UNSPOKEN ISN'T FELT
553 Words
Unspoken Isn’t Unfelt
Zara hadn’t slept.
Her sketchpad lay untouched on the bed beside her, its blank page somehow more intimidating than any investor, model, or runway deadline. She’d scribbled a few lines, tried to draw something — anything — but all her fingers could remember was the brush of Damien’s hand against hers.
The way he looked at her.
The way he didn’t kiss her.
She could still feel the almost of it.
And the ache that followed.
Now, standing in front of her boutique’s mirrored window, coffee cooling in her palm, she watched the city wake up — and tried not to think about him.
But the doorbell chimed, and she didn’t have to.
He walked in like a storm dressed in silk: Damien Cross, in dark jeans and a black shirt, no tie, no guards — just heat bottled in human form.
“You’re early,” she said, composing herself as she placed the cup down.
“You’re surprised I came.”
“I didn’t say that.”
He stepped forward. “You didn’t have to.”
Their eyes met. Tension wrapped the room like velvet — soft but suffocating.
“I have a meeting later,” she said, brushing past him, pretending to check fabric swatches.
“With who?”
“A buyer from Paris. For the Ember line.”
He didn’t respond immediately. “You’ll sell it?”
Zara turned slowly. “Isn’t that the point?”
“It’s more than a line,” he said. “It’s you.”
She looked away. “Exactly.”
A moment passed.
“Do you always run from the things that scare you?” he asked.
“No,” she whispered. “Just the ones that might matter.”
There it was. The unspoken truth. No confession. No kiss. But a fracture in the wall between them.
Damien walked to the nearest mannequin — the one she’d been working on the day before. The unfinished dress was still pinned at the seams. It looked raw. Exposed.
“Finish it,” he said.
“Now?”
“With me here.”
Zara hesitated, then picked up the needle. She began stitching, slowly. Damien didn’t speak — he just watched.
And in the silence, she felt him again.
Not with hands. Not with words.
But with presence.
Like gravity.
Every pull of the thread. Every measured breath. Every inch closer he stepped.
She could feel him.
And without touching her, he lit every nerve in her body.
When she tied the last stitch and finally looked up, Damien was right beside her. Closer than before. No space. No excuses.
“You don’t need to speak,” he said softly. “I already hear you.”
She should have pulled back. She didn’t.
“Then tell me,” she whispered, heart trembling, “what do you hear?”
Damien’s voice was low. Raw. “A woman trying to unlearn silence. One thread at a time.”
Her throat tightened. She wanted to cry. Or kiss him. Or scream.
But she did none of it.
She just stood there, her hand resting against the finished dress — and his hand resting over hers.
No kiss.
No declarations.
Just shared heat.
And in that quiet, unspoken space — everything was felt.
---
End of Chapter Five
- Writer
- chap_listContents
- likeADD