The compliment hung between us like smoke, soft, dangerous, impossible to ignore. My cheeks burned, and I prayed the dim lighting hid it. Around us, the party pulsed on: laughter spiking over the bass of the music, glasses chiming, voices overlapping in that easy, alcohol-loosened way people have when the workday armor finally comes off.
But right here, inches from Damian, the noise felt distant. Muffled. Like the world had narrowed to the space between our bodies.
"Thank you," I managed, the words barely audible. I hated how small my voice sounded, how it betrayed every racing thought in my head.
He didn't move away. If anything, he shifted closer, just enough that I caught the faint scent of his cologne again, cedar and something darker, warmer. His gaze dropped briefly to my lips, then lifted back to my eyes. The look was so quick I might have imagined it, but the heat it left behind was real.
"You don't have to thank me for stating a fact," he said quietly.
I swallowed. "It's… not something you say often."
One corner of his mouth lifted, not quite a smile, more an acknowledgment. "I don't say a lot of things often."
The admission felt like a crack in the wall he always kept up, small, but enough to let something slip through. I wanted to ask what else he didn't say often. What else he kept locked away. But the words stuck in my throat.
Someone brushed past us, a colleague calling out a cheerful "Elena!" as they went by with a tray of champagne flutes. I startled slightly, breaking the spell, and Damian straightened, his expression smoothing back into careful neutrality.
"Would you like a drink?" he asked, nodding toward the bar.
I nodded, grateful for the excuse to move, to breathe. "Sure."
We walked side by side through the crowd. People greeted him, Mr. Stone this, Damian that, deferential, admiring, a little awed. He responded with brief nods, short replies, never lingering. But every few steps, his hand brushed the small of my back to guide me through a knot of people. The contact was light, professional, gone in a second. Yet each time it happened, electricity zipped up my spine.
At the bar, he ordered a whiskey neat for himself and glanced at me. "What would you like?"
"White wine," I said. "Something dry."
He passed the order to the bartender, then turned back to me. We stood shoulder to shoulder now, waiting. The silence wasn't uncomfortable, but it was charged...full of everything we weren't saying.
When the drinks arrived, he handed me the glass, our fingers brushing. Deliberate? Accidental? I couldn't tell anymore.
"To surviving another week," he said, raising his glass slightly.
I clinked mine against his. "To surviving you."
The words slipped out before I could stop them, teasing, bolder than I usually allowed myself with him. His eyebrows lifted a fraction, surprise flickering across his face, then something warmer. Amusement.
"Careful, Elena," he murmured. "I might take that as a challenge."
My pulse kicked harder. "Maybe it is."
He held my gaze for a long beat, then looked away first, toward the dance floor where couples swayed under the colored lights. The song had shifted to something slower, sultrier. A few of our colleagues were already out there, laughing, moving with varying degrees of rhythm.
He set his glass down on the bar. "Dance with me."
It wasn't a question.
My heart slammed against my ribs. "Here? In front of everyone?"
His eyes met mine again, steady. "It's a party. People dance at parties."
"But you don't," I said softly. "You never do."
He considered that. "Tonight feels different."
I searched his face for the catch, the reason he'd pull back any second now. But there was none, just that quiet intensity he wore like armor, except tonight the armor seemed thinner.
I set my wine down. "Okay."
He offered his hand. I took it.
His palm was warm, dry, firm. He led me onto the floor without hurry, weaving us through the other dancers until we found a pocket of space near the edge. The music wrapped around us, slow and heavy.
He turned to face me, one hand settling lightly at my waist, the other still holding mine. I rested my free hand on his shoulder, feeling the solid muscle beneath the suit jacket. We started to move, simple steps, nothing flashy. But the closeness made everything feel magnified: the heat of his body, the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his thumb traced the smallest circle against my waist.
Neither of us spoke at first. We just danced. And for once, the silence didn't feel like avoidance. It felt like permission.
After a minute, he leaned in slightly, his voice low near my ear. "You're tense."
"I'm dancing with my boss at the company party," I whispered back. "Of course I'm tense."
"Is that all it is?" His breath brushed my temple.
I tilted my head just enough to meet his eyes. They were darker now, pupils wide in the low light. "You tell me."
His grip on my waist tightened, barely, but enough. "I've been trying not to."
The confession landed like a spark on dry grass. My breath caught. "Trying not to what?"
"Cross lines," he said. "Think about you the way I do. Want things I shouldn't."
My mouth went dry. "And how do you think about me?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he guided us through a slow turn, bringing us closer until my chest brushed his. When we faced each other again, his expression had softened into something almost vulnerable.
"Too much," he admitted. "Every day. Every time you walk into my office. Every time you say my name the way you do, like you're not sure whether to run or stay."
I felt dizzy, like the floor had tilted. "I usually want to do both."
A quiet laugh escaped him... rare, rough, beautiful. "Same."
The song drifted into another, even slower. Around us, the party carried on, oblivious. But here, in this small circle of space, the air felt thick with everything we'd held back for months.
He stopped moving, though his hand stayed at my waist. "Elena."
The way he said my name, low, rough, made my knees weak.
I looked up at him. "Yes?"
"If I asked you to leave with me right now… would you?"
My heart stuttered. This wasn't a casual question. This was a door cracking open, one we'd both been circling for too long.
I didn't look away. "Yes."
Something fierce flashed in his eyes... relief, hunger, a trace of fear. Then he nodded once, decisive.
He released my waist but kept my hand in his. "Then let's go."
We didn't rush. We walked off the dance floor like nothing had changed, like we weren't crossing a line that might never let us step back. A few curious glances followed us, but no one stopped us. No one dared.
Outside, the night air hit cool against my flushed skin. The car waited at the curb, the same black sedan from earlier. Damian opened the door for me, then slid in beside me.
As the driver pulled away, he turned to me in the dark interior. No words at first—just his hand finding mine again, fingers threading through mine.
This time, he didn't let go.
And neither did I.