Tempted by My Ex’s Brother

SIX

Dante's POV

I’d thought I was done thinking about her. That night should’ve been nothing more than a strange accident in the hallway, an unexpected collision, a startled pair of eyes, a soft weight falling into my arms. I’d told myself it was just proximity, just surprise, just the moment catching me off guard.

But I’d been lying. To myself, mostly. Because the truth was, from the very second her body hit mine, something inside me woke up. And that had terrified me more than anything in years.

I remembered it clearly, so clearly it felt like it had happened minutes ago. I had been on my way to handle a minor issue at the club, some staff miscommunication that apparently needed the “owner’s presence,” which already had put me in a terrible mood. My days were spent dealing with tech teams, investors, innovation pipelines; my nights were supposed to be simple. Predictable. Controlled.

Then she ran into me. No—crashed into me. Hard enough that the air left her in a small gasp. Hard enough that I staggered a step. Hard enough that my hand instinctively closed around her waist, steadying her. Her face had flown up toward mine. wide, startled eyes, flushed cheeks, lips parted like she was about to apologize but momentarily forgot how words worked. She looked at me as if I were the last person she ever expected to see. And I stared back at her, feeling electric and alive. A jolt ran through my body, sharp and undeniable. At first I thought it was adrenaline, but no. My body knew the difference. I’d spent years trying to fight this problem, trying to understand it, diagnose it, treat it, fix it. I knew my body’s silence too well. I knew the dead, muted responses, the absence of interest in men, women, anything. Touch never did anything to me. Faces never stirred anything in me. Attraction simply did not exist in me the way it should.

Until her.

It was the smallest thing, a brush of her chest against mine, the warmth of her breath, the faint scent of something clean and gentle, like fresh soap and maybe… citrus? Something about her hit me unexpectedly, bypassing every mental wall I’d carefully constructed over the years.

And my body reacted.

For a split second, I froze. The shock of it rooted me to the spot. I remember staring down at her, unable to mask the surprise in my expression. Her hands were pressed against my chest, her fingers curled slightly as if she wasn’t sure whether to push harder or cling for balance. Her eyes flicked over my face like she was searching for something, recognition maybe, or confirmation that I was real.

When she gently pushed herself back, stepping out of my arms, I felt something strange.

“What—sorry—I didn’t mean to—” she had stammered, her voice breathless and soft, obviously embarrassed. She looked like she wanted to sink into the floor.

Just as I opened my mouth to tell her it was fine, to maybe ask her name, maybe keep her there for just a few seconds longer, but then her phone rang.

She jolted, startled again, and fumbled to answer it. The moment she saw the name flashing on her screen, her entire expression shifted. Worry, guilt, something else I couldn’t quite name. She muttered a rushed, “I’m sorry, I have to take this,” and slipped away from me without giving me a chance to respond.

And I just stood there, watching her leave. Listening to her voice fade down the hallway. Feeling, absurdly, like something had just slipped between my fingers before I even understood what it was. For days afterward, I couldn’t shake her from my thoughts.

I tried. God knows I tried. I buried myself in work, both companies. Meetings, code reviews, system checks, performance analyses. Then at night, I buried myself in the club, handling operations, logistics, customer requests, special cases, anything that kept my hands busy and my mind occupied.

But she was there. In the back of my mind. She had been the only exception. And it infuriated me, and fascinated me, and consumed me.

I told myself I would find her. Not even for anything romantic, just to confirm that the reaction I had felt wasn’t some weird fluke, some mistake, some transient spike caused by stress or proximity or fate’s twisted sense of humor. I needed to see her again. Needed to confirm she was real. Needed to understand why her.

Days passed, but she didn’t return. Not that I expected her to, not after the way she had left, clearly distressed. Still, the irrational part of me kept looking, kept scanning the club’s entry cameras, kept mentally searching for her face in any crowd.

And then tonight happened.

I walked into the club, still thinking about her, still fighting the absurd urge to actively hunt her down, when I saw a silhouette ahead of me. At first, just the back of a woman. It was a petite frame. Long hair falling softly around her shoulders. A short, striking red dress hugging her in a way that made her look both bold and fragile. Black heels that clicked softly against the polished floor. She didn’t turn. She didn’t need to.

Because the second my eyes landed on her, my chest tightened. That was her. I didn’t know how I knew, just that I did. Some instinct deep inside me woke up, the same one that had jolted alive the moment she collided into my arms the other night.

I stopped walking. I just stared. Of all the people. Of all the nights. Of all the impossible coincidences. She came back. But this time, she wasn’t flustered. She wasn’t rushing. She wasn’t distracted. She wasn’t about to slip away before I could speak.

This time, she was here. In my club. In a short red dress that made her look nothing like the shy, nervous girl who had stammered apologies while pressed against my chest. Different, yet unmistakably the same.

I felt something low in my stomach coil, something sharp and grounded and certain. I wasn’t letting her go again. I won't list her slip away this time.