HIS TOUCH,HER FIRE🔥

TOO CLOSE TO TOUCH

Zara Monroe did not get nervous. Not for investors. Not for clients. Not for men.

But standing in her own studio, hands on her hips, pretending to focus on a half-finished gown — she was anything but calm.

Damien Cross was sitting quietly by the window, watching her. Again. Like she was the answer to a question he hadn’t asked out loud.

“I don’t like being observed,” she said without turning.

“I’m not observing,” he said smoothly. “I’m studying.”

She looked over her shoulder. “You always sound like a man who thinks he’s in control.”

“And you always sound like a woman afraid of losing it.”

She turned fully this time, narrowing her eyes. “That’s not fear. That’s caution. There’s a difference.”

Damien stood and walked toward her, slowly. Measured. Like approaching fire — with admiration and respect, but not without the temptation to touch.

“I see the way you fight to hold yourself together,” he said. “The way your hands never stop moving. Stitch by stitch, like you’re afraid if you pause, you’ll unravel.”

She blinked. The words landed in a place too deep to deflect.

“How do you know so much about me?” she asked, quietly.

He stopped just an arm’s length away. “Because I’ve lived in that place too long not to recognize it in someone else.”

His eyes dropped to her hands. The needle she held trembled slightly. Her armor was slipping, and they both knew it.

She tried to look away, to recover, but he gently reached out.

She didn’t stop him.

His fingers barely grazed hers — just a touch, soft as breath, electric like stormlight. It wasn't possessive. It wasn’t even bold.

It was reverent. Curious.

And it was too much.

Zara stepped back, fast, like his touch had burned her.

“Don’t,” she said, voice low.

“Why?” Damien asked.

“Because I don’t trust you,” she said. “Because I don’t trust myself around you.”

There it was — the truth hanging between them like an unfinished line of thread.

Damien didn’t move. Didn’t press. But something in his voice shifted — quieter, more vulnerable.

“I’m not asking for trust,” he said. “I’m asking for space. To be close enough to help, but far enough not to destroy what you’ve built.”

Zara stared at him, heart pounding. In all her years of running, climbing, building — no one had ever asked to be close but careful.

And that scared her more than any touch.

She turned back to the dress on the mannequin. “Fine,” she said, forcing her voice to be steady. “But stay on your side of the fire, Mr. Cross.”

He didn’t argue.

But he didn’t promise either.

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End of Chapter Three