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The glittering lights of the gala cast long reflections on the marble floor, but everything blurred for Lucy as she followed Tim into the secluded lounge behind the ballroom. His tuxedo jacket hung on a nearby chair, his white dress shirt discarded on the couch. She watched him struggling to clean his wound as he look into the mirror. A second later he notices her presence through her reflection. He winced as he turned to her, his broad, bare shoulders gleaming under the soft amber light.
“I’m fine,” Tim muttered, his voice soft and low.
“You’re not,” Lucy shot back, grabbing the small first-aid kit from a nearby table. Her voice was sharp “You’re bleeding.”
It had been months since they broke up, but the sight of him like this—vulnerable, shirtless, and still maddeningly perfect—was making her pulse race. He had gotten hurt shielding someone from a falling champagne glass, the broken shard grazing the back of his neck. Typical Tim, always jumping in without a second thought.
“Sit,” she commanded, and to her surprise, he complied, sinking onto the edge of a low velvet ottoman.
Lucy stepped behind him, her fingers brushing his skin as she cleaned the shallow cut. His sharp intake of breath made her pause. “Did that hurt?” she asked softly.
“Not the way you think,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Her breath hitched. She focused on the task, trying to ignore how the heat of his body seemed to seep into her, how his familiar scent—spicy cologne and something uniquely Tim—wrapped around her like a memory she couldn’t shake.
“This is stupid,” she muttered under her breath. “We shouldn’t.”
“I know,” he replied, his voice dark and thick with something unspoken.
Her hand faltered for a moment, and when she placed the bandage on his neck, her fingers lingered. His skin was warm, his muscles taut under her touch. Tim turned his head slightly, just enough for his eyes to meet hers over his shoulder. The tension between them crackled like a live wire.
“Lucy...” he began, but she shook her head, stepping back.
“I should go,” she whispered, though she didn’t move.
Instead, Tim stood, towering over her. The air between them was charged, magnetic, and impossible to resist. When he cupped her cheek, the world outside that room ceased to exist.
“We shouldn’t,” she repeated, her voice trembling.
“I know,” he said again, but this time his lips slowly moved toward hers. Her eyes followed his as he gets closer, and then she just suddenly lose in it and can't remember anything. All she wanted was the feeling of his lips on hers so she close the gap between them and his lips crashed into hers.
The kiss was explosive, months of suppressed feelings unleashed in a single moment. Her hands found his waist, her nails digging into his skin as he pulled her closer, his fingers tangling in her hair. She gasped against his mouth when his lips trailed down her jaw, then lower, to the exposed skin behind the deep V of her gown. His kiss burned like a brand, leaving a mark she’d feel long after the night was over.
Her fingers clawed at him, desperate to hold onto something solid as the world spun out of control. When she finally broke the kiss, breathless, her head rested against his chest. The sound of their ragged breathing filled the room.
“we should talk,” she said, her voice barely audible.
She doesn't want to get hurt by the love of her life again. She can't go through that pain again.
Tim pressed his forehead to hers, his hand sliding down to rest on the small of her back. “You're right” he said between his short breath.
He doesn't want to hurt the love of his life again. He wants to do this right.
But neither of them moved, caught in the gravity of the moment. Not until Angela came in and screamed enthusiastically “I knew I should've bring my popcorn!”
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