Chapter Eleven : The Penthouse
1493 Words
Ariana woke just before midnight, disoriented.
For a second, she didn’t recognize the ceiling. The unfamiliar scent — cedarwood and something unmistakably Aston — wrapped around her senses.
Then she felt it.
Her fingers were laced with his.
Her heart nearly leapt out of her chest.
What the hell am I doing in his place?
She tried to slip her hand free, careful, slow — but his grip tightened instinctively. His thumb brushed against her knuckles.
His eyes opened.
Dark. Awake. Watching her.
“You don’t sleep,” she whispered.
“I did,” he murmured, voice husky with leftover dreams. “Stay.”
There was no demand in it. Just quiet warmth.
He shifted closer, still lying on his side, and studied her face like it was something he hadn’t seen in years.
A slow smile tugged at his lips.
“Your hair is longer now,” he said softly, reaching up to tuck a strand behind her ear.
“Last time I saw it like this… we ruined it.”
She knew exactly what he meant.
Paintball. The park. The accidental hit that left her furious and him apologizing nonstop.
Their first meeting.
Her cheeks warmed instantly.
She pulled the blanket up to hide half her face.
“Don’t,” she muttered.
He laughed — low, warm, familiar.
“Okay, okay. Sorry.”
She lowered the blanket just enough to glare at him, brows knitted. That only made his gaze soften.
“How can you be this pretty in this situation?” he asked, almost to himself.
The teasing tone was gone now.
His hand came up again — slower this time — and cupped her cheek. His palm was warm. Steady.
Ariana felt heat rush to her ears. To her neck. To somewhere deeper, unfamiliar and fluttering. Not fear. Not nerves.
Something alive.
Her eyes drifted closed without permission.
He leaned closer — close enough that she could feel his breath against her lips.
“What are you expecting?” he whispered.
Her eyes snapped open, annoyed.
But he was already smiling.
And then he kissed her.
It wasn’t rough.
It wasn’t rushed.
It was warm. Certain. A quiet confession pressed into her lips before she could prepare herself.
She pulled back, breath uneven.
“I’m not ready yet! That’s not fair.”
He rested his forehead against hers, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth.
“Tell me when you’re ready,” he said softly.
“I’ll wait.”
And she knew he meant it.
Ariana sat up abruptly, trying to steady herself, fingers combing through her hair as if that would fix the chaos inside her.
But before she could escape the moment, his hand circled gently around her waist.
Not forceful.
Never forceful.
He drew her back down slowly, giving her every second to resist if she wanted to.
She didn’t.
This time, when he kissed her, it was unhurried. Deeper. Her fingers fisted into his shirt, and he groaned softly against her mouth — not demanding, just overwhelmed.
He moved like a man holding something fragile.
Like he had wanted this for far too long but would rather burn than hurt her.
His hands traced her back, her waist, the curve of her shoulder — learning her again. Asking without words.
Every time she hesitated, he paused.
Every time she leaned closer, he followed.
“Ariana,” he breathed, voice lower now, rougher — not with hunger alone, but restraint.
She answered him not with words, but by pulling him closer.
The world outside his room disappeared.
That midnight, in Aston’s quiet sanctuary, Ariana stopped holding herself back.
Not because he took.
But because he waited.
And when she finally let go — it wasn’t reckless.
It was chosen.
And Aston, ever the gentleman even in desire, kissed her like she was something precious — not conquered, not claimed — but wanted.
Deeply.
___
After they had done what they always tried not to define, Ariana’s stomach betrayed her.
It growled.
Aston chuckled from beside her. “I can’t starve you again.”
He slipped out of bed and padded toward the kitchen, barefoot and annoyingly calm. Ariana stayed for a moment, then sat up, wrapping the sheet around herself as she listened to the soft clatter of pans.
The apartment was quiet—too quiet for someone as famous as him.
She stood and wandered.
