When Our Eyes Met

Part 1: The Scent of Her

Damian

The elevator doors slide open, and Chicago’s pulse hits me—sharp, restless, alive. The hotel lobby of the Grand Meridian is a symphony of glass and gold, chandeliers dripping light like molten honey. I adjust my cufflinks, the weight of the weekend settling into my bones. This design expo is a chance to cement my name, to let my work speak louder than the whispers about my “brooding genius” in last month’s Elite Interiors. But I’m tired. The flight from New York was turbulent, my inbox is a war zone, and I’d rather be sketching in silence than shaking hands with industry egos.

I step into the lobby, my leather shoes clicking against polished marble. The air hums with voices, laughter, the clink of champagne flutes. Then—something else. A scent. It’s faint at first, like a secret whispered on the breeze. Warm amber, a flicker of jasmine, and something deeper, something that tugs at my chest. My pulse quickens. I stop, scanning the crowd. Where is it coming from?

I follow it, weaving through suits and sequins, past a display of minimalist furniture that looks more like modern art than function. The scent grows stronger, curling around me, pulling me toward the far end of the lobby. And then I see her.

She’s standing near a sleek booth draped in velvet, a constellation of glass vials glinting under soft lights. Her hair falls in dark waves over one shoulder, catching the glow like polished obsidian. Her dress—emerald green, fitted just enough to hint at curves—moves with her as she leans forward, speaking to a guest with a smile that’s equal parts warmth and mischief. But it’s her eyes that stop me cold. Hazel, flecked with gold, alive with a fire that feels like it could unravel me.

Our eyes meet. The world tilts.

Her gaze holds mine, unyielding, and for a moment, it’s just us—no crowd, no expo, no obligations. My breath catches, and I swear she feels it too, because her lips part, just slightly, and her hand pauses mid-gesture. The scent is hers. It has to be. It’s not just perfume; it’s her essence, woven into the air, daring me to come closer.

I do.

“Damian Blackwood,” I say, offering my hand, my voice steadier than I feel. “I couldn’t help but follow… whatever that is.” I nod toward the vials, but we both know I mean her.

Her smile curves, slow and knowing. “Natalia Cruz,” she says, her voice low, with a hint of an accent that makes my skin hum. Her hand slips into mine, warm, her fingers brushing my wrist for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. A spark shoots through me, sharp and dangerous. “You’re drawn to my work, then? Or just curious?”

“Both,” I admit, my eyes not leaving hers. “What’s the story behind it?”

She tilts her head, studying me like I’m a puzzle she’s already half-solved. “Desire,” she says simply. “Memory. The things we can’t name but never forget.” She picks up a vial, her movements graceful, and offers it to me. “This one’s new. It’s called Ignite.”

I take it, my fingers grazing hers. The contact sends heat curling up my arm. I lift the vial, inhaling deeply. The scent is bolder now—amber and spice, with a whisper of something floral that feels like a secret meant only for me. “It’s… arresting,” I say, and her laugh, soft and unguarded, makes my chest tighten.

“You have a way with words, Damian Blackwood.” She leans closer, her voice dropping. “Careful. A scent like this can make you reckless.”

I want to say something clever, but my mind is too full of her—her eyes, her voice, the way her presence feels like a match struck in the dark. Instead, I smile, handing the vial back. “I’ll take the risk.”

She holds my gaze, and the air between us thickens, charged with something neither of us can name yet. Then a guest approaches her booth, breaking the spell. “Duty calls,” she says, her tone playful but laced with regret. “Enjoy the expo, Damian.”

I nod, stepping back, but the weight of her gaze follows me as I turn away. My heart’s pounding, and I’m halfway across the lobby before I realize I’m still holding my breath. I glance back, needing to see her one more time.

She’s gone.

The crowd has swallowed her, and the scent—her scent—lingers like a promise I’m not ready to let go of.

Natalia

I’m still tingling.

The expo is a blur of faces and questions, but all I can think about is him. Damian Blackwood. The name fits him—dark, sharp, like the edge of a blade. I saw him before he saw me, striding through the lobby like he owned it, all tailored lines and quiet intensity. His eyes, though—storm-gray, piercing—caught me off guard. When they locked on mine, it was like the air ignited.

