Chapter 1: Threads of Tension

The first time Freya met Adam, he was leaning against the glass doorway of her studio, sunlight kissing his dark curls and a portfolio under his arm. Sharp jaw. Easy smirk. Rolled-up sleeves that showed off just enough forearm to suggest trouble. She almost mistook him for one of the models.

"You're early," she said, tapping her watch as she approached.

He smiled without apology. "I like to be prepared."

She didn't believe that for a second. The way he looked at her — measured, steady, amused — said he liked to observe. And more importantly, be observed.

Freya wore a silk blouse that skimmed her curves and a pencil skirt that hugged her hips. Adam didn't even try to hide the way his gaze lingered. Not for too long — just long enough to say, I noticed.

"Do you always dress like this at work?" he asked, following her inside.

"Do you always flirt with your boss in the first five minutes?" she shot back without missing a step.

His grin widened. "Only when she's dressed like trouble."

That earned a raised brow — and just a hint of a smile she didn't let him see.

Her studio was a maze of mannequins, fabric bolts, and sketches. The windows spilled golden light across the wooden floors, and the scent of jasmine — her signature diffuser — floated through the air.

Adam looked around, nodding in appreciation. "You've got a kingdom here."

She leaned against a cutting table, arms crossed, watching him take it all in. "And you? You're here to be my loyal subject?"

"I'm here to learn," he said, taking a step closer. "But I wouldn't mind being... useful."

Freya tilted her head. "Are you always this suggestive?"

Adam's voice dropped a note. "Only with women who look like you."

There was a moment — brief but thick with static — where neither of them spoke. Only looked. Studied. Felt the quiet tension stretch between them like silk drawn tight between two hands.

She broke the moment first, walking to a rack of half-finished pieces.

"Let's see if your hands are as good as your mouth," she said over her shoulder. "These need pinning, and I don't have time for delicate fingers."

Adam stepped up beside her, close — but not too close. His presence was warm, his cologne subtle and clean.

As they worked, their hands brushed. Once. Twice. His fingers were steady, confident. Hers paused when his thumb grazed her wrist. Just a second too long.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

"I'm fine," she replied, eyes on the dress form — not him. "Just... warm."

He smiled. "We could open a window."

She turned to him then, her face inches from his. "Or you could take off that tight shirt. It's giving the room heat."

He chuckled. "Careful. That almost sounded like an invitation."

She met his eyes, bold. "If I were inviting you, Adam... you'd know."

That night, after he left, Freya poured herself a glass of wine and replayed the day — the way his hands moved, the glint in his eye, the way he looked at her when he thought she wasn't looking.

He was young. Bold. Dangerous in that careless, confident way. She had no business entertaining the idea.

But as she slipped off her heels and ran a hand up her thigh, she realized something else:

Sometimes, what's barely dressed... is the most irresistible thing in the room.