Khloe's POV
His personal office was quiet—too quiet. The kind of quiet where even a breath felt like it could echo off the walls.
He closed the door behind us.
Not harshly.
Not loudly.
Just… deliberately.
Like he knew exactly what the sound of that latch would do to me.
My pulse immediately reacted.
"We need to talk," he said.
My stomach flipped. "About what?"
"You know what."
I looked away. "Xavier, last night was just—"
"It wasn't nothing."
His voice cut cleanly through the air.
Sharp. Controlled. Unapologetic.
"And you know it."
Heat crawled up my throat. "I didn't say it was nothing."
He took one step toward me.
Then another.
Not rushing.
Not looming.
Just closing the distance with a confidence that felt like gravity itself.
"You avoided my calls," he said quietly.
"I needed time to think."
"So think out loud."
Another small step.
He was close enough now that his body heat brushed my skin, warming the air between us.
"I want to hear it from you."
My breath hitched. "Hear what?"
He leaned in slightly—not touching, just near enough that my body betrayed me, leaning instinctively toward him.
"That you felt it too."
I froze.
Before I could respond, the memory slammed into me so vividly it stole the air from my lungs—
Last night.
His office.
The dim light.
His hand cupping my jaw as if he'd been fighting the urge for months.
The way he pressed his mouth onto mine—firm, slow, devastating—kissing me like he'd finally allowed himself one forbidden moment of indulgence.
Not a mistake.
Not an accident.
Not a spur-of-the-moment lapse.
A choice.
The memory dissolved, leaving me staring at him with my pulse in my mouth.
Xavier's voice dropped to something almost rough. "I haven't stopped thinking about it."
My lungs forgot how to work.
He didn't touch me.
He didn't reach out.
He didn't even tilt his head.
He just… existed near me, and somehow that felt like a hand around my waist.
"I don't regret kissing you," he said.
"You said that already," I whispered.
"And I meant it every time."
I swallowed hard. "Xavier, you're my boss."
"I know."
His jaw tightened.
"I've been trying to act like it all morning."
"Trying?" I whispered.
"That's the problem."
His eyes dropped to my lips for exactly one second—just long enough to make my knees weaken—before returning to mine.
"I'm failing."
My knees actually wobbled.
He noticed immediately.
He softened. "Khloe… talk to me."
This—this right here—was the cornering.
Not physical.
Emotional.
The kind that pinned you in place without touching you at all.
"I…"
My throat tightened.
"I don't know what this is."
His gaze gentled. "Neither do I."
That honesty cut through me sharper than anything else.
"But I'm not pretending last night didn't happen," he said.
"And I'm not pretending I don't want to understand why it happened."
My chest rose shakily. "Xavier—"
"I'm not asking for anything from you."
His voice lowered to something level and sincere.
"I just need the truth."
The truth I'd been trying to outrun all morning.
"I felt it," I whispered.
His eyes flickered. Just slightly. But I saw it.
"But it scared me."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because you're you," I breathed. "And I'm… me."
Something unreadable crossed his face. A flicker of emotion I couldn't get a grip on.
For the first time since we stepped into the office, he moved back.
Just an inch.
But I felt it like a rush of cold air straight to the spine.
"Khloe."
My name again—soft and careful.
"You don't need to be afraid of me."
"I'm not afraid of you."
I wasn't.
I was afraid of what I felt around him.
Afraid of what it could turn into.
Afraid of losing myself in someone powerful, someone magnetic, someone who could ruin my stability with one look.
I was afraid of the possibility.
He exhaled slowly. "Then let's take this one step at a time."
My voice wavered. "What step is this?"
"This," he said quietly, "is the part where we stop pretending."
Something trembled in my chest—like a locked door finally being touched from the outside.
"Pretending what?" I whispered.
He didn't hesitate.
"That I don't want you."
My breath stuttered.
"And," he added, "that you don't want me."
My legs turned liquid. "Xavier—"
His name slipped out of me like a confession.
He stepped forward again—slow enough for me to stop him if I wanted to, close enough that the heat of him wrapped around me again.
He lifted a hand.
