Ava started arriving earlier, staying later. Work suffered; she was distracted, flushed, replaying his words during meetings. The warehouse became her secret temple.
Theo shared more of himself — the pressure of living in the shadow of his mentor's legacy, the way he poured everything into designs because relationships had always felt risky. He admitted he had never let anyone this close.
"You're changing that," he said one night. "You make me want to redesign my entire life."
They talked about dreams beyond the building: quiet mornings, shared coffee, bodies tangled in sheets. The longing grew almost painful.
During one intense session, Theo's voice took on a commanding edge. He walked her through a longer, slower scene — edging her twice before finally letting her fall apart. Ava cried out loudly enough that she worried someone outside might hear. The pleasure left her shaking, sweat-damp, and deeply sated.
But when the rain stopped, Theo's voice was noticeably weaker.
"Every change you make during the day ripples forward," he warned gently. "Be careful, love. I don't want to lose this. I don't want to lose you."
For the first time, real fear mixed with the desire.