POV – Elena
The world outside the window was all rain and shadow.
Here, in the quiet warmth of his bed, everything else faded — every sound, every fear, every thought that wasn't him.
James lay beside me, his body close enough that I could feel the steady rhythm of his heartbeat through the thin space between us. His arm was draped around my waist, firm but gentle, as if he were holding something fragile. His breath brushed the back of my neck in slow, even waves, and each exhale seemed to draw me further into calm.
I'd never known silence could feel so alive.
For a long moment I just stared ahead, my heart still racing from everything that had happened, trying to believe that I was here — that this was real. His hand shifted slightly, his thumb tracing absent patterns against my hip, and the smallest sigh escaped my lips. It wasn't desire now — not the wild kind — it was peace. The kind that felt like coming home after years of wandering without knowing you were lost.
"Are you comfortable?" he whispered, his voice husky with exhaustion and something softer — affection, maybe.
I turned to face him. The low light caught his face, painting gold across his cheekbones, his mouth. He looked younger like this, more human, stripped of the weight he carried when the world was watching.
"I am," I said quietly. "More than I can ever remember being."
His lips curved faintly, and he pulled me closer until there was no distance left between us. My head rested against his chest, and I felt his heartbeat beneath my ear — strong, sure, constant. It lulled me, a rhythm older than thought.
He held me like he was afraid I might disappear if he let go.
And maybe I would have, if he hadn't.
I closed my eyes and let myself breathe him in — the scent of cedar, smoke, and something I couldn't quite name, something wild and grounding at once. My whole body seemed to recognize it, even if my mind didn't.
I felt his fingers tighten slightly at my side, then relax again, a protective instinct even in rest. And when he whispered my name — barely audible, almost a prayer — my heart clenched with a strange ache.
"I'm here," I whispered back, even though I wasn't sure if he could hear me anymore.
The warmth of his body wrapped around me like a promise.
For the first time in longer than I could remember, I didn't feel alone.
And as sleep began to pull me under, I thought — with a certainty that scared me —
If this is what love feels like, I don't ever want to wake up.
The first thing I felt was warmth.
The second was him.
James was still beside me, one arm heavy around my waist, his breathing slow, even — a quiet melody against the hush of morning. For a few seconds, I stayed still, eyes half-closed, just listening. The soft rhythm of his heart. The faint pull of air between his lips. The weight of peace I hadn't known I needed.
Then it hit me.
It's Monday.
The thought cut through the haze like cold air. Monday. Work. Work. My stomach flipped.
I shifted carefully, turning my head just enough to see the pale light spilling through the curtains. The storm had passed, leaving the sky washed clean, and in that calm brightness, everything from last night felt unreal — a dream made of firelight and heartbeat.
But it wasn't a dream.
James Ashford — my boss, my impossibly perfect, maddening, gentle boss — was lying right next to me.
My breath caught. How was I supposed to walk into the office and look at him across a meeting table like nothing had happened? How could I act normal when every part of me still remembered the feel of his hands, the way his voice had softened when he'd said my name?
I was staring at the ceiling when I felt him stir beside me. His arm tightened instinctively before loosening, and a sleepy, contented hum escaped him. Then he opened his eyes.
And smiled.
"Good morning," he murmured, his voice rough from sleep — the kind of sound that felt like a caress.
"Morning," I whispered back, suddenly self-conscious, my cheeks heating.
He shifted, propping himself on one elbow, the sheet falling just enough for sunlight to catch on his skin. There was a softness in his expression that made my chest ache — like he couldn't quite believe I was there.
For a moment, neither of us said anything. Then he leaned down and kissed me — slow, unhurried, a good-morning that felt more like a promise.
When he pulled back, I was breathless again. "You really shouldn't do that," I managed, my voice a whisper.
He smiled faintly. "Probably not. But I can't seem to help it."
I laughed quietly, nerves tangled with something sweeter. "We have work today."
"I know," he said. "Unfortunately."
That word — unfortunately — made my heart flutter in a way I didn't want to admit.
We eventually sat up, the weight of reality slowly settling around us. He offered me his hand, and when I took it, he pressed a light kiss to my fingers before letting go. "You can shower first," he said softly. "I'll find you a spare toothbrush."
