The morning came too quickly.
Eleanor stood before the full-length mirror in her dressing room, brushing a delicate gold comb through her hair. The woman staring back at her didn't look like the one from last night. She was composed, lips painted a discreet rose, silk blouse buttoned to the collar, heels clicking with certainty. But beneath the layers of fabric and expectation, her body still remembered the way Daniel Hart's voice slid down her spine.
She stepped into the boutique precisely at eight-fifty. Her assistant, Clara, hadn't arrived yet. The morning sun filtered in through the tall arched windows, casting long beams across the polished floors. The mannequins stood in quiet elegance, each one dressed in her designs—soft ivory, stormy gray, violent red. Silent witnesses.
At exactly nine, the door opened. And there he was.
Daniel, in a black button-down rolled at the sleeves, dark jeans, and his signature camera resting against his chest like a weapon. His eyes met hers instantly, as though they'd been waiting.
"I like a woman who keeps her word," he said.
"And I like a man who understands boundaries," she returned.
He smiled. "Can't promise I always will."
She turned away before he could see the heat that bloomed again in her cheeks. "Let's begin."
She led him to the back room, where a long white wall served as a photography backdrop. A rack of gowns stood ready beside it. A steamer hissed quietly in the corner.
"You can use this space," she said briskly. "I'll have Clara assist once she arrives."
"I don't need her," he replied, already unzipping his camera bag. "I prefer to shoot raw. Just you and me."
She hesitated, then sat on the chaise across from him, legs crossed tightly. "You're not here to photograph me."
He looked at her through the lens, snapping a shot without warning. The shutter clicked like a sigh.
"I beg to differ."
"You're impossible," she muttered, standing.
"You're stunning," he countered, lowering the camera. "Even more so when you're flustered."
She didn't respond. Instead, she walked to the rack and selected a sapphire gown—floor-length, sleeveless, with a plunging back and jeweled waist. She laid it on the display mannequin and adjusted the fabric with swift, practiced fingers.
Daniel's camera shutter whispered again, capturing each movement as if it were sacred.
"I don't normally let men into this room," she said.
"Then I should feel honored."
"You shouldn't feel anything."
He approached slowly, his boots thudding gently against the floor. "But I do. Watching you work... it's like seeing a dancer rehearse. Controlled, powerful, intimate."
She turned, face inches from his.
"You speak like a poet," she whispered.
"I touch like a sinner."
Their eyes locked. The air between them thickened, electric.
Without breaking eye contact, Daniel reached up and slowly moved a strand of hair from her cheek. His fingers brushed her skin—barely. But it was enough.
Her breath hitched.
"I should ask you to leave," she murmured.
"You won't."
And he was right. Her body betrayed her mind. It leaned toward him, drawn like silk to skin.
Just then, the door creaked open.
Clara's voice broke the spell. "Morning, Ms. Whitmore!"
Eleanor stepped back like she'd been burned. Daniel straightened, calm as ever.
Clara bustled in, oblivious. "Oh, hello! Are you the photographer?"
Daniel offered his hand. "Daniel Hart."
She grinned. "Lovely. Let me steam the gowns."
As Clara busied herself, Eleanor glanced at Daniel—now casually reviewing his shots. But his fingers paused on one particular image.
It was her.
Caught in a moment between motion and stillness. Hair slightly tousled. Lips parted. Eyes vulnerable.
He turned the camera toward her, letting her see.
"I'm keeping this one," he said softly.
She studied it. Studied herself. That wasn't the Eleanor she showed the world. That was someone real. Bare.
She looked away.
They continued through the morning—he shooting, she guiding. But the tension never left. It simmered beneath every movement, every accidental brush of fingertips, every shared glance. Clara eventually left for errands, giving them space neither asked for—but both craved.
"You've built a kingdom here," Daniel said at one point, leaning against the window as she adjusted another gown.
"Hard-earned," she replied.
"But lonely."
She bristled. "You don't know me."
"I'm trying to."
She turned, arms folded. "Why?"
He walked to her, close again. Always too close.
"Because you're the only woman I've met who makes silk seem second to skin."
And before she could reply—before reason could interrupt—the moment cracked open.
He kissed her.
It wasn't gentle.
It was slow-burning, primal, meant to taste and claim. Her hands pressed against his chest, unsure whether to push him away or pull him closer. His fingers found the small of her back, drawing her in like a whisper made flesh.
When they broke apart, breathless, her voice was a rasp.
"This is a mistake."
"Maybe," he said. "But it's a beautiful one."
The doorbell rang again.
Saved.
Or ruined.
Eleanor stepped back, smoothing her blouse, forcing herself into composure.
"Session's over," she said, not meeting his eyes. "You got what you came for."
He smiled, slow and knowing. "Not even close."
Then he left.
And the scent of smoke lingered where he'd stood.