A Tension That Lingers
The silence in Peter's office was heavier than usual.
Naarah sat across from him, her hands folded neatly in her lap, eyes flickering with the hint of unspoken questions. The events of the week still lingered in her thoughts—Peter's rival, the strange shift in Peter's moods, and the confusing way her own heart beat faster whenever he looked at her a certain way.
Peter leaned back in his chair, watching her with his unreadable gaze. His navy-blue suit looked untouched, crisp, but his face carried the weight of battles unseen—internal wars he never spoke of.
"You've been quiet," Peter finally said, voice low.
"I don't always have something to say," Naarah replied softly, looking at him from beneath her lashes.
"But you always think," he said, rising to his feet and stepping around his desk. "You've been thinking a lot lately."
She nodded. "You confuse me."
Peter paused. "That's not my intention."
"I don't know if I should thank you or run from you," she added, her honesty bare and a little trembling. "One minute, you're cold and unreadable, and the next, you're... looking at me like you care."
Peter's jaw clenched slightly. He took a few steps forward, the room narrowing with every inch he closed between them. "And what if I told you I do care?"
Naarah's breath caught in her throat. "I'd say that scares me."
He stood before her now, eyes locked onto hers. "Why?"
"Because I've never felt this way before. And I don't know what you expect from me," she whispered.
Peter knelt before her, the action shocking them both. His hand reached out, hesitant, and settled on her knee with a gentleness that contradicted everything he was known for.
"I don't expect anything," he said quietly. "But I do want to protect you."
"Even from yourself?" she asked.
His eyes met hers, intense, and then—softer. "Especially from myself."
She lowered her gaze. "Peter, I know there's something you're hiding… your past, the pain. I feel it when I'm around you. But I don't know if I'm ready to handle the weight of your world."
"I never wanted to burden you with it," he admitted, standing again. "You're light, Naarah. And I… I come from shadows."
Naarah rose too, compelled. "Then maybe it's time to open a window."
Peter laughed, a breathless sound that left his lips before he could stop it. "You really are impossible."
She tilted her head. "Is that your way of saying I'm right?"
He moved closer again, but this time, he didn't hesitate. His hand came up to brush a lock of hair from her cheek, and her heart pounded in her chest. The warmth of his touch—so subtle—ignited a slow burn beneath her skin.
"I'm saying," he murmured, "you're the only one who dares say things like that to me."
A breath passed between them. He could smell the faint scent of jasmine in her hair. Her innocence—it wasn't weakness. It was strength wrapped in softness. It disarmed him more than any weapon could.
She swallowed. "Are you going to kiss me again?"
He gave a small smirk. "You've been thinking about it?"
She flushed, but didn't deny it.
Peter leaned in, closer—but didn't touch her lips. Instead, he brushed a kiss against her forehead, lingering.
Naarah closed her eyes.
It was maddening—this patience he had. This storm he kept bottled behind control.
But she felt it—his restraint, his desire… his turmoil.
"I think about it too much," he finally whispered, lips against her skin. "And every time, I have to remind myself you're not ready."
Naarah's voice trembled. "What if I said I want to be ready… someday?"
Peter stepped back, the ache in his chest growing sharper. "Then I'll wait."
She looked up, surprised.
He gave her a half-smile, soft and sure. "No matter how long it takes."
For the first time in a long time, Naarah felt safe… but also nervous. Because there was something dangerous about a man like Peter choosing to wait. It meant his feelings were real. And real love—terrifying, powerful, all-consuming—was much harder to run from.
She nodded slowly, offering him a small smile. "Then… let's start with coffee?"
Peter blinked, and then chuckled. "You want to go out?"
"I want to know who Peter is. Outside the cold walls and sharp suits. Outside the secrets."
Peter's eyes softened. "Then coffee it is."
As they left the room together, side by side, neither of them said what they were truly thinking:
That a single thread had been tied between their hearts—and even if neither could admit it aloud yet, it was already pulling them closer than either expected.