"No, babe. Too late for that. You're already a local legend. I mean…. Dominic Cross? He's like… mysterious, powerful, terrifyingly hot, and also your ex's uncle. This is better than the time you wore red to your ex's grandmother's funeral."
Celeste finally sat up. "That was a burgundy dress and you know it." She pushed the strands of hair covering her backward.
"Still."
Celeste sighed. "It didn't mean anything."
"Did it mean anything to him?"
Silence.
Celeste didn't have an answer for that.
She kept replaying the moment. How he hadn't pushed her away. How his breath had hitched, just a little. How his hand twitched like he almost grabbed her waist before stopping himself.
She wanted to believe it meant nothing. Yet something in her wished it did. She wanted to cry due to expectations.
---
Later that day, Celeste walked into her part-time job at a tiny, dimly-lit bookstore near campus. She thought maybe the scent of old paper and wood polish would help ground her.
She was wrong. Standing in the Philosophy aisle, flipping through The Second Sex like he belonged there, was Dominic.
She froze.
He didn't look up at first. He already knew she was there, and didn't need to look away from the book.
"Trying to understand me now?" she said before she could stop herself.
His eyes flicked up. Cold. Controlled. Dangerous. And then — warm. Just a flash. It left so quickly that Celeste thought she had imagined it
"Trying to understand how someone as smart as you thought that was a good idea," he said, calmly sliding the book back into place.
Celeste's throat went dry. "It was a mistake."
Dominic stepped forward. Just one step. He didn't touch her. Not even close. He only stood close enough to make her stomach twist.
"Was it?"
She hated the way her skin prickled.
"Yes." She managed a fake response.
He didn't blink. "Then why haven't you stopped thinking about it?"
Her pulse thundered in her ears. "You're a grown man," she said, her voice shaking just slightly. "Shouldn't you be the one stopping me?"
He leaned in. "I tried."
Celeste's breath caught.
Dominic reached past her, grabbed a book off the shelf — Anna Karenina, of all things — and held it out to her.
"Read this," he said, quietly. "Might help you understand what happens when people cross lines they're not supposed to."
Celeste swallowed. She had never been so brave in the past to look at him but right now, she felt like he was meant to be in her space.
Celeste stared down at the worn copy of Anna Karenina in her hands. Dominic Cross had just handed her a Tolstoy novel like it was a damn grenade.
He was gone now, already halfway down the aisle. He was confidently walking away like he hadn't just tossed a brick of romantic tragedy into her life and implied it was her fate. She hated him for that.
"You can't just drop Russian literature and trauma bonding in a bookstore and leave," she muttered to herself, hugging the book to her chest.
Dominic paused at the end of the aisle. "I didn't drop it," he said over his shoulder, without turning. "I handed it to you. There's a difference."
Celeste's mouth parted. "Oh, my God."
He finally turned, arms crossed. "Do you always talk to yourself in public, or is that just a Tuesday thing?"
She blinked. "It's a coping mechanism. Some people drink. I talk to myself and alphabetize poetry." She never expected him to turn fully. To be honest, he was taking control of her.
That made something flicker behind his eyes. The tiniest lift at the corner of his mouth showed how amused he was.
Celeste scowled, flustered. "What are you even doing here?" She has never seen him here. He doesn't even belong here.
He stepped closer again. A repeat offense. A calculated move. Always just enough to make her heartbeat stutter.
"This store is two blocks from my apartment. I like the quiet. And the books," he added. "But I might start avoiding it if it comes with drama."
Her cheeks heated in understanding. "That was one kiss—"
"One public kiss," he corrected smoothly.
She made a sound of protest, somewhere between a groan and a whimper. "You were there. You saw it. It was… impulsive."
"It was reckless," he said evenly.
Celeste straightened. "It was one moment."
He tilted his head. "Is that how you usually behave around your ex's relatives? Kiss them in bars and then gaslight yourself into thinking it didn't mean anything?"
She gasped. "Gaslight? I am not gaslighting myself. I am…I am just trying to move on."
He arched his brow. "By kissing me?"
"You didn't stop me," she snapped.
"No," he said, voice dropping, "I didn't."
Silence pressed between them like heat.
Celeste stared at him. He was tall, infuriating, and composed. One would think Dominic Cross was still in his late 20s, even though he was a decade older than that.
He was looking at her mouth again. She stepped back quickly, bumping into a shelf. A book fell. He didn't even glance down.
"Don't look at me like that," she mumbled helplessly.
He leaned forward, but didn't touch her. "Like what?"
"Like I'm some… mess you're trying to figure out."
"You're not a mess," he corrected.
It was soft. Unexpectedly soft coming from someone like him.
She blinked. "What?"
"You're not a mess," he repeated. "You're like a weather. The world that exist in people's minds. Only the beautiful side of it,"
Celeste's knees nearly gave out.
She should walk away. Probably laugh it off. Throw the book at his head. Something. Anything. But she was too busy feeling everything.
"So now you're quoting weather metaphors at me?" she asked weakly.
He stepped back, giving her air. "No. That one was all mine."
And then, he winked. The audacity! His perfectly carved brows did things to her.
Celeste made a high-pitched choking sound that didn't resemble any language spoken by humans.
"You're impossible," she hissed.
Dominic smiled. A rare, full one that reached his eyes.
"You kissed me," he said simply, turning away.
She was still trying to process that when he reached the door, and paused again.
"Oh," he added casually, "and for what it's worth? I haven't stopped thinking about it either."
Then he left. His last words got her. He wasn't even cautious about anything. The bell chimed behind him. The door shut, bringing her back to reality.
Celeste stood frozen in the middle of the bookstore, holding Anna Karenina like a tragic Victorian heroine with no clue what century she was in.
"Girl," her co-worker Lydia, appeared out of nowhere like a judgmental ghost, "if you don't kiss him again, I will."
Celeste jumped, then groaned and let her head fall dramatically onto a stack of paperbacks.
"I am never going to survive this."
Lydia patted her back. "Oh, honey. No one survives a Cross man. We just surrender with style."