The way he said it — so casual, so kind — made something twist warmly inside me.
When I came back, wrapped in one of his towels and smelling faintly of his soap, there was a toothbrush waiting by the sink, still in its box, and a cup of coffee steaming on the counter. My heart stuttered.
He'd thought of everything.
Back in the bedroom, he was dressed already — crisp shirt, rolled sleeves, that effortless composure that made him look every bit the CEO again. And suddenly, the nerves hit all over again.
My clothes from yesterday were neat enough for work, so I dressed quietly while he sipped his coffee, pretending to check his phone. But every so often, I caught his gaze lingering — soft, unguarded, completely disarming.
When I finally turned toward him, bag in hand, he smiled. "You look perfect," he said simply.
I bit my lip, shaking my head. "Don't say things like that. I'll never make it through the day."
He chuckled, crossing the space between us in two steps. His hand brushed my arm, gentle. "We'll manage, Elena. Somehow."
He was buttoning the cuff of his shirt when I finally found the courage to speak.
"James…" My voice was soft, hesitant. "About today."
He looked up instantly, that calm, attentive gaze finding mine. "What about today?"
I hesitated, twisting the strap of my bag between my fingers. "It's just—" I stopped, exhaling slowly. "What are people going to think if we show up together? I mean… you're you," I said with a small, nervous laugh, "and I'm just—me."
His brow softened. "You're you, Elena. And that's exactly who I want to be with."
I felt the blush creep up my neck. "You know that's not what I meant," I murmured, eyes dropping to the floor. "They'll think I'm… sleeping with my boss to get ahead. That I'm one of those women."
The last words came out quieter than I meant, edged with the old self-doubt I hated so much.
James crossed the room and stopped right in front of me. His presence was steady, grounding, like the world had narrowed down to the sound of his heartbeat. He reached out and lifted my chin gently until I was looking at him.
"Elena," he said softly, but there was steel beneath it. "You've earned everything you are. Your work, your position, the respect people have for you — that's yours. Nothing about us changes that."
I swallowed hard, my throat tight. "But people talk."
"They always will," he replied simply. "But I don't care what they say. Not when I know the truth."
He brushed his thumb across my jaw, his touch light but reassuring. "And I won't let anyone treat you differently. Not for a second. You have my word."
I wanted to believe him. God, I did. But years of careful boundaries and professionalism didn't vanish overnight. "It's just… hard," I whispered. "Pretending like nothing's changed when everything has."
A faint smile touched his lips. "Then we won't pretend. We'll just… be careful."
He stepped back just enough to grab his keys from the dresser. "Come on. I'll drive you in."
"Oh no," I said quickly, shaking my head. "That'll make it worse. If anyone sees us arriving together—"
"Elena," he interrupted gently, his tone patient, a smile flickering at the corner of his mouth, "do you really think anyone will notice what car you get out of at eight-thirty on a Monday?"
I glared at him playfully. "You underestimate the office gossip network."
He laughed — a deep, genuine sound that melted some of the tension in my chest. "Then we'll be discreet," he said, leaning closer until his voice dropped. "You go in first. I'll park somewhere else. No one will know."
I hesitated, still uncertain. He must have seen it, because his expression softened again. "Elena, listen to me."
His voice was calm, steady, the same tone he used when he wanted the room to listen. "You don't have to be afraid. You've done nothing wrong. What's between us… is real. It's not a secret out of shame — just out of care."
Something about the way he said it — quiet, certain — made the knot in my stomach begin to ease.
"Okay," I breathed finally.
He smiled, relief flickering behind his eyes. "Good." Then, lighter, teasing: "Now come on. You can't exactly walk from here."
I laughed in spite of myself, shaking my head as I followed him to the door. "You really don't take no for an answer, do you?"
He held the door open, the faintest grin tugging at his lips. "Not when it comes to making sure you get to work safely."
As we stepped out into the bright, rain-washed morning, he reached for my hand — just for a second — and gave it a quick, reassuring squeeze before letting go.
That single touch was enough to steady everything.
Maybe the world would talk. Maybe the lines would blur.
But as he smiled at me beside the car, I realized something simple and terrifying:
I trusted him completely.