The tower was a hollow cathedral at night.
Twenty-four hours had passed since twilight cracked her armor, but Lunox had not allowed herself the mercy of rest. AtherTower stood silent now, floors emptied, elevators asleep. Only the CEO's office still glowed, a lone flame against the dark.
Lunox sat at her desk, posture flawless, though her body hummed with fatigue. The city sprawled behind her in a haze of lights, rain misting faintly against the glass. Her blouse — white satin, sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow — shimmered in the lamplight. The black pencil skirt traced sharp lines against the chair. She had undone the pins in her bun, letting dark hair fall in loose waves over her shoulders, a concession not to comfort, but inevitability.
The desk was littered with papers and glowing screens, contracts waiting for her signature. She held a pen but had stopped writing minutes ago, her eyes tracing the same sentence over and over without seeing it.
The door opened. No knock.
Orion stepped in, steady as the storm that always seemed to follow him. He carried a slim folder under one arm, his dark vest fitted over a crisp white shirt. The tie was gone, sleeves rolled high, veins and tendons stark beneath the lamplight. His silver eyes caught hers instantly, unblinking.
"You're still here," he said softly, the words echoing the night before.
Her pen scratched against the page once more, as if to prove him wrong. "So are you."
He crossed the office, each step measured, deliberate, until the shadows shifted to let him stand at the edge of her desk. He set the folder down, sliding it across the polished wood.
"Final projections," he said. "If you sign tonight, Helios delivers ahead of schedule."
She didn't reach for it. Her eyes lifted instead, obsidian and sharp, though her heart betrayed her steadiness. "And you decided this couldn't wait until morning?"
His lips curved faintly. "Neither of us waits well."
The silence thickened. The hum of the city outside. The slow drip of rain on glass.
She leaned back slightly in her chair, gaze locked on him. He stood without hurry, as though time bent in this room, as though the world outside could be kept at bay with nothing but presence.
Her chest tightened. She hated the way it steadied her. She hated more the way it didn't feel like weakness.
"Sit," she said finally, her tone sharp — an order more than invitation.
For once, Orion obeyed. He pulled the chair beside her desk, dragging it closer than necessary. The scrape of it against the carpet sounded louder than it should have. He sat, one elbow resting casually against the wood, his silver gaze never leaving her.
Their shoulders brushed when she finally reached for the folder.
Neither moved away.
The papers inside were crisp, marked with his notes — neat handwriting, sharp calculations. She read each line carefully, though she could feel the heat of him at her side, the faint brush of his breath when he leaned in to point at a clause.
"Margin shifts here," he murmured, voice low, close. His finger slid across the page, steady, precise.
Her hand followed, almost instinctively, fingers grazing his.
A spark. Not imagined. Not deniable.
Her eyes lifted, locking on his, too close now.
The pen slipped from her fingers, rolling silently across the desk and the pen rolled to the edge of the desk, teetered, then dropped soundlessly onto the carpet.
Neither of them moved to pick it up.
Lunox's hand hovered over the folder, her fingers brushing faintly against Orion's where he had left his mark on the page. His skin was warm, steady, grounded, and for a moment she hated how much steadiness she borrowed from that touch.
She drew in a breath — sharp, quiet — and pulled her hand back, reaching instead for another pen. This one didn't feel like hers; it felt like armor hastily reforged.
"Clause nine," she said, voice clipped, eyes fixed on the paper. "Your adjustment increases risk exposure."
Orion leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers as his finger traced the line she pointed to. His voice was calm, measured, low enough to stir the air between them. "Exposure, yes. But controlled. Without risk, profit bleeds slower. You know this."
Her jaw clenched. "I know you speak too confidently for someone still on trial."
He didn't flinch. His lips curved slightly, the kind of smile that wasn't triumph but inevitability. "Maybe the trial isn't mine."
The words landed heavier than she wanted them to. Her hand trembled just slightly, the pen tip leaving a faint streak across the margin. She set it down too fast, forcing her palm flat against the desk as though to anchor herself.
His arm brushed hers again, not deliberate, not careless. Proximity was a weapon here, subtle and undeniable.
