“Just tired,” I lie, returning to my screen to avoid his penetrating gaze. “It’s been a long night.”
I can feel him watching me for another moment before returning to his work. He doesn’t believe me. I can sense his skepticism. But thankfully, he doesn’t press the issue.
There’s no way I can tell him the truth: that I was imagining him kissing me breathless, his hands tangled in my hair, my careful control finally shattered by pure want.
This is precisely why I maintain distance. Why I’ve never allowed myself to become physically involved with anyone. The moment desire enters the equation, logic becomes compromised. Judgment becomes clouded.I cannot afford to be clouded in judgment, especially not now.
We work for another hour, the sexual tension ebbing and flowing like a tide I can’t reasonably predict or control. Every accidental touch sends electricity through my nervous system. Whenever he leans close enough for his breath to stir my hair, I fight the urge to turn my face toward his.
By 4 AM, exhaustion finally overtakes the dangerous energy crackling between us.
“We should call it a night,” I announce, saving our progress and beginning the shutdown sequence. “We can continue tomorrow when we’re both thinking more clearly.”
Rafa nods, stretching muscles that have been cramped over keyboards for hours. The movement draws my attention to the lean lines of his torso, visible through his fitted shirt.
I look away quickly.
“You can take the couch,” I say, gesturing toward the living area. “Or there are spare blankets if you prefer the floor. The couch is probably more comfortable, but?—”
“The couch is fine,” he interrupts, saving me from my nervous babbling. “Thank you.”
I retreat to my bedroom, closing the door with perhaps more force than necessary. The sound echoes through the penthouse, a clear barrier between the dangerous temptation of his presence and the safety of my private space .
In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Flushed cheeks, pupils slightly dilated, lips parted as if I’ve been running instead of sitting sedentary for hours.This is what desire looks like on me. Unfamiliar and unsettling.
I splash cold water on my face, brush my teeth, and change into sleep shorts and a tank top. Practical sleepwear that covers everything it should while remaining comfortable in the penthouse’s controlled climate. It has nothing to do with the fact that Rafa is sleeping twenty feet away from my bedroom door.
Sleep comes eventually, though it's restless and filled with dreams that blur the line between memory and desire.
We're back in my workspace, but the screens have gone dark. Just us in the blue glow, his hands framing my face the way they did earlier. But this time, when he kisses me, I don't pull away. This time, I let myself want him without calculation or restraint.
His mouth trails along my jaw, my neck, finding places that make me arch against him. The desk is solid beneath me as he lifts me onto it, positioning himself between my thighs. His voice in my ear, rough with want, speaking in Italian.
"Tell me you want this," he demands, and in the dream, I do. I tell him everything. How I think about his hands, his mouth, the way he looks at me like I'm the only code worth cracking. How I imagine what those careful, precise fingers would feel like exploring territory that's never been claimed.
The dream shifts, becomes more intense, more specific. His weight pressing me into soft sheets, the taste of him, the sound of my name in his voice when control finally shatters?—
I surface from unconsciousness around 6 AM, gasping like I've been running. My body is overheated despite the apartment's cool temperature, heart pounding, skin flushed with arousal that doesn't fade with waking. The dream lingers in vivid detail, every sensation still present enough to make me ache with unfulfilled need.
Water. I need water and distance from thoughts that are becoming increasingly difficult to ignore.
I slip from my bed quietly, my bare feet making no sound as I pad toward the kitchen. The loft is bathed in the gray light of dawn, which filters through the floor-to-ceiling windows and casts everything in soft shadows.
As I round the corner toward the kitchen, I pause.
The glow of a laptop screen illuminates the living area where Rafa has made his temporary bed on the couch. At first, I assume he is working. Insomnia-driven productivity isn’t uncommon in our line of work.But as my eyes adjust to the dim light, I realize the sounds I’m hearing aren’t the clicking of keys.
The soft, rhythmic breathing. The barely audible intake of breath speaks of controlled restraint.
My pulse accelerates as understanding dawns.
I should retreat, return to my bedroom, and pretend I never witnessed this private moment. But something keeps my feet rooted to the spot, hidden in the shadows at the edge of the living area.
Rafa sits on the edge of the couch, his back partially to me, laptop open on the coffee table before him. His head is tilted back slightly, eyes closed, one hand moving with deliberate rhythm beneath the blanket draped across his lap.
The soft glow of the screen catches his profile. The sharp line of his jaw, the way his lips part slightly with each controlled breath, the tension in his shoulders as he chases release in the quiet darkness of my living room.
I know I should look away. Know this is a violation of his privacy, a crossing of boundaries that can’t be uncrossed.Instead, I shift slightly, angling for a view of whatever has inspired this late-night session.