I busy myself at my booth, adjusting vials, chatting with a buyer, but my skin hums where his fingers brushed my wrist. It was nothing, really—just a handshake, a fleeting touch. But it felt like everything. His voice, low and deliberate, is still echoing in my head. “I couldn’t help but follow…” God, the way he looked at me, like he was seeing more than my smile, more than my dress. Like he was seeing me.

I created Ignite to capture desire, to bottle the moment before a spark becomes a flame. I never expected to feel it myself. Not here, not now, not with a stranger who’s probably halfway to his next meeting by now.

Still, I scan the crowd, hoping. My heart skips when I think I see a flash of his dark hair, but it’s someone else. He’s gone, and I’m left with this ache, this pull I can’t explain.

I turn back to my work, forcing a smile for the next guest. But deep down, I know this isn’t over. Not yet.

Part 2: Designed to Tempt

Natalia

The expo hall is a kaleidoscope of light and sound, but my focus is fraying. I’m supposed to be charming buyers, pitching Ignite as the scent that’ll haunt their dreams, but my mind keeps slipping back to him. Damian Blackwood. Those storm-gray eyes, the way his voice wrapped around my name like a caress. I shake my head, spritzing a tester strip with my new fragrance. Focus, Natalia. This launch is everything—years of blending, dreaming, pouring my soul into glass vials.

I’m mid-sentence with a boutique owner when a ripple moves through the crowd. Heads turn, murmurs rise. I glance up, and my breath catches. There he is, striding toward my booth, all sharp lines and quiet power. His dark suit hugs his frame like it was poured over him, and the way he moves—controlled, deliberate—makes my pulse stutter.

He stops a few feet away, his gaze locking onto mine. That same electric jolt from yesterday sparks through me, hotter now, hungrier. “Natalia,” he says, and my name in his mouth feels like a secret we’re both keeping.

“Damian,” I reply, my voice steadier than I feel. “Didn’t expect to see you here. Lost again?” I tease, but my heart’s racing.

A half-smile tugs at his lips, and it’s devastating. “Not lost. Invited.” He nods toward a woman nearby—Clara, a mutual contact who’s been raving about his designs all morning. “She thought I’d appreciate your work.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” I say, arching a brow. “What’s the verdict, then? Is Ignite as… arresting as you thought?”

His eyes darken, and he steps closer, close enough that I catch the faint cedar and leather of his cologne. “More,” he says, his voice low, meant for me alone. “It’s dangerous.”

I laugh, but it’s breathless. “Dangerous is my specialty.”

Clara interrupts, gushing about my fragrances, and I nod along, but Damian’s presence is a current pulling me under. When she drifts away, he lingers, studying the vials on my table like they’re blueprints. “Tell me about this one,” he says, picking up a bottle labeled Ember.

I take it from him, our fingers brushing. The contact sends a shiver up my arm, and I don’t miss the way his jaw tightens. “Ember is about heat,” I say, holding his gaze. “The moment before something catches fire. It’s bold, but it lingers… like a memory you can’t shake.”

“Sounds like you,” he murmurs, and my cheeks warm.

We’re interrupted again—another guest, another question—but Damian doesn’t leave. He stays, watching me work, his presence a steady hum in the chaos. When the crowd thins, I slip behind a curtained partition to grab more samples. I’m reaching for a box when I sense him behind me.

“Need a hand?” His voice is close, warm against the back of my neck.

I turn, and he’s right there, the small space shrinking the world to just us. His eyes are molten, searching mine, and I can’t tell if I’m the one leaning closer or if it’s him. “You’re trouble, aren’t you?” I say, but my voice is soft, unguarded.

“Only if you want me to be,” he replies, and there’s a gentleness in it that catches me off guard. His hand lifts, hovering near my cheek, like he’s asking permission. My breath hitches, and I tilt my face, just enough to invite him closer.

