I stand in front of the mirror, my reflection staring back at me with vacant indifference. It's an object I rarely acknowledge, its only purpose serving as an accessory to the bathroom sink. But today, I find myself scrutinizing every detail—every wrinkle in my shirt, every out-of-place strand of hair.

Pathetic.

I never cared about my appearance before. My wardrobe had always been about utility, not fashion. But now, as I rifle through my closet, an irritating awareness settles in.

Black tees. Black jeans. A couple of slacks. One suit—worn only once at my grandmother's funeral. Two white dress shirts. Some shoes. A watch Charlie got me for my birthday.

That was it. My entire wardrobe, now feeling painfully inadequate.

Josh cared about fashion. That much was clear from the way he expressed himself with clothes, while I... I dressed like someone who didn't want to be perceived. Mostly because I didn't.

And yet, here I was, obsessing over what to wear as if my life depended on it.

I run a hand down my face and groan. This is ridiculous. There's only one solution.

I have to buy something.

Grabbing my keys, I check my phone—1:15 PM. That leaves me enough time to find something before our meeting at 3:00.

The mall is a maze. Too many stores, too many options. I walk aimlessly, my irritation growing with each passing second, until something catches my eye—a mannequin dressed in hippy, high-fashion streetwear. The kind of thing Josh would wear.

I step inside the store, the scent of expensive cologne hitting me immediately. A sales attendant, a woman with a sleek bob and sharp eyes, approaches with a well-trained smile.

"Looking for something specific?" she asks.

"I need to impress someone into fashion," I say flatly. "So, give me something that'll do that."

Her smile widens like she's just been handed a challenge. "Say no more."

And then, the torture begins.

She hands me outfit after outfit—printed shirts, ripped jeans, structured blazers, boots I wouldn't normally glance at twice. I try them on, stepping out of the fitting room each time for her to assess. She hums, tilting her head, adjusting collars, swapping belts. The process is excruciating.

Nothing feels right.

Frustrated, I pull out my phone and, before I can overthink it, hit video call on Elle's contact.

She picks up after four rings, her face filling the screen—confused, slightly annoyed. "Mark?" Her voice is hushed. "I'm with a client."

"Yeah, yeah," I wave her off. "This is more important." I angle the phone toward two outfits hanging on the fitting room door. "Which one?"

Elle exhales sharply, rubbing her temples. "What's the occasion?"

"I'll explain when we meet," I say impatiently. "Just pick."

She studies the options, her lips pursing. "Go with the navy blue ensemble. It's polished but not too formal— I'm guessing this is about Josh?"

I nod not answering her. "Alright, I'll take it."

"Wait—Mark, what is this even—"

I hang up before she can finish.

Turning back to the attendant, I gesture at the navy blue outfit. "I'll take this one. And the other ones you picked too."

She blinks. "All of them?"

"Yes. And charge it to this." I hand over my card without a second thought.

A glance at my phone makes my stomach drop—2:15 PM.

Shit.

"How fast can you have my old clothes and the rest of these sent to my house?"

"We can arrange that immediately."

"Good. I need to wear this out."

Within minutes, the transaction is handled, and I leave the store in my new outfit, hoping I don't look ridiculous.

As I head for the exit, something in a glass display catches my attention—a familiar perfume bottle. The same one Josh had used in my bathroom.

Before I can stop myself, I step inside and buy it.

In my car, I uncap the bottle, mimicking what I had seen Josh do. A spray on the wrists. Rub them together. Press it against my neck.

The scent hits me instantly, and my mind betrays me.

The image of Josh sprawled on my passenger seat flickers to life—his arms behind his head, lips curved into a lazy smirk, his eyes locked onto mine like I was something worth looking at.

My pulse spikes.

Groaning, I drop my head against the steering wheel, gripping it tightly.

Will I be able to keep myself composed for the duration of this meeting?

I don't want to mess this up.