Her chest rose quicker. She could smell him — clean linen, faint trace of smoke, rain lingering in his hair. A scent that didn't belong to her but now clung to the moment like truth.
She reached for another page. Their fingers collided. Again.
Her eyes snapped up. Silver met obsidian, steady, unyielding.
The air thickened. The contract between them became irrelevant. The city beyond the glass blurred into streaks of neon and rain.
Why does my pulse race when he looks at me like that?
She tried to pull back, but his hand shifted, holding the page firm beneath her fingers. Their skin grazed again, heat sparking up her arm.
"You're shaking," he murmured, voice so low it almost didn't exist.
Her throat tightened. She lifted her chin, frost coating her words. "You're imagining things."
But the crack was there. She could feel it in her breath, shallow and uneven, in the way her body leaned infinitesimally toward his instead of away.
The documents blurred under her gaze. What she saw instead was his reflection in the glass — taller, closer, shoulders brushing hers like fate closing in.
And when he finally leaned a fraction nearer, his words slipped against her skin like the whisper of thunder.
"Maybe ice doesn't just crack," he said. "Maybe it melts."
Her breath caught.
The second pen slipped from her hand, clattering softly against polished wood before rolling to join the first on the carpet.
Silence swallowed the office.
Neither bent to retrieve it.
Instead, Lunox's hand stilled on the folder, her palm flat against the paper as if it were the only barrier left. Orion's fingers rested on the same sheet, not pressing, not pulling away, simply there — anchoring her, challenging her. Their shoulders brushed again, this time deliberate, heavier.
Her breath hitched.
The city beyond the glass glowed like a sea of fireflies, towers blinking awake against the night. Rain streaked down in silver rivulets, painting the skyline into shifting light. Their reflection gleamed in the glass — two figures drawn too close, shadows bleeding into one.
She told herself to move. To shift back. To reforge the mask that had kept her untouchable for years.
But her body betrayed her.
Her chin tilted, eyes catching his. Silver met obsidian — storm locking on ice, unyielding, inevitable.
The air thickened between them, hot despite the cool breath of the vent above. She could feel the warmth of him radiating, the faint brush of his sleeve against her arm, the nearness of his voice even when he hadn't spoken yet.
Her lips parted without her permission, a sharp breath escaping.
Orion leaned in, slow, deliberate, his hand sliding the folder aside as though business no longer belonged in this moment. His shadow merged with hers on the glass, reflections locking them into intimacy the world couldn't see.
Their foreheads nearly touched. His breath brushed her cheek, steady, grounding.
"Still too close?" he asked softly, voice rough silk.
Her pulse hammered, treacherous. Her mouth opened, but the word that slipped free wasn't the one she'd intended.
"...Closer."
The single syllable cracked the air.
He moved — slow, certain — leaning in until his lips hovered a breath from hers. Her eyes fluttered shut, her hand twitching against the desk before sliding upward, fingertips brushing faintly against his sleeve, then his arm. She could feel the heat of him, steady and unrelenting.
The world outside blurred further. Towers vanished into streaks of light and rain. Inside, there was only breath, only heartbeat, only the inevitability of collision.
Her lips parted further. His tilted lower.
Almost.
Their lips hovered, a whisper apart.
Time folded in on itself. The storm outside ceased to matter, the hum of the city fell away. There was only the heat radiating between them, the shuddering breath that escaped her lips, the steady exhale of his.
Orion's hand shifted, slow, deliberate. His fingers brushed against hers on the desk, then slid higher, grazing her wrist — not forceful, but claiming. Her skin prickled at the contact, fire chasing every nerve.
Lunox didn't move back. She couldn't. Her body betrayed her discipline, leaning infinitesimally closer.
Her eyes fluttered closed.
Just one inch. Just one moment.
The reflection in the glass betrayed everything — two shadows merged, two mouths about to collide, storm and ice meeting at last.
Orion tilted that final fraction, his lips brushing hers with the barest ghost of contact—
The door burst open.
"Overtime?"
Freya's voice spilled into the room, warm and amused, cutting the silence like sunlight.
