By the time she arrived at Mack's loft, dusk had painted the skyline in deep purples and molten oranges. His place sat high above the noise, all glass and steel, and the faint scent of rosemary and seared meat filled the air.
Mack greeted her at the door with rolled sleeves, a towel over his shoulder, and bare forearms that looked like they could break the stone.
"You cooked?"
"I threatened the steak until it surrendered," he said.
She laughed despite herself.
He stepped back to let her in. "Wine?"
"Sure. Surprise me."
As she wandered toward the kitchen, she saw a side of him that wasn't always visible in the chaos—focused, calm, meticulous.
And then he looked up.
"You wear that to distract me?" he asked, eyes drifting down to her silky black top and jeans that clung in all the right places.
"Maybe," she said, chin lifted.
"Dangerous game," he murmured, pouring the wine. The first bite of steak made her groan—soft and involuntary.
Mack didn't miss it.
He sat across from her, a glass of red wine untouched, watching like he was cataloguing every flicker of her expression. The man was impossible. He looked like a five-star chef, looked like a sin in human form, and had the nerve to be quiet about it.
"You're not eating," she said, gesturing with her fork.
"I am," he replied, gaze steady on her. "Just not the food."
She stilled. The air pulsed between them.
Viola leaned back, setting her wine down. "You always this intense, or is it just when you're trying to mess with me?"
"I'm not trying," he said. "I already am."
That earned a reluctant smile from her—but it faded just as fast. "You know this isn't smart, right?"
Mack tilted his head. "Smart isn't my game."
"Clearly."
He leaned forward. "But I am patient. And you… you're trying so hard not to let anyone see how badly you want to be reckless."
She blinked.
"That's not fair," she whispered.
"It's true, though."
His voice was calm—low and raw like thunder still miles away but closing in fast.
"I know what it's like," he continued, "to lose something. To want something and not trust yourself enough to take it. But I'm not going to push you, Vi. I'll just keep being here. Steady. Real. Until you're ready."
She stared at him, jaw tight. Her heart was doing that annoying thing again—thudding with hope and dread.
"You say things like that," she said, voice shaking a little, "and then you sit there like you're not dangerous."
Mack gave a slow, crooked smile. "I'm dangerous to people who lie. People who play. Not to you."
"You don't even know me."
"I know enough," he said, eyes locked on hers. "I know your eyes give away every thought you're too scared to say. I know you look at the world like it already disappointed you—but you still show up. You still write. You still hope."
She looked away, blinking fast.
"I know that whatever happened to you," he said softly, "it didn't kill the part of you that's worth protecting."
The silence between them swelled.
Then—quietly, so quietly it felt like a secret she was handing over—Viola whispered, "It wasn't just heartbreak, Mack. It was a betrayal. And being with someone like you, someone I could want… it makes it harder."
Mack stood.
Not fast. Not threatening. Just deliberate.
He walked around the table and stopped beside her, his hand brushing the back of her neck.
"Then let's make it easier," he murmured. "Let's just exist. Just for tonight. No pressure. No future talk. Just this moment."
Viola looked up at him. Her breath caught. Her skin tingled where he touched her.
"I don't trust easily," she said.
"You don't have to," he replied, fingers gently stroking the side of her throat. "Just feel. I'll do the rest." She closed her eyes.
And in that moment, she wasn't a broken woman sitting in a stranger's apartment. She was heat, ache, and need—wrapped in the attention of a man who saw her.
She stood slowly, placing her hand on his chest.
"Just tonight," she whispered.
Mack dipped his head, brushing his mouth near her ear. "That's all I need."
She wasn't sure who moved first—maybe it was both of them at once. One step and she was in his arms. Not pulled, not forced—just there, like gravity made a decision and her body obeyed.
Mack's hand slid along the curve of her waist, up the line of her back, fingers tangling briefly in the soft ends of her hair.
His breath was warm on her neck when he whispered, "You smell like cinnamon and books. You know that?"
She laughed—soft and breathless. "And you smell like trouble."
"Only the kind you want."
He kissed her collarbone, not rushed, but reverent. Her skin bloomed heat under his mouth. Her fingers clenched his shirt.
He pulled back just enough to look at her. His eyes were molten—dark and full of want, but patient. That restraint made her knees weak. It made her want to shatter it.
"You're holding back," she whispered.
"So are you."
His hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing just below her bottom lip. "But if I kiss you now, there's no turning this off. You sure?"
Her answer was a heartbeat and a whisper. "Yes."
Their lips met—finally—and it was fire.
Not soft.
Not sweet.
Hungry.
She gasped against his mouth and he swallowed it, deepening the kiss, one hand gripping her hip as if he needed her tethered to this moment. Her hands threaded into his hair, nails grazing his scalp, and a groan escaped him low in his chest.
The kind of sound that wrecked logic.
He pressed her gently but firmly against the wall, the cool surface a stark contrast to the heat curling low in her belly.
Every place he touched her lit up—her back, her ribs, the side of her neck. Like he was mapping her slowly, reverently, and yet it was clear he wanted to devour her.
She broke the kiss, breathing hard, lips tingling.
"Still just tonight?" he asked, voice raw.
Her hand slid under his shirt, tracing the ridges of his stomach. "Don't ask me that while I can still feel your heartbeat."
He smiled—crooked, devastating. "You'll feel more than that before the night's over."
Viola exhaled a laugh that sounded a lot like surrender.
"I'm not scared of you, Mack," she said.
"You should be," he murmured, brushing his nose against hers. "Because when I'm done with you, every other man will feel like a paper cut compared to the way I'll ruin you."
Her breath caught again—and this time, she didn't pull away.
She leaned in.
Mouth to mouth, chest to chest, like they'd waited lifetimes for this unravelling. . . . . . She turned slowly.
And he was already watching her.
No grin now. Just that gaze, dark and focused, as he could see through the layers she wore—clothing and otherwise.
Mack didn't lunge. He didn't pounce.
He approached like a man used to restraint, used to patience—but now finally, finally, letting himself feel.
He reached for her face, gently tilting her chin up. "Still sure?"
She nodded.
"I need to hear it," he whispered.
"Yes," she breathed. "I want this."
That was all he needed.
His mouth met hers with a kind of reverence that made her tremble. Each kiss deepened slowly like he wanted to taste her thoughts. His hands framed her hips, then slid around to her back, drawing her flush against his body. The heat between them surged.
Viola pulled his shirt over his head, fingers grazing his bare chest, mapping the lines of strength she'd only seen in glimpses. He helped her out of her top, but it wasn't rushed—he touched her like she was fragile and fire at once. His mouth found her neck, her shoulder, tasting her skin, drawing out gasps that made his hands shake. . . . .