The kiss hadn't solved anything.
If anything, it made everything more complicated.
Arielle hadn't slept much since that moment in the hallway. Her lips still remembered the pressure of his; her skin still buzzed with the aftershock. But it wasn't just physical.
It was the knowing—the awareness that something real had shifted between them.
And now, she didn't know how to act around him.
Which was a problem. Because Damien Cross had a knack for appearing when she least expected him.
Like now.
Arielle had ducked into the nearly empty design studio on the 19th floor, planning to revise her sketches before submitting the final layout for the gala banners. The floor was quiet, the windows soaked in afternoon light, and the scent of ink and paper always made her feel at peace.
She didn't expect Damien to stroll in like he belonged there—which, of course, he did.
"Looking for solitude?" he asked casually, holding two steaming cups of coffee.
She stared at him. "Did you follow me?"
"No," he said, walking closer and setting one of the cups beside her sketchpad. "I just have an uncanny talent for finding you."
"I'm not sure that's a good thing."
Damien gave a faint smirk but said nothing. He perched on the edge of a drafting table across from her, looking too relaxed for a man who usually treated time like currency.
Arielle hesitated, then picked up the coffee. She took a cautious sip. It was exactly how she liked it—lightly sweetened, just a hint of cream.
Her eyes lifted to his. "You remembered."
"I remember a lot of things about you."
She looked away quickly, pretending to focus on her sketch. "That's dangerous."
"Why?"
"Because I'm trying not to think about that kiss."
Damien leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "How's that working out for you?"
She sighed. "Terribly."
Silence settled between them again—comfortable this time, oddly familiar. She sketched a few new lines, shading in the corner of a banner with slow, deliberate strokes.
"You're really good," Damien said quietly.
Arielle blinked, surprised. "You've never said that before."
"I thought it would make you cocky."
She laughed softly. "Too late."
His lips curved in a rare, quiet smile. Not the one he wore for cameras or clients. This one was softer. Real.
It threw her off balance.
"I wasn't supposed to like you," she said, the words slipping out before she could stop them.
Damien didn't look shocked. Just thoughtful. "I know."
"You were just… the arrogant CEO. Too polished. Too closed off."
"And you were the cleaner's daughter. Too stubborn. Too blunt."
She looked up. Their eyes met. It was like standing on the edge of something neither of them could name.
"I still don't know if this is a good idea," she said honestly.
"I don't either," he replied, just as quietly.
But neither of them moved away.
Instead, they fell into a rhythm over the following days. Not romantic. Not yet. But close. Closer than Arielle ever thought they could be.
It started with coffee in the design studio every other morning. Then came the late emails with notes on the gala concept—his responses dry and to the point, but always with a small compliment hidden between the lines.
She caught him watching her once through the glass of his office when she was sketching in the common space. He didn't look away.
And when their hands brushed while reaching for the same folder during a planning meeting, neither of them flinched.
Still, nothing happened. Not another kiss. Not even a lingering touch.
It was driving her mad in the most maddeningly sweet way.
---
One evening, the office was nearly empty when Arielle finished her final gala presentation board. The main concept—"Hope in Motion"—was scrawled across the top in soft, fluid lettering, with visuals of dancers surrounded by golden light meant to symbolize rising above hardship.
It was raw. Honest. Hers.
She stood staring at it for a long moment before she felt someone behind her.
Damien's voice was low. "You brought emotion into a corporate event. That's rare."
She turned. He was watching her like she was the art.
"I wasn't sure it was the right tone," she admitted.
"It's perfect."
She swallowed. "You don't give praise easily."
"I don't feel it easily. But when I do, I mean it."
Arielle felt that strange tightness in her chest again—the one that said this wasn't just flirting anymore.
He stepped closer, not quite touching her. "Can I ask you something?"
"Sure."
"Why haven't you walked away yet?"
She blinked. "From you?"
"From this." He gestured between them. "From whatever's happening here."
Arielle took a long breath. "Because I think I've spent so long building walls that I forgot what it's like when someone tries to climb over them."
Damien's expression shifted. Something tender and pained passed through his eyes. "You're not the only one with walls, Arielle."
"I know," she said. "That's why I haven't pushed."
They stood there, the space between them crackling.
Not lovers. Not enemies. Not colleagues.
Something in between.
A slow burn, kindled by glances, unspoken thoughts, and shared silences.
Damien looked down, exhaled, then met her eyes again. "If we do this…"
Her heart skipped. "Yes?"
"It has to be slow. Quiet. Real."
Her lips twitched. "I don't do fake very well."
"I noticed."
A pause.
Then, for the first time in days, he reached for her hand. Just her hand. Fingers brushing hers like it was the most fragile thing in the world.
And she let him.
No rush.
No fireworks.
Just the warmth of his palm against hers and the gentle rhythm of something beginning—truly beginning—between them.