(Xavier's POV)
Monday dragged like it didn't know when to end. The hours stretched, heavy and airless, every tick of the clock a reminder that I was still thinking about her.
Flora's dinner had been two nights ago, but it hadn't left me. The soft glow of the restaurant, the quiet laughter that came too easily, the way Khloe's eyes met mine once across the table — just once — and held there. Long enough to make me forget who else was sitting with us.
She'd been careful that night. Polite. Guarded. But there'd been something in the air — a current neither of us could name.
And now, back in the office, I was pretending I hadn't noticed. Pretending I hadn't watched her slip through the door this morning, head down, lips pressed in that way she did when she was overthinking. Pretending her voice during meetings hadn't softened in a way that left me distracted through every other report.
I'd told myself the weekend had been enough time to erase it. But it hadn't.
By the time the sun dipped, the office floor was emptying. The lights were dimmer, the hum of printers and footsteps fading into silence. Yet when I passed the long corridor toward the exit, I noticed her office light was still on.
Of course it was.
Khloe was always the last one to leave. Always the one cleaning up, double-checking, making sure everything was perfect. That same perfection was the thing that made her so damn impossible to forget.
I stopped outside her door, my reflection staring back at me through the glass panel. For a long moment, I hesitated. I could've kept walking. Should have. But instead, I knocked.
A faint voice from inside — "Come in."
When I opened the door, she looked up from her desk, startled for half a second before catching herself.
"Mr. Rush," she said quickly, straightening. "I didn't realize you were still here."
"I could say the same," I replied, stepping inside.
Her office was quiet — smaller than mine, neater, the faint scent of her perfume hanging in the air. Papers were stacked in precise piles. Her computer screen glowed faintly.
"I was just finishing the reports you asked for," she said, glancing down. "I was about to send them before heading home."
"It's late," I said. "You can send them tomorrow."
She hesitated, then nodded. "Of course."
But I didn't move. Neither did she.
Her hand lingered near the keyboard, but she wasn't typing. My eyes traced the curve of her wrist, the small movement of her throat as she swallowed. The silence between us thickened, heavy with the weight of things we hadn't said.
"I wanted to talk," I said finally.
"About the reports?"
"No." My voice came out rougher than I intended. "Come to my office, Khloe."
Her brows knit, uncertain. "Now?"
"Yes. Now."
She hesitated again, eyes flickering to my face, as if searching for something there — reason, reassurance. Finding neither. But she stood anyway, gathering her things.
I stepped aside for her to pass, following her down the quiet corridor. Her heels echoed softly on the tile, her scent pulling at every restraint I had left.
When we entered my office, the city glowed beyond the glass wall — sharp lines of gold and silver cutting through the dark. I walked to my desk, turned, and nodded toward the door.
"Close it."
She did — slowly, like she knew it meant something.
The click of it locking into place felt final.
She turned back, standing a few feet from me, her bag still in hand. "Is something wrong, sir?"
That word. Sir. It scraped against something inside me I didn't want to name.
"Put that down," I said quietly.
She set the bag on the chair. "What did you need to talk about?"
I exhaled, rubbing the back of my neck. "Dinner. The other night."
Her eyes flickered briefly, then steadied. "Flora enjoyed herself."
"That's not what I meant."
The air shifted. Her shoulders rose slightly with a breath, like she could sense the change but didn't know what to do with it.
"What are we doing, Khloe?" I asked, voice lower now.
She blinked. "I don't know what you mean."
"Yes, you do."
She didn't answer. But she didn't look away, either.
"I've been trying to ignore it," I went on, each word slower, heavier. "Whatever this is. Pretending that you're just my assistant. That it's just work. But it's not. Not anymore."
Her breath hitched, the smallest sound, but enough to undo the distance I'd been holding onto.
I stepped closer. "Every time I see you, it's like…" I stopped, exhaling sharply. "Damn it, Khloe. You're in my head when you shouldn't be."
Her voice trembled. "Mr. Rush—"
"Xavier," I cut in, eyes on hers. "Say my name."
She hesitated. "Xavier."
It was quiet. Barely above a whisper. But it hit like heat, burning straight through my restraint.
I took another step forward. Close enough to see the flutter of her pulse at her throat.
My hand lifted before I could stop it — fingers brushing her cheek, tracing down to her jaw. Her skin was warm beneath my touch, softer than I imagined.
She drew in a shaky breath. "This is wrong."
"I know."
"Then why—"
I leaned in, voice a whisper against her skin. "What are you doing to me, Khloe?"
She froze, eyes widening just slightly. "I—"
But I didn't let her finish.
Because in that moment, thought collapsed under instinct. I kissed her.
It wasn't measured or careful — it was every held breath, every unspoken want. My hand slid to the back of her neck, the other gripping her waist as her body pressed against mine.
For a split second, she was still — shocked, caught off guard — then she moved with me. Her lips parted, a soft gasp escaping as the kiss deepened.
It turned rougher fast — hungry, restless, the kind of kiss that tore through pretense. Her hands found my shirt, clutching hard, pulling me closer. My thumb traced her jaw, tilting her head as I tasted the small sound she made against my mouth.
The world fell away. There was no office, no glass, no city — just her. The rhythm of her heartbeat beneath my hand. The scent of her perfume tangled with my breath.
I pulled back barely an inch, my forehead resting against hers. Both of us breathless.
"This shouldn't be happening," she whispered.
"I know."
But I kissed her again anyway.
This one wasn't soft. It was a collision — heat and confusion and everything we'd both been denying. My hand slid into her hair; hers tightened around my collar, grounding us in the chaos.
When I finally pulled away, we stood there in silence. Her lips were swollen, her breathing uneven, eyes searching mine like she was waiting for me to say it wasn't real.
But it was.
And I knew — right there — that I'd crossed something irreversible.
"I'll take you home," I said quietly, my voice rough.
Her gaze wavered. "You don't have to—"
"I want to."
She nodded once. No more words.
I picked up her bag, mostly to stop my hands from shaking. The walk to the elevator was quiet, filled with everything we weren't saying.
In the mirrored walls of the elevator, our reflections looked like strangers. Hers — composed but trembling underneath. Mine — unreadable.
When we reached the ground floor, I held the door open. She stepped out, the cool night spilling in between us.
The drive to her apartment was silent, thick with the echo of what had just happened. Streetlights passed in gold bands over her face — she looked out the window, expression unreadable.
I wanted to speak. To tell her I was sorry. To tell her I wasn't. But the truth sat heavy and unsaid.
When I pulled up outside her building, she turned slightly, her voice barely a whisper. "Goodnight, Mr. Rush."
That word again. A wall she was rebuilding.
"Goodnight, Khloe."
She stepped out, closed the door softly, and disappeared into the building's glow.
I sat there for a long time, hands gripping the wheel, the taste of her still burning on my lips.
The city moved like nothing had changed — but everything had.
Because that kiss wasn't an accident.
It was a beginning.
And I had no idea what it would cost us.