(Ethan's POV)
The dinner had shifted something between us. The shared memories, the laughter, the brief glimpse of the kids we used to be—it had softened the sharp edges of our conflict, replaced the tension with a fragile sense of hope. But the undercurrent of desire, the unspoken pull between us, remained.
Back at the office, the project had become a strange dance, a delicate balancing act between professional collaboration and undeniable attraction. We were working late, reviewing fabric samples, the soft glow of the desk lamp casting long shadows across the room.
"This velvet," Claire said, her fingers tracing the texture, "it's perfect for the lounge area. It's luxurious, but still inviting."
"It is," I agreed, my eyes lingering on her hand. Her fingers were slender, delicate, her touch sending a shiver down my spine.
"We need to create a space that feels both sophisticated and comfortable," she continued, her voice soft, her eyes focused on the fabric. "A place where people can relax and connect."
"Like a home away from home," I murmured, my gaze drifting to her face.
Her eyes met mine, a flicker of something intense passing between us. The air crackled with unspoken words, with the weight of our shared history.
"Exactly," she said, her voice barely audible.
She reached for another fabric sample, her hand brushing against mine. The contact was brief, fleeting, but it sent a jolt of electricity through me, a reminder of the almost-kiss, of the feelings we were both trying to suppress.
I pulled my hand away, my heart pounding in my chest. I needed to regain control, to reassert the boundaries I'd carefully constructed.
"We should finalize the fabric selections," I said, my voice clipped, breaking the charged silence. "We have a deadline to meet."
"Right," she said, her voice tight, her eyes searching mine. "The deadline."
We spent the next hour reviewing samples, our conversation stilted and awkward. The tension between us was palpable, a physical force that pulled us closer, even as we tried to maintain our distance.
As we were about to call it a night, Claire reached for a blueprint, her sleeve catching on a stack of papers. The papers scattered across the desk, a chaotic mess of sketches and notes.
"Damn it," she muttered, frustration evident in her voice.
"Let me help," I said, my voice low, reaching for a stray sketch.
We knelt on the floor, our hands brushing against each other as we gathered the papers. The close proximity, the shared task, it was a recipe for disaster.
As I reached for a sketch that had fallen under her chair, my hand brushed against her leg. The contact was brief, accidental, but it sent a wave of heat through me, a primal urge to pull her closer.
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. I looked up at her, my eyes searching hers. She was looking at me, her eyes wide, her expression a mixture of surprise and...something else.
I stood up, my heart pounding in my chest, my body thrumming with a desire I couldn't deny. I wanted to reach out to her, to touch her, to erase the distance between us.
But I hesitated, my restraint battling with my desire. I was afraid, afraid of getting hurt again, afraid of opening myself up to the possibility of love.
"We should call it a night," I said, my voice rough, breaking the silence. "It's late."
"Yeah," she said, her voice barely audible. "Good night, Ethan."
"Good night, Claire," I said, my voice low.
I watched her walk away, my heart aching with a longing I couldn't explain. The touch, the brief, accidental touch, had ignited a spark within me, a spark that threatened to consume me. And I knew, deep down, that I couldn't ignore it forever.
(Claire's POV)
Working late with Ethan had become a dangerous game. The close proximity, the shared task, the lingering tension—it was a constant temptation, a reminder of the feelings I was trying to suppress.
When our hands brushed against each other while we sorted the scattered drawings, it was like a jolt of electricity, a reminder of the almost-kiss, of the unspoken desire that simmered between us.
And when his hand brushed against my leg, an accidental touch, it sent a wave of heat through me, a primal urge to pull him closer.
I looked at him, my eyes wide, my breath catching in my throat. I wanted to reach out to him, to touch him, to erase the distance between us.
But I hesitated, my fear battling with my desire. I was afraid of getting hurt again, afraid of opening myself up to the possibility of love.
"We should call it a night," he said, his voice rough. "It's late."
"Yeah," I said, my voice barely audible. "Good night, Ethan."
"Good night, Claire," he said, his voice low.
I turned and walked away, my heart aching with a longing I couldn't explain. The touch, the brief, accidental touch, had ignited a spark within me, a spark that threatened to consume me. And I knew, deep down, that I couldn't ignore it forever.