I exhale sharply, forcing the thought away.

I have to.

I have no other choice.

I barely catch my breath as I step into the dimly lit restaurant, adjusting my shirt with trembling fingers. I recite the reservation name—Daniel Price—and follow the host to the table. Each step feels heavier, my pulse hammering in anticipation.

Then, I sees him.

Josh sitting with an effortless elegance, one arm resting lightly on the table, his fingers tracing absent patterns against the pristine white tablecloth. The golden glow of the restaurant's lighting barely touches him, casting shadows along his sharp cheekbones, the delicate bridge of his nose, the curve of his lips. He's dressed in black—a fitted dress shirt that clings to his frame like a second skin, each button tauntingly close to being undone. The cuffs are rolled just above his wrists, exposing veins I  suddenly want to trace with my fingertips.

The color suits him too well. It devours the light, just like he devours my sanity.

His hair falls slightly over his eyes, effortless strands spilling over skin too soft, too perfect. His lashes cast elongated shadows, and his lips—God, his lips—are slightly parted, as if he had just exhaled a quiet secret into the air. He looks untouchable, yet unbearably real.

I grip the back of my chair to ground myself before sinking into the seat opposite Josh, forcing his breathing to slow.

He's here. Alone. No manager. Just him.

Josh offers a small, hesitant smile. "Hi."

I nearly choke. How could something so simple unravel me this much?

A Feast of Obsession.

Josh skims through the menu, and I loathe the way it blocks my view. I pick up my own, pretending to read, but my thoughts circle around the man across from me, orbiting like a helpless moon caught in my gravity.

When the waiter arrives, Josh orders first.

"I'll have the filet mignon, rare, with a side of roasted asparagus. And the Château Margaux, 2015—if that's alright?" He glances up at me, seeking approval.

I nod automatically. I hadn't heard a word. Only his voice.

"And for you, sir?" The waiter turns to me.

"Uh..." I barely glance at the menu and point at the first thing eye catching. "The seafood risotto."

The waiter hums, noting the order before moving to leave, but Josh stops him.

"Wait—that has shellfish. You're allergic, aren't you?"

I blink, startled.

How did he know that?

Josh frowns, turning to the waiter. "Make sure there's no shellfish in his dish. He's allergic."

The words take a moment to register. "How did you know?"

"You don't remember?" He tilts his head, studying me. "You had a reaction in the cafeteria. You passed out. I thought you were going to die that day."

There's something in his voice, something I can't quite grasp. I don't remember the incident at all, but he does.

He looked worried. Why?

I watch him, staring, cataloging every detail as if committing him to memory. He notices and looks away. He always does.

Why?

Does he feel it too—the weight of my gaze, thi slow, inevitable pull?

This dark hunger.

When the food arrives, I don't eat. I watch.

He moves with an unstudied grace, as if the world bends around him. The light flickers against his skin, dancing along his throat when he tips his wine glass back, highlighting the line of his jaw.

He cuts into his steak, the knife sliding effortlessly through the rare meat. His fingers grip the fork with a delicate precision, lifting it to his lips—lips that part, slow, unhurried, before enclosing around the silverware.

I swallow hard, fingers tightening around my napkin.

It's obscene. The way he moves. The way he swallows. The way his tongue flicks out briefly, barely touching his bottom lip, collecting the remnants of wine.

Heat coils in my gut, dangerous and searing.

Control yourself.

I shift in my seat, crossing my legs under the table, willing the tension in my body to ease.

He exhales a small sigh of satisfaction, setting down his fork, and I wonder if he sounds like that during—

No. Stop.

He glances up, and our eyes meet.

"It's hard to eat if you keep staring at me like that," He says.

I clench my jaw. "Sorry, I just—"

"You just?" He pushes, his gaze unwavering for once.

I drown in the intensity of his eyes, swallowed whole by something I can't name. I need an escape, a distraction—anything.

"So about the contract," I blurt out.