Lunox snapped back a fraction of a second too fast, the glass cold against her spine. Her breath caught sharp, chest heaving as she forced herself upright, palms flattening against the desk. Her mask scrambled back into place, though the flush at her throat betrayed her.
Orion straightened slowly, unhurried, his silver eyes flicking once toward the doorway before settling back on Lunox. The faintest curve traced his mouth — not embarrassment, not surprise. Something more dangerous.
Freya leaned against the doorframe, crimson dress replaced by something looser tonight — a soft cashmere sweater over silk trousers, hair cascading like gold fire. Casual, effortless, and still commanding all eyes. She twirled her phone in her hand, grin tugging her lips.
"Well, well," she said, her tone a playful blade. "Paperwork never looked this… passionate."
Lunox's jaw tightened. "Don't you knock?"
Freya shrugged, sauntering in, perfume trailing smoke and sweetness. "Why bother? Secrets don't last long here anyway."
Her eyes flicked between them, reading too much, enjoying every flicker of tension she uncovered. She tilted her head, smirk widening. "Careful, sister. Fire burns. And storms? They tend to linger."
Orion didn't answer. He simply reached for the folder he'd set aside earlier, sliding it closed with deliberate calm. His gaze lingered on Lunox one last time — silver steady, unreadable — before he turned toward Freya with the faintest hint of a smile.
The interruption was complete.
But the spark had already been lit, and nothing could unmake the heat still humming in the air.
Lunox's hand clenched at her side, nails pressing into her palm. Her reflection in the glass betrayed her again: lips parted, eyes wide, armor cracked.
Almost.
And it was worse than either victory or defeat.
The door clicked shut behind Freya, sealing them into the same air. She didn't rush. She moved with the slow, deliberate sway of someone who knew every eye belonged to her — even here, even now. The soft sweater she wore slipped off one shoulder, golden hair catching the lamplight as she crossed the carpet.
She perched casually on the edge of the desk, right between Lunox and Orion, her legs crossing with practiced ease. The folder shifted under her weight, but she ignored it. Her gaze flicked to Lunox first, playful and sharp.
"Relax, sister," Freya said, voice low, teasing. "It's only overtime."
Lunox's lips pressed into a thin line. Her heartbeat hadn't steadied; it thundered, loud enough that she hated herself for it. She straightened her spine, forcing her expression into frost. "You're in the wrong room."
"Am I?" Freya tilted her head, lashes dipping. "Or am I exactly where I need to be?"
Orion's silver eyes traced the exchange like a storm studying fire. He didn't interrupt. He didn't move. He just leaned slightly back in his chair, forearms resting on the arms, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at his mouth.
The silence after Freya's words stretched, taut and unyielding.
Lunox broke it first, gathering her scattered papers with quick, precise movements. The sharp shuffle of paper against wood betrayed her agitation. "If you came here to waste time, don't."
Freya chuckled, leaning back on her hands, casual as a flame dancing in its own chaos. "I came to check on you. Imagine my surprise when I found… this." Her eyes flicked meaningfully toward Orion, then back to Lunox, the grin widening. "Our Ice Queen thawing."
The words sliced deeper than Lunox wanted to admit. Her grip tightened on the papers, edges biting into her palms.
"I don't thaw," she said, voice steel.
"Mm." Freya's hum was light, taunting. "Maybe not for me."
The air crackled.
Lunox couldn't bear another second under both their gazes — one golden with mischief, the other silver with unreadable weight. She rose abruptly, the chair rolling back against the carpet. "I'm done here."
Her heels struck sharp against the floor as she strode toward the door, papers clutched too tightly. She didn't look back. Couldn't.
The door closed behind her, leaving silence in her wake.
Freya turned her head slowly toward Orion, lips curving. "You don't scare easily, do you?"
Orion's smile deepened, faint but deliberate. He leaned forward now, silver gaze locking onto her. "Storms don't run from fire."
Freya's laugh filled the office, bright, reckless, echoing against glass and steel.
And somewhere beyond the door, Lunox's chest burned, though she told herself it was only from anger.
But the reflection in her mind still lingered — lips parted, eyes wide, almost his.