done."
Except there was.
Not harm, exactly. But something.
She could still feel the echo of his hands on her waist.
The heat of his skin against her chest.
The press of muscle beneath her palms.
She clutched the glass and hurried past him, heartbeat hammering as she retreated to the hallway. Her face burned, her skin tingled, and her thoughts swirled in every direction.
When she reached her room, she shut the door behind her and pressed her back against it.
Get it together, Emily.
But there was no calming down now.
Not after that.
---
Meanwhile,
Damian hadn't moved.
He stood there, back against the counter, staring at the spot where she'd just been — where her body had pressed into his, soft and warm and completely unintentional.
But unforgettable.
He let out a long, slow breath, jaw clenched.
Her shirt. That thin cotton shirt. No bra.
He hadn't been expecting to see her like that — flushed, half-asleep, eyes wide with surprise, lips parted as she gasped against his chest. She had smelled like something faint and floral, and her skin… God.
She had felt like a flame pressed against his bare skin.
And now?
Now a part of his body had responded in a way he hadn't expected — or welcomed.
He exhaled again, eyes shut for a moment.
It had taken everything in him not to reach for her. Not to let his hands linger. Not to pull her in, close the distance, and do what every cell in his body suddenly wanted.
But he hadn't.
Because she didn't know what she was doing to him.
And because if he crossed that line…
There'd be no going back.
So he stood there alone, in the dim kitchen, half-hard and half-dizzy, with only the sound of rain and his own restraint to keep him grounded.
And the feeling of her — soft, startled, and impossibly close — burned into memory.