Emily woke to the sound of rain still whispering against the windows.
It had softened overnight, no longer the wild storm from before, but steady. Persistent. A rhythm like a quiet reminder that the world hadn't stopped — even if part of her felt like it had.
Her eyes blinked open slowly. For a second, she forgot where she was.
The bed beneath her was softer than her own. The room quieter. The air cooler. She sat up, stretching, and remembered: Damian's house. The guest room. The storm.
And then — the kitchen.
Her heart fluttered uneasily.
That moment. That touch. That accidental intimacy.
His hands on her waist. Her chest pressed against his. His voice, deep and rough in the dark. The way his eyes had lingered before he looked away.
Her face warmed.
It wasn't a kiss. It wasn't a confession. It wasn't anything she could even name, really.
But it meant something.
Because even now, her body remembered the shape of his, the heat of his palms, the scent of him in the dark — faint soap and something woodsy and clean.
She rubbed her eyes and exhaled.
They hadn't talked after that. She'd scurried back to the guest room like a teenager sneaking away from trouble, and he hadn't come after her. She didn't want him to. But part of her had listened for footsteps anyway.
Nothing.
Now, morning light poured through the window. The storm had left the world damp and silvery, the city below wrapped in fog.
A small envelope rested on the dresser.
Her name was written on the front in careful, slanted handwriting.
She padded across the room, bare feet silent on the wood floor, and opened it.
Inside: a short note on cream paper.
Driver's waiting downstairs. Thank you for your time.
— D.
No smiley face. No over-explanation. Just neat, measured words. Formal, almost. But the paper was thick. The envelope hand-sealed. It was him — cold, polished, and yet… personal in the smallest ways.
She dressed in the jeans and blouse she'd packed, brushed her hair quickly, and applied a light swipe of gloss to her lips. No reason to try harder than that — she wasn't trying to impress him.
Except… maybe she was.
---
The driver opened the back door for her with a nod, and she slid into the familiar black leather interior of Damian's car. She held her bag in her lap and stared out the window as the gate closed behind them.
The ride was silent.
But inside, her thoughts were anything but.
What just happened?
Was it an accident? A moment? Something we'll both ignore?
She should feel relieved that it hadn't gone further. That she hadn't done something reckless.
But instead, she felt… restless.
Like she had walked to the edge of something and stopped just short of seeing what was on the other side.
---
By the time the car pulled up to her apartment building, the rain had tapered off to a mist. She thanked the driver, stepped out, and climbed the steps with her head still half in that kitchen, half in the memory of his hands on her.
Inside her apartment, everything was the same.
But she wasn't.
She set down her bag and pressed her fingers to her lips.
She hadn't kissed him.
He hadn't kissed her.
But it still felt like something had touched her. Something that wouldn't shake loose.