POV – Elena Dorne
I couldn't focus on anything.
The hours dragged like silk over fire — slow, deliberate, dangerous.
Since James's message that morning, "I was hoping you'd say that," I had replayed every word, every punctuation mark, every imagined tone of his voice. My chest still fluttered each time I saw his name on the screen.
I had spent the day trying to distract myself — laundry, coffee, half-hearted attempts at reading — but nothing worked. My body was restless, my mind consumed. Every movement reminded me of him. His hands, his eyes, that low voice that wrapped around me like a secret.
By late afternoon, the sun had started to dip behind the buildings, bleeding gold into my living room. I stood by the window, the city humming softly below, and for a moment I let myself imagine him here — tall, composed, leaning against my counter, that quiet intensity in his gaze that made my knees weak.
The thought sent a tremor through me.
I wanted him.
There was no use denying it anymore.
When my phone vibrated again, I froze.
A new message.
James:
"Are you free tonight?"
My breath caught. I typed and erased, typed again. My fingers trembled.
Don't sound desperate. Don't sound too eager.
Me:
"I think so… why?"
Seconds. Just seconds — and his reply came, as if he'd been waiting.
James:
"Because I can't stop thinking about you. Dinner was supposed to be enough, but it wasn't."
My knees almost gave out. I sank onto the sofa, heart hammering, fingers pressed to my lips. Every rational boundary I had tried to build between us was crumbling.
Me:
"Where?"
James:
"I'll pick you up. Seven."
There was no hesitation in his tone — even through text, he commanded the moment, leaving me breathless. I stared at the screen, pulse racing, then set the phone down and whispered to the empty apartment,
"Oh my God."
I spent the next two hours in a daze of motion. A shower that lasted too long. Steam fogging the mirror as my mind spiraled through every touch, every look, every word he'd said the night before. My skin prickled as I remembered the kiss at the door — the taste of him, the warmth that had sunk into me like a drug.
When I finally stood before my closet, nothing felt right.
I didn't want to look too much, but I also didn't want to look casual.
In the end, I chose a fitted black dress — elegant but simple — that traced my shape without shouting for attention. A touch of gold jewelry, soft waves in my hair again, perfume behind my ears and wrists. My reflection looked composed. My pulse said otherwise.
By the time the clock struck seven, I was trembling.
The buzz of my intercom jolted me, and I nearly dropped my clutch.
"Elena?" His voice — smooth, deep, familiar — echoed through the speaker.
I pressed the button, my breath shaky. "I'll be right down."
And as I descended the stairs, every step felt like surrender.
When I stepped outside, the sight of him waiting by the car stopped me cold.
Dark shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, the faintest hint of stubble, eyes that caught me immediately.
He looked devastating. And mine — in some quiet, terrifying way — felt like he already was.
"Hi," I breathed.
"Hi," he murmured back, eyes tracing over me slowly, reverently. "You look… unbelievable."
Heat surged to my cheeks. "You're not so bad yourself."
He smiled, small and knowing, and for a heartbeat, the world around us vanished. There was only that look — that impossible, electric tension humming between us like a living thing.
When he opened the car door, our hands brushed — barely a touch — and I felt it.
That spark.
The one that made my pulse skip, my breath hitch, and my thoughts scatter into nothing.
The car door closed behind me with a soft click, and for a moment the world went still.
It was just us — the quiet hum of the engine, the faint scent of his cologne, the soft rhythm of rain beginning to fall against the windshield.
James glanced at me as he shifted into drive, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "You look beautiful tonight."
My pulse skipped. Again with that voice.
"Thank you," I managed, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "You're… rather unfairly put together yourself."
His laugh was low, warm — and it seemed to settle somewhere deep in my chest.
We pulled away from the curb, city lights melting into streaks of gold and silver as the streets thinned. Conversation came easily, even if my thoughts didn't.