The air crackles. His fingers graze my jaw, light as a whisper, and my skin ignites under his touch. We’re so close now, his lips inches from mine, and I can feel the heat of him, the promise of what’s coming. My eyes flutter shut, and—

“Natalia?” Clara’s voice slices through the moment, sharp and oblivious.

I jerk back, my heart pounding. Damian’s hand drops, but his eyes don’t leave mine, burning with something that makes my knees weak. “Later,” he says, a vow wrapped in a single word.

He steps back, and I’m left breathless, clutching the box like it’s the only thing keeping me grounded.

Damian

I’m unraveling.

Every ounce of control I’ve built—years of discipline, focus, restraint—is slipping through my fingers like sand. Natalia Cruz is a force, a wildfire in emerald silk, and I’m caught in her orbit. I wasn’t supposed to be here, wasn’t supposed to let a chance encounter derail my weekend. But when Clara mentioned her event, I couldn’t stay away.

Watching her work is a revelation. She’s all confidence and charm, her laughter bright, her passion for her craft infectious. But it’s the moments when she thinks no one’s watching—the way she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the quiet intensity in her eyes—that hit me hardest. She’s real, unguarded, and it’s pulling me apart.

That moment behind the curtain… God, I nearly lost it. Her skin was so soft under my fingers, her breath hitching like she felt it as much as I did. I wanted to kiss her, to taste the spice and amber of her, to see how much further this could go. And she wanted it too—I saw it in her eyes, felt it in the way she leaned into me.

Clara’s interruption was a mercy and a curse. I step back into the expo hall, forcing air into my lungs. Natalia’s still behind the curtain, and I can’t tell if I’m relieved or aching to go back. My phone buzzes—another email, another demand—but it’s noise. All I can think about is her. The way she challenged me with that teasing smile. The way she didn’t back down.

I glance at her booth, catching a glimpse of her as she emerges, her cheeks flushed, her eyes scanning the crowd. They find mine, and the air charges again, a silent promise passing between us.

This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.

Part 3: Room 412

Damian

The expo hall fades behind me, but Natalia’s presence clings like her scent—warm, intoxicating, impossible to shake. I’m supposed to be prepping for my talk tomorrow, finalizing slides, but my mind is a riot of her: the curve of her smile, the heat of her skin under my fingers, the way her eyes dared me to cross a line we both felt. I’m losing my grip, and for once, I don’t care.

I find her at the end of the evening, as the crowd thins and the lights dim. She’s packing up her booth, her movements graceful but tired, a stray lock of hair falling across her cheek. I pause, watching her, my chest tight with something I can’t name.

“Natalia,” I say, stepping closer.

She looks up, and her eyes light with that fire that’s been burning me all day. “Damian,” she says, her voice soft but laced with curiosity. “Stalking me now?”

I smile, leaning against her table. “Maybe. Or maybe I just wanted to see you again.”

Her lips twitch, and she sets down a vial, giving me her full attention. “And why’s that?”

Because you’re unraveling me. Because I can’t stop thinking about you. Instead, I say, “I’d like to show you something. My designs. Upstairs, in my suite. No pressure—just… a conversation.”

Her brow arches, and for a moment, I think she’ll tease me again, call me out for the flimsy excuse. But her gaze searches mine, and something shifts—curiosity, maybe, or the same pull I’m feeling. “Lead the way,” she says, her voice steady but her eyes betraying a flicker of uncertainty.

The elevator ride is torture. We’re alone, the air thick with unspoken words. She stands close enough that I can feel the warmth of her, smell the amber and jasmine of Ignite. My hands itch to touch her, but I keep them at my sides, my control fraying with every floor we pass.

My suite—Room 412—is all clean lines and muted grays, a canvas of my work. I gesture to the sketches spread across the desk, but it’s a pretense, and we both know it. She steps inside, her dress catching the lamplight, and I close the door behind us. The click feels final, like we’ve crossed a threshold.

“These are yours?” she asks, running a finger along a blueprint of a penthouse I designed last year. Her touch is light, reverent, and I’m jealous of the paper.

“Yeah,” I say, moving closer. “They’re… me. Or part of me.”

She turns, her eyes locking onto mine. “Tell me about that part.”