He tenses, his expression shifting. His lips press into a thin line before he throws his napkin onto the table, looking frustrated.

"Here." He tosses a file across the table. "You can look it over and negotiate."

I flip through it. A formality. I don't need to read it. Whatever is in there, I'll agree to.

"Where do I sign?"

Josh narrows his eyes. "You didn't even read it."

"I don't need to."

"I can only see you two times a week," He states.

I nod. It's more than I expected.

"My hourly rate is $600," He adds.

Expensive. Worth it though.

"That's fine too."

"I have to approve any of the art before it's exhibited. If I don't like it, it doesn't get included."

"Reasonable."

I find the signature line and pull out my pen, but before I can sign, Josh's hand clamps over mine, stopping me.

Warmth.

My breath hitches.

He retracts his hand immediately. "Don't you have any conditions?"

I lift my gaze, my voice even softer now. "Not really. As long as I get to see you."

Josh stiffens. His eyes widen before he quickly looks away.

"I mean—I can't draw you if I don't see you," I correct hastily, but the damage is done.

He gulps down his wine, his fingers gripping the glass with an unusual tightness.

I watch, confused, as he refills his glass—then another, and another—until the bottle is nearly empty.

"Are you okay?" I ask cautiously.

He sets his glass down, exhaling sharply. "We're done here, right?" He moves to stand.

No. Not yet.

I panic, searching for a reason to keep him here.

"Would you like to see my studio?" The words tumble out.

He pauses, his expression wary. "I thought it was being remodeled?"

"It is. But I have a home studio," I lie.

He studies me for a long moment before nodding.

I exhale, barely hiding my relief.

I throw a few bills onto the table, grab my keys, and lead Josh to my car.

Now, I have him alone.

The drive was a quiet one and soon we are at my house. Once inside, he takes off his shoes at the door—something I've had to remind Ronald about for years, though he never listens.

But Josh knows.

He's in my home, in my space.

Should I lock the door and throw away the key?

"It's just this way," I say, leading him up the stairs. He follows, his presence a quiet storm behind me. I steal glances at him as we ascend. His eyes roam the house, taking in everything, yet he doesn't notice me watching him—studying him—like a man possessed.

When we reach the door with the coded lock, I turn to face him. His gaze finds mine, steady, questioning.

"Can you wait here for a bit?" I ask. Confusion flickers across his face, but he nods.

I slip away to my room, grab an eye mask, and return to find him still standing there, awkward, expectant.

"I know this is a weird request, but I'm going to put this on you," I say, holding up the mask.

His lips part slightly, his expression unreadable. But in his eyes, I catch it—something dark, something that makes my breath hitch. A flicker of desire, subtle but there, stretching toward the line I've tried not to cross. Not yet at least.

I could just have him wait while I hide the paintings. But this? This is more fun. And I get to touch him.

"Fine," he says, no hesitation, no questions. He stands still, watching me, waiting.

I step behind him, our bodies brushing, and I hear the softest gasp slip from his lips. I want to swallow it, claim it, taste it.

He shifts slightly, leaning back just enough that his spine presses against my chest. My pulse pounds in my ears. He smells like citrus and something woodsy—intoxicating, grounding, and utterly him.

Then he moves again, just a fraction, but it's enough. Enough for his body to press against the erection between my legs. I gasp.

"Mark." His voice is low, a warning, a plea—I don't know which.

"Wait." I stop him before he can turn around, because if I see his face now, if I see his eyes, I won't be able to stop myself.

I reach over his head, carefully pulling the mask on, my fingers brushing his skin.

His breath catches.

So does mine.

The moment it's secured, I pull away too fast, like I've been burned. My heart is a caged animal, rattling against my ribs.

"Mark," he says again, and my name on his lips is a drug I don't know how to quit.

I want to kiss him.

I want to bury my face against his neck, inhale him, let his scent drown me. I want to touch him everywhere, strip him bare, trace every inch of his skin with my mouth.

