The first thing Ethan noticed wasn’t the lock clicking shut.
It was her breathing.
Shallow. Uneven. Almost deliberate.
He stood just inside the doorway, holding his laptop bag like a shield, unsure if this late-night “strategy session” at Mia’s apartment was really about work.
Mia, thirty-eight, was his project lead — recently divorced, two kids, sharp-tongued at the office but soft-spoken after hours. She’d invited him over to “review campaign edits.” Ethan almost said no, but curiosity outweighed caution.
Now, standing there, he watched her lean against the kitchen counter, wine glass in hand, the thin silk of her robe slipping dangerously off one shoulder.
She tilted her head and smiled. “You look nervous.”
“I’m… not,” he lied.
Mia set the glass down and walked toward him, barefoot, nails clicking faintly on the hardwood. She didn’t look away — her gaze locked on his, steady, searching.
When she reached the door, she slid the bolt into place. Click.
“Better,” she murmured, almost to herself.
“Why’d you lock it?” Ethan asked.
She didn’t answer. Instead, she brushed past him, her robe grazing his wrist as she reached for the table. That single, casual touch left heat blooming under his skin.
They sat side by side on the couch, laptop open between them. But neither of them was looking at the screen.
“You missed a typo,” Mia said softly, leaning in.
Her shoulder brushed his. The scent of her perfume — sandalwood and something darker — filled his lungs.
Ethan swallowed hard. “Where?”
“Here,” she whispered, her fingertip tracing the line of text. But her hand lingered, grazing his knuckles.
Slow motion again.
He turned slightly, close enough now to see the faint rise of color in her cheeks, the tension in her jaw, the way her lips parted but didn’t form words.
“Mia…”
Her eyes flicked to his, then down to his mouth, then back again.
“You know,” she said, voice low, “most people pretend they don’t notice. That… pull.”
He didn’t answer, but his chest rose and fell faster, betraying him.
She smiled faintly — not sweet, not soft, but deliberate.
“I don’t pretend,” she whispered.
Ethan froze, caught between instinct and reason. “This… probably isn’t a good idea,” he said, voice rough.
Mia tilted her head, lips curling. “Probably,” she agreed, but she didn’t move away.
Instead, she reached up, fingertips brushing the back of his neck — light, fleeting, but enough to send a shiver straight down his spine.
“Do you want me to stop?” she asked.
He inhaled sharply. “…No.”
Everything slowed down.
Mia leaned in, the silk robe slipping slightly lower as she moved closer. Ethan could feel the heat radiating off her skin, his own pulse matching the rhythm of her breath.
Her hand rested on his thigh, not demanding, just there. A quiet promise.
“Then don’t,” she whispered.
For a long moment, neither of them moved. They just stayed there, breathing each other in, the tension thick and electric, pulling tighter with every second.
Finally, Ethan’s hand rose — hesitating for half a heartbeat before brushing the exposed curve of her shoulder. Her skin was warm, soft, and trembling slightly under his fingertips.
Mia’s lashes lowered. “God,” she murmured, “you have no idea…”
Afterward, they sat on the floor, backs against the couch, city lights spilling in through the window.
Mia reached for her wine again, sipping slowly, gaze fixed on nothing.
“You okay?” Ethan asked softly.
She nodded, then laughed faintly — low, throaty, almost bitter.
“You know what’s funny?” she said. “I lock the door like it’ll keep me safe. But… it never locks this.”
Her palm rested flat against her chest, over her racing heart.