I swallow, caught off guard by the question. “It’s about creating something that feels alive. Spaces that hold stories, emotions. Like your scents.”

Her smile is slow, knowing. “You’re more poetic than you let on, Damian Blackwood.”

“And you’re more dangerous than you seem, Natalia Cruz.”

She laughs, but it’s soft, and the space between us shrinks. We’re inches apart now, the air humming with tension. I reach out, brushing that stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her breath catches, and her eyes flutter, but she doesn’t pull away. My fingers linger, tracing the line of her jaw, and her skin is so soft it’s maddening.

“Damian,” she whispers, and my name in her voice is a spark to dry tinder.

I lean in, my lips hovering near hers, close enough to feel her warmth. “Tell me to stop,” I murmur, my voice rough, giving her an out, praying she doesn’t take it.

She doesn’t. Her eyes hold mine, fierce and unguarded, and she tilts her chin, closing the distance. Our lips brush—soft, tentative—and the world explodes. Her kiss is fire, slow and deliberate, and I’m lost in it, in her. My hands find her waist, pulling her closer, and she melts against me, her fingers curling into my shirt.

The kiss deepens, and it’s everything—her scent, her taste, the way she sighs against my mouth. I’m drowning, and I don’t want to come up for air.

Natalia

I’m falling, and I don’t know how to stop.

Damian’s suite is a blur of shadows and sketches, but all I see is him. His eyes, dark and hungry, hold me captive as he brushes my hair back, his touch so gentle it aches. I should be cautious—this is too fast, too intense—but my body doesn’t care. My heart doesn’t care. All I want is him, this moment, the fire we’re kindling.

His lips are so close, his breath warm against mine. “Tell me to stop,” he says, and it’s a plea, a challenge. I can feel his restraint, the way he’s holding himself back, and it only makes me want him more.

I don’t stop him. I can’t. I lean in, and when our lips meet, it’s like the world catches fire. His kiss is slow, searing, and I’m unraveling under it. His hands slide to my waist, strong and sure, and I press myself closer, needing to feel him, to anchor myself in this storm. My fingers grip his shirt, and a soft sound escapes me, swallowed by the heat of his mouth.

We pull back, just enough to breathe, our foreheads touching. His eyes are molten, searching mine, and I see it—the same mix of desire and vulnerability I’m feeling. “Natalia,” he says, my name a low growl, and it sends a shiver through me.

I want to say something, to tell him how much this scares me, how much it thrills me. But words feel too small. Instead, I kiss him again, deeper this time, and he responds with a hunger that matches mine. His hands roam, tracing the curve of my spine, and I’m lost in the feel of him, the way he makes me forget everything but this.

We stumble toward the couch, lips never parting, and I’m not sure if this is a mistake or the most real thing I’ve ever felt. All I know is I don’t want it to end.

Part 4: Stay With Me

Natalia

Morning light spills through the curtains, soft and golden, painting Damian’s suite in hues of warmth. I wake slowly, my body heavy with the memory of last night—his kisses, his hands, the way we unraveled together until the world was nothing but heat and heartbeat. I’m tangled in his sheets, his arm draped over my waist, his breath steady against my shoulder. For a moment, I let myself linger in this quiet, in the rise and fall of his chest, in the way his presence feels like a safe harbor.

But reality creeps in, sharp and unyielding. What am I doing? This wasn’t supposed to happen—not this fast, not this deep. My heart aches with the weight of it, with the fear that this is too much, too soon. I slip out from under his arm, careful not to wake him, and pad across the room to gather my clothes. My dress is a rumpled heap on the floor, a silent witness to how easily I let myself fall.

I dress quickly, my movements mechanical, but my eyes keep drifting back to him. Damian sleeps soundly, his dark hair mussed, his face softer than I’ve ever seen it. There’s a vulnerability there that tugs at me, makes me want to crawl back into his arms and forget the world. But I can’t. Not when my past is whispering in my ear, reminding me of promises broken, of trust shattered. I thought I was stronger than this, but Damian… he’s a current I didn’t see coming.

