Almost
656 Words
The air between Sienna and Dante had changed.
Thicker. Heavier. Like every glance, every moment of silence carried a weight neither of them could name—but both felt deeply.
Since he’d slipped her that note—I’m sorry. I can’t stand seeing anyone else near you—he hadn’t said anything else. Not aloud, anyway. But his actions spoke volumes.
He lingered longer when passing her desk. His gaze found hers too often during meetings. He called her into his office for “urgent” matters that rarely were. A misplaced stapler. A rescheduled call. Files he could’ve had anyone else deliver. But it was always her.
And Sienna? She felt it, too.
The shift. The unspoken tension. The undercurrent of something dangerous and magnetic pulling them closer.
Scene: The Elevator
It was late.
The office had gone quiet, most of the lights dimmed. The city outside glittered in the windows like spilled stars. Sienna gathered the last of the presentation folders in her arms, sighing as she made her way toward the elevator.
She stepped in, the doors beginning to close—until a hand slipped in just in time.
Dante.
He stepped inside, adjusting his tie, the two of them now alone in the small, mirrored box.
Silence.
Too silent.
Sienna could feel his eyes on her. Not in a way that made her uncomfortable, but in a way that made her skin tingle. Heat pooled low in her stomach.
Then the elevator jerked.
Stopped.
Lights flickered.
Sienna let out a startled breath, steadying herself against the wall. “What the—”
Dante pressed the emergency button. “Elevator’s dead.”
“Great,” she muttered, glancing up. “Just great.”
More silence.
Thicker now. Charged.
Then, his voice—low and rough in the quiet.
“I meant what I wrote.”
Her head turned slowly. “I know.”
He stepped closer. “Then why are you pretending you don’t feel it too?”
She swallowed hard. “Because I’m not like you, Dante. I don’t own skyscrapers. I don’t give orders. I come from a bakery. I know who I am.”
He reached up, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers grazed her cheek—soft, deliberate, lingering.
“I know who you are, too,” he said, voice barely above a whisper. “And none of that matters to me.”
“It matters to me,” she whispered.
Their eyes locked, tension stretching like a thread between them.
Sienna leaned in. Just a little.
So did he.
Their lips hovered—this close—when the elevator jolted back to life.
They sprang apart like strangers, staring straight ahead, hearts racing.
The Next Morning
Sienna stepped into the office, still rattled. Still reeling from what had almost happened.
On her desk sat a small bouquet of deep red tulips—fresh, elegant, and unexpected.
A note was tucked among the stems in Dante’s bold handwriting:
You deserve better than half moments. Dinner tonight? – D
Her heart leapt into her throat.
She ran her fingers gently across the petals, trying not to smile too hard. But then—
She heard laughter.
Across the office, Ashford was leaning against a desk, speaking quietly with a woman in a white fitted dress, heels clicking with purpose. She was beautiful—impossibly poised, cool, and composed. Everything Sienna wasn’t.
Ashford leaned toward her, murmuring, “New PR director. Handpicked by Blackwood himself. And rumor has it—they have history.”
Sienna froze.
Her fingers tightened around the bouquet.
Tulips. Dinner. Soft words in an elevator.
But also a woman who looked like she belonged in Dante’s world. And Sienna?
She had almost kissed him. Almost let herself believe she could belong.
But maybe… maybe she was right to hold back.
Because men like Dante Blackwood didn’t fall for girls who made pirozhki at dawn.
- Writer