The place was absurdly luxurious. Marble floors, muted lighting, art pieces that looked expensive even if she didn’t know the artists.
It wasn’t just an apartment—it was a penthouse. The kind she used to stare at from the street and imagine what kind of lives existed inside.
She stopped at the ceiling-high window.
From here, her own building looked… small. Almost fragile. Just like Aston once said.
Behind her, footsteps.
He placed two plates of pasta on the low table and sat cross-legged on the carpet. “Dinner is served.”
She turned. “You cooked?”
“I try to survive.”
She sat across from him, still glancing outside. “You live here alone?”
“I do.” He twirled pasta around his fork. “You like it?”
“Yes.”
“Live here then.”
She blinked. “I don’t have that much money, you know.” She laughed lightly. "I can't afford this!"
“With me,” he added, casual—too casual.
She nearly choked.
She grabbed her water, coughed, then stared at him. “Oh my God. How many girls have you asked that?”
A forced laugh escaped her as she tried to deflect.
Aston laughed too. But his eyes didn’t.
He wasn’t entirely joking.
They talked until the sky softened into pale blue. Music. Concert pressure. Fabric textures. Her hatred for cheap zippers. His hatred for gossip headlines.
And before dawn fully arrived, she slipped back to her own world.
_____
That day, the very first fitting. Ariana led her team to fit clothes onto the band. Four of them are showed up at her fitting studio. Julie and Tina too.
Julie clasped her hands. “Oh my God.”
Ariana walked around Aston who tried his first wllook of wardrobe, adjusting the collar, smoothing the shoulder seam. Her fingers were professional. Precise.
“You feel restricted?” she asked.
“Only emotionally.”
She didn’t miss a beat. “That’s not our department.”
The team laughed.
Inside, Aston found her more fascinating than ever. The confidence. The way everyone listened. The way she balanced humor and authority effortlessly.
Ali’s Fitting
Ali stepped out in a layered street-rock ensemble.
He flexed. “Can I jump in this?”
Ariana nodded. “That’s the point. We reinforced the inner seams. Try.”
He jumped. Nothing tore.
Ali looked impressed. “Okay. Respect.”
She smiled. “We design for performance, not just photos.”
Luca’s Fitting
Luca examined himself in the mirror. “This feels lighter than our last tour.”
“Because it is,” Ariana said. “Breathable fabric. You sweat the most during drum transitions.”
He blinked. “You studied our performances?”
“I don’t guess,” she replied simply.
Luca gave her a small nod. “That’s cool.”
Henry’s Fitting
Henry adjusted his sleeves shyly. “Is this too bold?”
The jacket had deep burgundy accents.
Ariana stepped beside him. “You always stand slightly behind the others on stage. This helps the audience find you without you having to fight for attention.”
He considered that.
Then smiled. “I like that.”
Group Look — Finale Wardrobe
When all four stood together in their coordinated final-set outfits, even Andrew whistled.
Julie whispered, “We’re going to trend for days.”
Ariana folded her arms, satisfied but composed. “Walk.”
They walked in formation across the studio like it was a stage. She adjusted minor details mid-stride. “Ali, one size tighter at the waist. Luca, shorten half an inch. Henry, keep the cuff. Aston—”
He stopped in front of her.
“Yes?”
She held his gaze a second too long.
“Perfect.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Professional, she turned away first. “We’ll finalize alterations tonight. Thank you, everyone.”
Applause from the team.
As the members dispersed, Aston lingered.
“You’re different here,” he said quietly.
She didn’t look at him. “I’m working.”
“I like this version too.”
She finally met his eyes. “You don’t get to flirt during fitting hours.”
“Then when?”
A faint smile. “Submit a written request.”
He laughed softly. But inside, he was certain.
The woman who could command a room full of designers and rockstars with grace and humor—
She was far more dangerous to his heart than the girl in his penthouse at dawn.
And this time, he wasn’t joking anymore.
- Writer
