The night was heavy, saturated with the scent of rain and stone. The estate was quiet, the kind of silence that pressed against your chest and made breathing feel like a choice.
Elena stood by the window in her room, hands wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold. The storm outside mirrored the storm inside her—desire, fear, defiance, longing—all tangled together in a way she couldn't untangle.
Luca appeared in the doorway, as if summoned by her thoughts. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence alone filled the room.
"You're thinking of him," she said suddenly. But she wasn't thinking of another man. She meant him.
Luca's brow quirked. "And what exactly am I thinking of?"
She hesitated. The words wanted to form but refused. Desire and pride warred inside her. She couldn't say it. She wouldn't say it—not yet.
"You," she whispered finally, almost inaudible. "And yet…" She trailed off, knowing her restraint wouldn't hold forever.
He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, closing the space but not touching her. His eyes held hers, sharp, intense, exposing more than he said.
"You want to say it," he murmured. "Don't you?"
Elena's pulse quickened. She opened her mouth, but the words jammed in her throat. She shook her head, trying to retreat behind the shield of denial. "No," she said firmly, though the heat in her chest betrayed her.
"Almost," he said softly, his voice low, a mixture of amusement and something deeper—something dangerous. "I feel it. Every glance, every hesitation. You're almost ready to admit it."
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. "I'm not ready," she said, voice trembling slightly despite her efforts.
He studied her, silence stretching between them. Then, as if giving her a gift of honesty she hadn't asked for, he spoke again:
"I'm almost ready too," he confessed quietly, almost a whisper. "Almost ready to tell you that I want you—not just tonight, not just for desire, but…everything."
Her chest tightened. Her breath caught. She wanted to step back, to deny, to reclaim her control—but every instinct told her to stay, to reach, to bridge the gap between restraint and surrender.
The room pulsed with tension. Words hung between them, unfinished, dangerous, alive.
"I…can't," Elena whispered. "Not yet."
"And I won't force you," Luca said, voice gentle but resolute. "But know this—denial only delays what's inevitable. You and I…we are moving toward the truth, whether we admit it or not."
Her lips parted, eyes wide, heartbeat erratic. She wanted to speak, to confess, to surrender—but the walls she built were strong, and she clung to them.
"Almost," she murmured, repeating his word like a warning, a prayer, a promise.
"Yes," he said, moving just close enough that their shoulders brushed lightly, a spark that neither could ignore. "Almost."
And in that quiet moment, Elena realized something terrifying and thrilling: the confession was near, but the danger of it made the wait unbearable.
Almost confession. Almost surrender. Almost the beginning of something that could consume them both.
And neither of them wanted to stop it.