I’m at the door, my hand on the knob, when his voice stops me. “Natalia.”

It’s low, rough with sleep, and it hits me like a punch. I turn, and he’s sitting up, the sheet pooling at his waist, his eyes locked on mine. There’s no anger there, just a quiet intensity that makes my throat tight. “Don’t go,” he says.

I swallow, my voice barely a whisper. “I have to.”

“Why?” He stands, unbothered by his nakedness, and crosses the room to me. His presence is overwhelming, not just his body but the way he sees me, like I’m the only thing that matters. “Talk to me.”

I shake my head, my eyes burning. “This… it’s too much, Damian. I wasn’t ready for this. For you.”

He steps closer, not touching me but close enough that I feel his warmth. “And you think I was? Natalia, I haven’t felt like this in years. Maybe ever.”

His words crack something open in me, and I can’t hold it back anymore. “I got burned before,” I say, my voice trembling. “Someone I trusted, someone I thought I loved. He took everything—my confidence, my dreams—and left me picking up the pieces. I swore I’d never let myself fall like that again.”

Damian’s eyes soften, and he reaches for my hand, his touch gentle but firm. “I’m not him,” he says. “I’m not going anywhere unless you tell me to.”

I want to believe him. God, I want to. But fear is a heavy thing, and it’s clawing at me. “I need time,” I say, pulling my hand back. “I need to think.”

He nods, but the hurt in his eyes mirrors my own. “Okay,” he says. “But I’m here. Whenever you’re ready.”

I turn away before I lose my nerve, slipping out the door and into the hallway. The elevator is waiting, its doors gleaming like a guillotine. I step inside, my chest tight, and press the button for the lobby. As the doors start to close, I see him—Damian, standing in the hallway, his eyes fixed on me. His hand reaches out, like he can stop the metal from separating us.

Damian

She’s slipping away, and it’s killing me.

I stand in the hallway, my heart pounding, watching the elevator doors close. Natalia’s face is the last thing I see—those hazel eyes, wide and conflicted, glistening with unshed tears. I want to chase her, to pull her back, to tell her she doesn’t have to be afraid. But I know it won’t help. Not now. She needs space, and as much as it hurts, I have to give it to her.

Back in my suite, the silence is deafening. Her scent lingers—amber, jasmine, her—and it’s a cruel reminder of how close we were, how real it felt. Last night wasn’t just physical; it was her laughter, her vulnerability, the way she looked at me like I was more than the man on the magazine covers. I haven’t let anyone in like that in years, not since life taught me that control was safer than connection.

But Natalia… she’s different. She’s fire and heart, and I’m not ready to let her go. I sit on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my hair, replaying her words. I got burned before. The thought of someone hurting her, dimming that light in her, makes my fists clench. I want to be the one to show her she’s safe, that this—us—is worth the risk.

My phone buzzes, a reminder of my talk later today, but it’s meaningless. All I can think about is her, the way she trembled when she spoke, the way she looked at me before the doors closed. I can’t let this end here, not like this.

I grab my jacket and head for the elevator, my mind racing. She said she needs time, but I need her to know I’m not giving up. Not on her. Not on us. The lobby is bustling when I reach it, but she’s nowhere in sight. My chest tightens, but I’m not done looking.

The hotel garden, I think. She mentioned it yesterday, how the roses reminded her of a scent she once created. It’s a long shot, but it’s all I’ve got.

Part 5: The Only Thing Real

Damian

The hotel garden is a quiet oasis, tucked behind the Grand Meridian’s gleaming facade. Roses bloom in reckless bursts of red and white, their scent heavy in the morning air, mingling with the crisp bite of Chicago’s spring. I move through the winding paths, my pulse a steady drum, searching for her. Natalia. The woman who’s turned my world upside down in a single weekend.

I almost miss her. She’s sitting on a stone bench, half-hidden by a trellis draped in ivy, her emerald dress swapped for jeans and a soft cream sweater. Her hair is loose, catching the sunlight, and her face is unguarded, raw with thought. My chest tightens. She’s beautiful, not just in the way that stops you cold, but in the way that makes you want to know every story behind her eyes.

