The Ties That Burn

Chapter 3

Normal. That was the word I kept repeating to myself the next morning as I stared at my reflection in the bathroom mirror. Normal hair. Normal face. Normal woman brushing her teeth like she hadn’t just locked eyes with a walking storm the night before.

I spat, rinsed, patted my cheeks. “Get your s**t together,” I muttered.

My reflection didn’t look convinced.

Work was supposed to help. Spreadsheets, emails, endless strings of numbers that should have drowned out thoughts of him. But by 10 a.m., I’d read the same line on the quarterly report six times without absorbing a single word. My boss’s voice droned from the hallway like a mosquito, and I sat there gripping my pen so tightly it left dents in my fingers.

It was ridiculous. I didn’t even know his name. Just that he wore control like a custom-tailored suit, and that every time he looked at me, I felt like he was peeling back layers I didn’t even know I had.

And then, as if fate—or maybe just the city’s cruel sense of humor—he appeared again.

The café run had been my attempt at reclaiming normal. Coffee, a pastry, maybe a moment of peace before diving back into the hellscape of Excel. And there he was. Standing in line like he belonged, like this was just another Tuesday.

When he spoke to me, calm and unhurried, I swear my body forgot how to function. My pulse went haywire, my stomach dropped, and my brain—my poor, overworked brain—latched onto one thought: he’s following me.

I’d blurted it without thinking, then instantly regretted it. Because his answer—smooth, deliberate, edged with amusement—wasn’t denial. It was something else. Something darker.

Now here I was, back at my desk, trying not to replay the way his voice sank into my skin. Trying—and failing.

By noon, I gave up pretending. I slipped outside, phone in hand, pretending to scroll. Really, I was scanning the street like an i***t, half-expecting him to materialize out of thin air again.

He didn’t. Of course he didn’t. Because that would’ve been insane.

And yet… disappointment gnawed at me.

⸻

By Friday, I’d convinced myself I was done. I had more important things to worry about: deadlines, laundry, the fact that my fridge contained half a bottle of wine and some lettuce I should probably classify as a science experiment.

I threw myself into plans with friends, the kind that promised distraction. Dinner, drinks, laughter. Normal.

“You look like you’ve been hit by a bus,” my best friend, Marissa, said the second she saw me at the restaurant.

“Thanks,” I deadpanned, sliding into the booth.

She smirked, all sharp eyeliner and sharper tongue. “Seriously, though. What’s going on? Work drama? Secret lover? Please tell me it’s the second one, because you’re giving off major I’ve-been-f****d-up-the-wall energy.”

I choked on my water, coughing as she grinned like a cat.

“Jesus, Marissa.”

“What? I’m right, aren’t I?”

“No!” Too quick. Too defensive. Her grin widened.

“Mm-hm. Spill.”

I hesitated. She’d never let it go if I didn’t give her something. “I… met someone. Kind of.”

Her eyes lit up. “Kind of? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means…” I trailed off, fumbling. How the hell was I supposed to explain a man I’d spoken to twice but who lived in my head rent-free, rearranging the furniture and setting small fires?

“It means,” I tried again, “I don’t really know him. But when I look at him—” I broke off, heat crawling up my neck.

Marissa leaned forward like a gossiping teenager. “When you look at him…?”

My voice dropped without permission. “It’s like he knows things about me I haven’t even admitted to myself.”

For once, she didn’t crack a joke. Her brows furrowed, sharp edges softening. “That sounds… intense.”

“Yeah.” I laughed, hollow. “That’s one word for it.”

“Another word would be dangerous.”

Her tone was pointed. She wasn’t wrong. But dangerous didn’t scare me as much as it should’ve.

Maybe because the most terrifying thing wasn’t him. It was how much I wanted him to look at me like that again.

⸻

Later that night, back in my apartment, I curled on the couch with a blanket and a glass of wine, trying to scrub my brain clean with Netflix. But even as characters bantered on screen, my mind wandered.

What if he showed up again? What if he didn’t?

The worst part wasn’t that I couldn’t stop thinking about him. It was that a part of me—deep, shameful, undeniable—hoped he was following me.

That he’d appear in the doorway, calm and certain, ready to strip away every piece of control I pretended to have.

I shifted, restless, heat prickling my skin. The thought should’ve scared me. Instead, it made me ache.

“Get your s**t together,” I whispered again.

But even as I said it, I knew I was lying.