But I can't.

Because if he knew—if he really knew—he might be disgusted. He might never look at me the same way again.

So I grab his hand instead, forcing myself to ignore the urge to intertwine our fingers. Instead, I lead him into my studio.

I position him in the center of the room before flipping on the lights.

One by one, I gather my paintings of him. All of them—except one. And then, I cover them with a tarp.

"Can I take it off now?" he asks.

"Not yet," I say, my voice betraying the nervous wreck I've become.

I prop up a painting in front of him—my fractured puzzle piece art of him. A reflection of how I see him, how I feel about him, the pieces of him that consume me.

"Now," I whisper.

He reaches up and pulls off the mask.

For a second, he doesn't move. Doesn't react.

My stomach knots.

Was it too much? Should I have kept it hidden? Did I ruin this?

"You don't like it?" My voice barely escapes my lips.

He finally looks at me. "It's just... when did you paint this?"

I force a smirk, trying to play it cool. "I told you I was bored. It was supposed to be a gift, but if you don't like it, I totally get it."

"I love it," he says.

Something in me shifts.

I've never cared about anyone's approval before. But his?

His means everything.

I take a step forward, and the air between us changes—thickening into something electric and undeniable. The dim light in the studio casts shadows that dance across his face, accentuating the sharp angles of his jaw, the fullness of his lips, the flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. He doesn't move away.

I take another step.

He stands still, his gaze unwavering, like he's bracing for something. Or maybe... inviting it.

Or I'm deluding myself

I feel the pulse of my own desire clawing at me, demanding to be let free. Every moment spent in his presence has been a slow, excruciating burn, and now, with only inches between us, the fire is roaring. My fingers twitch at my side, aching to touch. And then I do.

My hand lifts, tentative at first, like an artist contemplating the first brushstroke on a blank canvas. I glide my fingertips over his cheek, featherlight but firm enough that I feel the way he leans into it. A slow, unspoken surrender. My breath stutters.

His skin is warm under my touch, smooth except for the slight stubble at his jawline. I drag my thumb across it, relishing the roughness beneath my fingertips, the contrast between softness and something raw, untamed.

Josh exhales shakily.

I swear I feel it against my lips.

My hand moves, skimming the side of his face, ghosting over the curve of his jaw, my thumb grazing the corner of his mouth. His lips part slightly, and I can't breathe. My mind is a hurricane of wants, and all of them lead to the same conclusion: I need to kiss him.

Needs.

My fingers slip to the nape of his neck, my other hand lifting to cup his cheek fully now. He doesn't flinch. He doesn't step back. If anything, he tilts his head just enough to fit into my touch, his lashes fluttering, his lips parting just a fraction more.

God.

My heart pounds, wild and unrelenting. If I don't kiss him now, I'm going to lose my mind.

I tilt my head, lean in—

A sharp ring slices through the moment.

Josh stiffens. I freeze, my lips barely a breath away from touching his.

The phone rings again.

And just like that, reality comes crashing down.

Josh's eyes widen, panic flashing in them before he pushes me away—too hard, too abrupt, like he's trying to erase the last few seconds, like they were never here, like this never happened.

I flinch, the warmth of his touch vanishing like smoke between my fingers.

The phone continues to ring.

Josh fumbles for it, his hands shaking slightly as he pulls it out. His expression darkens when he sees the name on the screen. His breath catches, his grip tightening.

And then I see it too.

Jamie.

He curses under his breath and backs away, his posture stiff, his movements frantic.

"I have to—" he starts, but he doesn't finish.

He just turns and walks out.

I don't stop him.

I stand there, the echoes of our almost-kiss still clinging to my skin, still burning my lips.

Jamie.

From high school?

Authors note:
I know we all wish that call never came through, trust me, Marks giving me grief over it right now 😂😂😂.
See you next chapter
Word count- 3150