I approach, my steps deliberate, giving her time to see me. Her gaze lifts, and when our eyes meet, it’s like the first time—electric, undeniable. But there’s something new in her expression now: not just fear, but hope.

“Damian,” she says, her voice soft, like she’s testing the weight of my name.

“Natalia.” I stop a few feet away, giving her space. “I couldn’t let you leave. Not without this.”

She tilts her head, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “And what’s this?”

“Us,” I say simply. “Whatever this is, wherever it’s going—I need you to know I’m all in.”

Her breath catches, and she stands, closing the distance between us. “You don’t even know me,” she says, but there’s no conviction in it, just a quiet plea for reassurance.

“I know enough.” I step closer, my voice low. “I know you light up a room without trying. I know you pour your heart into everything you create. I know you’re scared, but you’re still here, standing in front of me. That’s more than enough.”

Her eyes glisten, and she looks away, toward the roses. “I ran this morning because I was afraid,” she admits. “Not just of you, but of how much I want this. How much I want you. It’s been a long time since I let myself feel like this.”

I reach for her hand, and she lets me take it, her fingers warm and steady in mine. “I’m scared too,” I say. “I’ve spent years building walls, keeping people out. But you… you walked right through them. And I don’t want to go back to the way things were.”

She looks up at me, her hazel eyes searching mine, and I see the moment she decides. Her free hand lifts, resting against my chest, and my heart stutters under her touch. “What happens next, Damian? Chicago, Paris, wherever I am… what does this look like?”

I cover her hand with mine, holding it there, letting her feel the rhythm of my pulse. “It looks like us figuring it out together. Long-distance, late-night calls, weekends stolen between your scents and my sketches. I’ll come to you, you’ll come to me. We’ll make it work, because this—” I gesture between us, “—this is the only thing that feels real.”

A tear slips down her cheek, but she’s smiling now, bright and unguarded. “You’re trouble, Damian Blackwood,” she says, echoing her words from yesterday, but this time they’re laced with affection.

“And you’re worth it, Natalia Cruz.” I brush the tear away with my thumb, my fingers lingering on her cheek.

She rises on her toes, and when her lips meet mine, it’s not the fire of last night but something deeper, softer—a promise sealed in the quiet of the garden. I kiss her back, slow and sure, tasting the salt of her tears and the sweetness of her surrender. Her arms wrap around me, and I hold her close, the world falling away until it’s just us, just this.

Natalia

I’m home.

That’s what it feels like, standing in Damian’s arms, his kiss anchoring me to the earth. The fear that drove me to the elevator this morning is still there, a quiet hum beneath my skin, but it’s no match for this—for him. His words, his touch, the way he sees me… it’s more than I ever thought I’d find.

I pull back, just enough to look at him. His storm-gray eyes are soft, unguarded, and I wonder how I ever thought I could walk away from this. “Together, then,” I say, my voice steady. “Let’s find out what this is.”

His smile is devastating, all warmth and quiet joy. “Together,” he echoes, and it feels like a vow.

We walk back to the hotel hand in hand, the roses’ scent trailing us like a blessing. The expo is still buzzing, my booth waiting, his talk looming, but none of it matters as much as this moment. I steal a glance at him, at the way his thumb brushes over my knuckles, and my heart swells.

In the lobby, he stops, turning to face me. “I have to go prep,” he says, regret in his voice. “But tonight—dinner. Just us.”

I nod, my smile teasing. “Only if you promise not to follow any more mysterious scents.”

He laughs, low and rich. “No promises. You’re too hard to resist.”

One more kiss, quick but lingering, and then he’s gone, striding toward the elevators with that quiet confidence that drew me to him in the first place. I watch him go, my chest full, my fears quieted by the certainty of us.

Back at my booth, I pick up a vial of Ignite, the scent that started it all. It’s more than amber and jasmine now—it’s the memory of his eyes meeting mine, the spark of that first touch, the promise of what’s to come. I smile, tucking the vial into my bag.

Chicago, Paris, wherever we are—I’m ready. For him. For us. For the only thing that’s ever felt this real.