The weekend arrived like a storm I couldn’t escape. I tried to bury myself in errands, in mundane tasks—laundry, cleaning, grocery shopping—but every turn of the city streets reminded me of him. Every stranger’s glance, every flash of dark hair in a crowded café, my heart lurched.

Marissa called on Saturday afternoon, practically shrieking into the phone. “I swear, if you’re just going to sulk in your apartment all day, I’m coming over and dragging you out by your hair!”

I laughed, the sound brittle. “I’m fine,” I lied.

“Nope. Not buying it. We’re doing brunch, shopping, and maybe hitting that new rooftop bar tonight. And you’re coming whether you like it or not.”

I groaned but knew resistance was futile. Marissa didn’t ask; she commanded. That was part of her charm—and why we’d been friends for nearly a decade.

Brunch was chaos, as usual. Table for three, one friend sick, the third friend—Jake—ran late and never texted, leaving Marissa to narrate a running commentary of his antics for the next thirty minutes. I laughed when I could, but mostly my mind drifted.

Where is he?

I shoved the thought aside, reminding myself he wasn’t real in my life yet. He was… an idea. A spark. Dangerous, intoxicating, but not flesh and blood—yet.

Later, we wandered through the shopping district, the kind of boutiques where overpriced candles sat on marble countertops and the staff smiled too much. I tried to focus, running my fingers over silk scarves, oversized sweaters, pretending to care.

“Girl, are you listening to me?” Marissa asked suddenly, holding up a sequined clutch. “Because I swear you’ve been staring at nothing for the last twenty minutes.”

I blinked, realizing she was right. “Sorry,” I murmured, pulling my gaze back to the racks. “Just… thinking.”

“Thinking about him,” she said with a grin sharp enough to cut glass.

I froze. “I… how—”

“You’re transparent,” she said simply. “Completely obvious. You want to see him again, don’t you?”

I chewed my lip. It wasn’t denial. It wasn’t even resistance. She was right. My chest tightened at the thought of him appearing suddenly, the way he had at the café, the way he’d torn through my careful barriers.

“Maybe,” I admitted finally, my voice small.

Her grin widened, victorious. “Girl. You are so fucked.”

We laughed, but I couldn’t shake the heat that crept up my neck, the way my palms itched for contact I didn’t even have.

⸻

That night, lying in bed, I tried to sleep, but it was impossible. The apartment was quiet, except for the faint hum of the city. My phone buzzed with a text from Marissa, asking if I wanted to join her and Jake at a bar. I typed a quick no, then put the phone down, curling around my pillow.

And there he was.

In my dreams, dark and commanding. The same smirk, the same smoldering eyes, the same presence that made my body betray me before my mind could catch up. He leaned close, whispered words I couldn’t catch but understood perfectly. Heat pooled low in my stomach, sharp and urgent, igniting every nerve ending.

I woke gasping, sheets tangled around my legs, my body slick with sweat. The city outside was dark, alive, buzzing, and I was awake too, achingly aware of the empty space beside me.

He’s real, I reminded myself. He’s just a man. Not mine. Not yet.

But I knew, deep down, that waiting for him was pointless. My curiosity wasn’t curiosity anymore—it was craving.

By Sunday morning, I had made a decision.

I wanted to see him again.

Not by accident. Not fleetingly in a café. But deliberately. I wanted to feel that tension, that fire, that dangerous promise again.

It was insane. Completely irrational. But the pull was irresistible.

I spent the day in a haze, pacing my apartment, rehearsing scenarios in my head. What would I say? How could I make him notice me—truly notice me—without seeming desperate? I didn’t want to be a damsel; I wanted to be… something else. Something that could stand in the fire he brought with him and not burn apart entirely.

By evening, Marissa was on my doorstep, insisting we grab drinks regardless. I let her drag me out, knowing that normality—her laughter, the clinking of glasses, the mundane chatter—was a shield against the storm inside me.

But even in the crowd, even amid music and lights, I felt him. Not physically, but in the sense of potential, of threat, of desire. My body reacted without permission. A shiver traced my spine, and I couldn’t stop imagining him appearing behind me, leaning close, and making me forget everything around me.

The thought should have terrified me. Instead, it made my pulse race, my lips part, my breath shallow.

By the time I stumbled home hours later, I was exhausted, wired, desperate. I collapsed on the couch, staring at the ceiling, replaying every word, every glance, every subtle brush of his aura from the night before.

He wasn’t just a man I’d met. He was a spark I couldn’t contain. And I knew I would seek him out, even if I pretended otherwise.

And that knowledge thrilled me and terrified me in equal measure.