IN HIS EYES

CHAPTER FIVE

FLASHBACK

Six years ago

The days that followed that kiss passed like a fever dream. Neither of them spoke of it, yet neither of them could forget it. Amelia still showed up at Roman Creed's office at precisely 8 a.m., coffee in hand, dressed in muted tones and the same confident posture. Roman still barked orders, held impossible standards, and refused to let anyone too close. But the air between them had changed. Heavily.

Sometimes, she could feel his gaze burn into her back as she filed reports or took calls outside his office. And when she dared to look up, he was always looking away—too fast, too controlled.

Their words were professional. Their actions? Flawlessly routine. But under the surface, a quiet war raged between longing and restraint.

On a Wednesday evening, she stayed late to finish organizing his quarterly files. The office was quiet, the others long gone. The scent of burnt espresso still lingered in the air, and the city lights outside gleamed like fractured stars.

She stood by the filing cabinet, arms full of folders, when she heard his voice behind her.

“You should go home.”

She didn’t turn. “You should take your own advice.”

He took a step closer. “I don’t pay you to talk back.”

She smiled softly. “No, you pay me to be efficient. You get my attitude for free.”

That pulled a low sound from him—something between amusement and frustration. When she turned to look at him, he was already closer than she expected. The folders pressed between them like a barrier neither wanted to acknowledge.

His eyes flicked down to her lips. Just for a second.

“Amelia—”

“Don’t,” she whispered. “Don’t say anything unless you mean it.”

His jaw tensed. “You think I don’t mean it?”

“I think you live in a world where wanting something and acting on it are two very different things.”

They stood in silence, breathing the same air, trapped in a moment neither knew how to end.

Eventually, she stepped back. “I should finish up.”

He didn’t stop her.

But the next morning, there was a cup of her favorite coffee waiting on her desk. No note. No explanation. Just the tiniest crack in his perfectly constructed armor.

By the end of the week, it became routine. She’d find coffee waiting. Some mornings a croissant. Once, a chocolate bar with no wrapper, just a sticky note with the word: "Stress antidote."

She pretended not to notice. He pretended not to care.

But every time their hands brushed, or their gazes met too long, something unspoken passed between them—a language of looks and nearlys.

Late one Friday night, she passed by his office and found the door slightly ajar. She paused. He was seated behind his desk, shirt sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, hair a mess.

She knocked gently. “Want me to order dinner?”

He looked up slowly. His eyes were tired. Human.

“Sit with me a while,” he said.

She hesitated, then stepped inside, closing the door softly behind her. He didn’t move. Neither did she.

Minutes passed in silence.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he murmured finally.

“Neither do I,” she admitted. “But I’m still here.”

He looked at her like she was something fragile and fierce all at once.

And when she finally walked away that night, his voice followed her:

“Goodnight, Amelia.”

Soft. Almost tender.

It was the first time he ever said her name like that.

And it ruined her for anything less.