We talked about trivial things — music, a book he'd been reading, the chaos of London traffic — but beneath it all, there was that something.
That pull.
That invisible thread that tightened every time our voices softened or our eyes met longer than they should have.
As we left the heart of the city, the landscape began to change — buildings giving way to wide roads lined with trees. The air grew quieter, heavier somehow, and when I glanced out the window, the darkness of the countryside had replaced the neon.
"Where are we going?" I asked, unable to hide the curious tremor in my voice.
He smiled — that quiet, confident smile that both calmed and unbalanced me. "Somewhere quieter. I thought you might like it."
Somewhere quieter.
It sounded innocent. It wasn't.
Every heartbeat reminded me how not innocent tonight felt.
When we finally turned down a long, winding drive, my breath caught.
The house appeared like a dream — all glass and stone, warm light spilling from wide windows into the night. It was surrounded by trees, by open space, the kind of silence that felt alive.
He stopped the car and looked at me, eyes soft. "I hope you don't mind. I thought it might be nice to cook for you instead."
My heart did something strange — a flip, a flutter, something deep and tender that I couldn't control.
"No one's ever said that to me before," I admitted, my voice barely above a whisper.
He tilted his head slightly, gaze steady. "Then I'm honored to be the first."
Inside, the house was breathtaking — elegant but lived-in, wood and stone and glass blending perfectly. The faint scent of cedar hung in the air, and somewhere deeper within, the warmth of a fire flickered.
"This place is…" I started, struggling for words. "It's beautiful."
"It's home," he said simply, leading me toward the kitchen. "And tonight, it's yours too."
Something in his tone made me glance up sharply.
There was affection there, but also gravity — something I couldn't name.
He moved easily around the kitchen, sleeves rolled, hands sure as he poured two glasses of wine and stirred something simmering on the stove.
I watched him — the quiet grace in every movement, the ease of someone utterly in control and yet, somehow, deeply at peace.
"Do you do this often?" I asked.
He smiled without looking up. "Invite people over for dinner? Not really. You're the exception."
The words shouldn't have made my heart race like they did.
And yet, they did.
I sipped my wine, warmth spreading through me. The sound of the rain outside grew steadier, a soft percussion against the windows. The firelight flickered across his face as he turned toward me, and I swore something shifted in the air.
The smell of rosemary, lemon, and something darker — something I couldn't place — filled the room.
And then, for a moment, I felt it again.
That strange pulse beneath my skin.
It wasn't fear. It wasn't exactly excitement either.
It was… alive.
Like the air had shape and texture, like the space between us was vibrating, whispering something I couldn't hear but could somehow feel.
I blinked, trying to steady myself. "Do you… feel that?"
He looked up, brow furrowing just slightly. "Feel what?"
I hesitated. What was I supposed to say?
"That the air feels alive when you're near me?"
"That my skin feels like it's remembering something I never knew?"
I shook my head quickly, laughing softly. "Nothing. Maybe it's just the wine."
He didn't press. But his eyes…
God, his eyes said he knew exactly what I meant.
Dinner was simple — grilled salmon, vegetables, and fresh bread — but it felt like a feast. Every bite tasted better because of the quiet between us, the unspoken tension, the way our laughter seemed softer in this space, shared and secret.
At one point, our hands brushed as we both reached for the same bottle.
A spark — sharp, real — shot through me, and I froze.
He looked at me.
Really looked.
And suddenly, it was as if the whole world had narrowed to that single moment.
My breath caught. The pulse at my wrist quickened.
His gaze dropped — briefly — to my lips, then back up to my eyes, and the silence between us deepened.
I looked away first, pretending to focus on the wine.
But the truth was, I was terrified — not of him, but of myself.
Of how much I wanted to be near him.
Of how right it felt.
And beneath all of that — beneath the warmth, the laughter, the flutter of something new — was a rhythm older than anything I'd ever known.
Something was waking up inside me.
And I didn't even know its name