I told myself it would be business.
That was the point of the email—short, direct, detached. A meeting, nothing more. I needed her here to go over contracts and schedules, not to sit across from me and tear apart every bit of control I had left.
And yet, when the knock came on my office door and Lyra stepped inside, I knew I'd been lying to myself.
She wore confidence like armor, her posture straight, chin lifted. But her eyes—those betrayed her. Wide, flickering with nerves she tried to hide. And damn if she didn't look… untouchable, standing there with that fire in her gaze.
"Good morning," she said softly, her voice steadier than I expected.
"Morning," I answered, though my throat felt tight.
I gestured to the chair across from me, keeping my movements measured, controlled. She sat, smoothing her skirt, her hands clasped in her lap as though to anchor herself. I opened the file in front of me, determined to bury myself in numbers and contracts.
But the silence stretched.
She shifted, just barely, and when her eyes met mine, the air between us tightened. I shouldn't have looked up. I shouldn't have let myself hold her gaze for more than a second.
Because in that second, everything I'd been holding back surged forward. The memory of the way she laughed with Elijah. The fire in her when she argued. The softness she tried to hide. The nights I'd replayed in my head, alone, too many times to count.
I snapped the file shut. Too harsh. Too loud. Her eyes widened.
"Kairo?"
I stood before I could stop myself, circling the desk. My steps felt heavier than they should, each one pushing me closer to a line I knew I shouldn't cross.
"This was a mistake," I muttered.
She blinked. "What?"
"Having you here. Working with me. Pretending I can sit across from you and—" My voice broke off, rough and unfinished.
Her breath hitched, the sound sharp in the quiet. "And what?"
I stopped in front of her. Close enough to catch the faint scent of her perfume, close enough that I had to clench my fists at my sides to keep from reaching out.
"And not want you," I said, finally giving voice to what had been tearing me apart for months.
The words hung between us, heavy and dangerous.
Her lips parted, but no sound came. Her cheeks flushed, and I swore my heart stuttered.
I didn't touch her—not yet. But the moment stretched, fragile and electric, and I knew one wrong move would shatter every wall we'd built.
And for the first time in a long time, I wanted them to shatter.