It felt like a promise

The air in the penthouse was warm that evening, not from the thermostat or the golden wash of sunset slipping through the tall windows, but from something less tangible. Something electric.

Something between us.

I'd been typing half-heartedly on my laptop at the kitchen island when I heard Blake walk in. He moved with ease, jacket draped over his arm, tie already loosened. A subtle whiff of cedarwood and citrus followed him. Familiar now, and dangerous in the way familiarity had begun to feel like comfort.

"Long day?" he asked, eyes scanning the counters as he moved toward the fridge.

"Is there any other kind?" I replied without looking up, though my lips curved.

He chuckled and pulled out a bottle of sparkling water. "Fair enough."

He stood near me, quietly sipping, watching. The silence wasn't uncomfortable—it hummed. Like a string pulled taut, waiting to snap.

I saved my document and shut the laptop.

"Dinner?" he asked.

I nodded. "Sure. Let me grab my bag."

He raised a brow. "No. I'll cook."

I paused. "You'll cook?"

"You seem surprised."

"I didn't realize business tycoons could make anything besides reservations."

He smirked. "Watch and learn, Cater."

He moved around the kitchen like he belonged there, pulling ingredients out with practiced familiarity. I watched from a stool, arms crossed but heart fluttering.

"You planned this, didn't you?"

"Depends. If it works out, yes. If not, I was just hungry."

"Clever."

He glanced up. "You like clever."

I didn't respond.

Because he was right.

Dinner was surprisingly good. Pasta tossed in a light, herbed cream sauce, with grilled chicken and a glass of white wine. We sat on the barstools, laughing more than I expected. Less like enemies. Less like business partners. More like... something else.

"Where'd you learn to cook?" I asked between bites.

"Boarding school. My roommate and I used to sneak into the kitchens at night. Got caught once and had to prep breakfast for the entire school as punishment. Turns out, I didn't hate it."

"That sounds vaguely cinematic."

He grinned. "You should see the apron I wore. Pink with ruffles."

I laughed. "Please tell me you have pictures."

"Some secrets die with dignity."

By the time we finished, it was well past nine. I helped him rinse the plates, our arms brushing occasionally as we moved in sync. Each touch, each glance, made my skin warm in places it had no business heating.

"You've got soap on your cheek," I said, reaching over without thinking.

My fingers brushed the corner of his face. He froze. So did I.

The touch lingered. Just a second too long.

He caught my wrist gently. His eyes locked with mine, dark and unreadable.

"Celine..." he said softly.

"Yes?"

"I'm trying really hard not to kiss you right now."

My breath caught. "Why not?"

His grip tightened just slightly, a war waging in his gaze. "Because I want it to mean something."

"It already does," I whispered.

And then he kissed me.

It wasn't slow or tentative. It was fire meeting fire. All the weeks of restraint, the nights of cool civility, the tension humming between us—it exploded.

His hands cupped my face, and I leaned into him, tasting wine and heat and something that felt dangerously close to need. He pulled me closer, lips moving against mine like he'd been waiting forever to know how I felt.

And I let him.

My arms wrapped around his neck. One of his hands slid into my hair. My back pressed against the counter, and my knees felt like they'd dissolve if he stepped away.

"Blake..." I breathed, somewhere between a sigh and a moan.

"I know," he murmured. "I know."

We broke apart just enough to breathe, foreheads pressed together, heartbeats racing.

"This complicates things," I said.

He smiled. "Only if we let it."

I stared at him—really stared. This man who had once been the symbol of everything I resented, now the only person who made me feel... seen. Safe.

"And if I'm scared?" I asked.

He brushed a thumb over my cheek. "So am I. But I think we owe it to ourselves to see what's possible."

I nodded, slow and uncertain.

"Don't run," he whispered.

"I won't."

We ended up on the couch, curled under a blanket, limbs tangled, mouths rediscovering each other between fits of quiet laughter and long silences. We didn't take it too far, but what we shared was deeper than anything physical could match. Every glance, every touch, every whispered joke—it all felt like pieces of a new language, one we were learning together.

When I finally rose to go to bed, he didn't stop me. He just kissed my hand and let me walk down the hall.

"Goodnight, Mrs. Aldridge," he said, voice low.

"Goodnight, Mr. Aldridge."

And this time, it didn't feel like a joke.

It felt like a promise.