Close Quarters
812 Words
Ethan turned the corner, fast, dressed in his usual high-functioning-CEO uniform—slacks, black T-shirt, and that permanent frown etched into his face. He had just ended a call with Tokyo when he turned the corner and ran directly into her.
Bare skin. Bare legs. Barely dressed.
Aria.
She found him in the hallway.
Well—she bumped into him in the hallway. Literally.
His hands were on her before he could think—gripping her upper arms instinctively, steadying her. Heat radiated from her skin, from her everything. His eyes flicked to hers.
Smug. Unapologetic.
Of course.
And hers?
Stayed there.
For a second too long.
"You okay?" he asked, voice low, steady.
"Mmhmm." She didn't move, blinked up at him. "Didn't know I needed a full-body check-in this morning."
He let go like she burned, his jaw tight. "You should watch where you're going."
"I was," she said sweetly, brushing imaginary dust off her tank top. "You just got in the way."
His eyes flicked down—tank top, long bare legs, no bra under the ribbed white cotton, the kind of look that said I'm comfortable and I dare you in equal parts. No shame. She was a walking provocation. And this wasn't an accident.
He turned toward the kitchen. Escape plan. "Put on some pants," he muttered, turning to go.
"Oh, come on," she called after him. "Don't be shy. You've seen worse. Probably dated worse, too."
He stopped at the kitchen entry, back still to her. He exhaled through his nose.
Don't bite.
But she kept going.
"You're not a game, Aria." he said, half to her, half to himself.
"Who said I was playing?"
His shoulders tensed. Then he exhaled slowly, like he was diffusing a bomb made entirely of her.
Goddammit.
She was playing. With fire. With him. With the one thing he had left untainted.
"I'm working from home today," he said. "Don't disturb me."
"Oh no," she gasped, mock-horrified. "You mean I might accidentally need to walk past your desk in something indecent?"
He turned slowly, every nerve in his body warning him not to, and there she was—standing in the middle of his hallway like a dare in bare skin.
Her eyes held his. Unblinking. Daring. They were dark. Focused. Hungry. But controlled.
Always controlled.
"You think this is funny," he said, stepping forward, one slow, deliberate pace at a time, "but I don't think you know what you're starting."
"I know exactly what I'm starting." She didn't flinch. Not even a little.
"Then you're braver than you should be."
She tilted her chin, took one step closer. "Or maybe you're more afraid than you admit."
The heat hit him first. Then the scent of her shampoo—something faintly floral, something that shouldn't make his hands twitch the way it did. They were close now. Barely a breath between them. The kitchen counter at her back. Him in front of her. Trapped. Too close. Too alone.
And she was looking at him like she knew.
She should've moved. He should've stepped away.
Neither of them did.
"I'm not afraid of you, Aria," he said tightly.
"No," she whispered. "You're afraid of yourself around me."
It hit like a punch to the gut. Because she was right. His jaw twitched. His hands were fists at his sides. He was terrified of the way she made his heart stutter. The way her mouth curled when she teased him. The way his hands itched to touch. To ruin.
He clenched his fists.
If he reached for her now, he wouldn't stop. If he kissed her, it wouldn't be soft. It would be fast and hard and wrong, and he would never come back from it.
And then...
He stepped back. Space. Air. Logic. Control.
She hated how cold the air felt between them again.
"Pants," he said, eyes skimming her one last time. "Now."
She smirked, and it went straight to his gut. "You gonna make me?"
And for a second, just one—and there it was.
The crack. His control cracked.
Barely. The briefest flash of red behind his eyes. His restraint fractured.
But enough.
His gaze dropped—her lips, her neck, the goddamn hem of that shirt. His gaze turned molten, throat working hard around whatever curse he swallowed. His jaw clenched so hard it hurt. He turned away and walked off muttering, "f**k's sake," under his breath like it would shield him from the wreckage she left in her wake.
He didn't look back.
Couldn't.
Because if he did—if he saw one more look like that—he wouldn't be a good man anymore.
He'd be hers. That was far, far worse.
And Aria, still leaning against the counter with her pulse thudding in her ears, whispered into the silence: "Yeah. That's what I thought."
- Writer