Not to touch.
Just to hover.
His fingers came within inches of my cheek, so close I swore I felt his warmth brushing the surface of my skin.
"I won't touch you," he murmured, "unless you want me to."
The restraint in his voice made something in my chest twist painfully.
"I shouldn't…" I whispered.
"I know."
His voice was thick.
"But here we are anyway."
He let his hand drop, not touching me even though I could see the battle in his eyes.
"You have no idea what last night did to me," he said.
My breath trembled. "Then tell me."
His laugh—quiet, humorless—slid through the air.
"I barely slept," he admitted.
"Every time I closed my eyes, I replayed it. The way you looked at me right before I kissed you. The way you kissed me back."
My pulse kicked hard.
He continued, voice low, almost reverent—
"You didn't hesitate, Khloe. Not for a second."
I felt heat bloom across my cheeks.
"You kissed me like you'd been waiting for it."
His eyes darkened.
"And don't lie—I felt that."
I pressed a hand to my stomach because everything inside me tightened at once.
"It meant something to me," he said.
My heart stumbled. "I know."
"And you pushing me away this morning…"
He dragged a hand through his hair, frustrated but composed.
"It made me think maybe you regretted it."
"I didn't," I said instantly.
His head lifted sharply.
"I didn't regret it," I repeated, softer. "That wasn't the problem."
"Then what is?"
"You scare me," I whispered. "Not you—the situation. The way I feel around you."
His breath left him in a slow, controlled exhale.
"You feel something," he said quietly. "At least that's honest."
"I feel too much," I admitted.
The confession filled the space between us like a charged current.
He stepped closer—slow, measured, careful—eyes never leaving mine.
"Then let me match you," he said.
My pulse hammered. "Xavier…"
"I won't cross a line," he said.
"But I'm done pretending there isn't this… thing between us."
I swallowed. "What do you expect to happen?"
He shook his head.
"Nothing. Not yet. Not unless you want it."
He paused, searching my face as if he wanted to memorize every flicker, every hesitation, every breath.
"I just want clarity," he said.
"I need to know we're not alone in this."
"We aren't," I whispered.
Something broke open in his expression—something warm, something relieved, something hungry in the quietest way.
He reached for my hand.
He didn't take it.
Just lowered his own hand until his fingers hovered beside mine on the desk surface.
Barely a millimeter apart.
The smallest, most deliberate non-touch I had ever experienced.
"If you want distance," he said, voice steady, "I'll give it to you."
I stared at our almost-touching hands.
"But if you want honesty…"
His fingers inched closer, slow enough to feel like a question.
"I'll give you that too."
My heart thudded so loud I was sure he heard it. "And what does honesty sound like to you?"
He lifted his eyes to mine.
Unshielded.
Raw.
"It sounds like me admitting," he said, "that I haven't wanted someone this intensely in a very long time."
My lips parted.
"It sounds like me telling you I'm losing my composure around you."
A quiet, intimate pause.
"And I don't lose my composure."
My throat tightened.
"And it sounds like this," he finished softly, "me standing in my office, fighting every instinct I have not to pull you into my arms."
The air turned hot.
Heavy.
My voice was barely a breath. "You're not helping."
"I'm not trying to."
His eyes softened.
"This is me not lying anymore."
We stood there for a long moment—breathing the same air, caught in the same gravity, pretending to have control when neither of us did.
"And you?" he asked quietly.
"What does your honesty sound like?"
I swallowed. Hard.
"My honesty… scares me."
"Say it anyway."
I did.
"I want you too," I whispered.
His inhale was sharp, controlled, and devastatingly quiet.
Our hands still hadn't touched.
And somehow that made everything worse.
Or better.
His voice dropped to something rough. "Then don't run from this."
"I'm not running," I said. "I'm… learning how to stand still."
His lips tilted—barely.
Not a smile.
Just the ghost of one.
The kind that told me he understood exactly what I meant.
"Good," he murmured. "Because neither of us is pretending anymore."
The space between us hummed—alive, electric, dangerous in the most irresistible way.
And just like that…
Everything changed.