Three months.
That was how long Owen had known you as Nocturne's favorite bad habit.
He didn't know your name. Didn't know your face. Didn't know exactly where you lived or worked.
Those had been the rules from the beginning.
No photographs. No real names. No digging.
Everything else?
That boundary had gotten considerably blurrier.
At 1:13 a.m., Owen lay shirtless across his bed, one arm behind his head, phone illuminating the dark room.
You: You're impossible.
His mouth curved.
Nocturne: You've been talking to me for three hours. Clearly you have terrible judgment.
You: Maybe I like terrible decisions.
Owen stared at that one for a moment.
Christ.
Three months ago, he would've responded immediately.
Now he knew better.
Sometimes making you wait was considerably more effective.
Nocturne: Careful.
Three dots.
Gone.
Back again.
Owen smiled.
There it was.
He'd learned your tells even through a screen.
He knew when he'd flustered you. Knew when you were pretending something hadn't affected you. Knew which subjects made you suddenly type slower.
And he knew things about your desires that had absolutely no business occupying his thoughts as often as they did.
The fucked-up part?
You knew his too.
Nocturne wasn't a character Owen played.
Nocturne was Owen without the suit, professional restraint, carefully controlled expressions, or instinct to keep everyone several feet away emotionally.
You'd gotten closer to the real man than anyone had in years.
And Owen hadn't even seen your face.
---
The next afternoon, Owen was considerably less entertained.
"You can't seriously think that's going to work."
He slowly raised his eyes from the report.
You stood across the conference table.
Of course.
His favorite professional pain in the ass.
Owen leaned back.
"I don't think it'll work."
A beat.
"I know it will."
The argument lasted thirty-eight minutes.
He knew because he'd checked the clock twice while wondering when exactly he'd started enjoying fighting with you this much.
You challenged everything.
Interrupted when he deserved it.
Refused to be intimidated by him.
And when you got genuinely annoyed, something changed in your expression that made Owen's attention wander somewhere profoundly unprofessional.
Don't.
He returned his attention to the report.
You challenged another point.
Definitely don't.
Ten minutes later everyone else finally escaped.
You remained.
Naturally.
Owen gathered his papers while you finished whatever argument you'd apparently decided needed an encore.
He looked up.
His gaze lingered a fraction too long.
That had been happening more frequently lately.
Annoying.
Because wanting the woman currently explaining why he was an arrogant bastard complicated an otherwise perfectly enjoyable rivalry.
"You finished?" he asked.
You shot something back.
Owen's mouth twitched.
There it was again.
That fucking look.
He stepped around the table, stopping near you without touching.
"Most people buy me dinner before spending forty minutes trying to screw me."
Then he walked out.
Because staying suddenly seemed like a questionable decision.
---
At 8:42 that evening, Owen was standing over a saucepan when his phone vibrated.
Nocturne had a message.
He opened it immediately.
You: Remember that asshole from work?
Owen stirred the sauce one-handed.
Nocturne: The one you've definitely never fantasized about murdering?
You: That's the one.
A quiet laugh escaped him.
Nocturne: What did he do now?
Your answer appeared.
You: He looked me dead in the eye and said, “Most people buy me dinner before spending forty minutes trying to screw me.”
Owen's hand stopped.
The wooden spoon remained suspended above the pan.
His amusement disappeared.
He read the message again.
Exact wording.
Exact.
Another message arrived.
You: I swear Owen Fletcher was put on this earth specifically to test my patience.
Everything inside him went still.
Owen Fletcher.
He looked at his own fucking name glowing on the screen.
Then things began clicking into place.
Your vague descriptions of work.
The stories.
Your schedule.
That oddly specific complaint two weeks ago.
The restaurant you'd mentioned near your office.
Little details he'd dismissed because he'd promised not to investigate who you were.
Owen slowly set the spoon down.
"No fucking way."
His phone buzzed.
You: What?
He didn't answer.
Because another realization had arrived.
A much worse one.
Owen knew what you fantasized about.
He knew what kind of flirting affected you.
What kind of voice.
What kind of tension.
What you liked being told.
What you'd admitted wanting only after he'd spent twenty minutes teasing it out of you one night.
And apparently the person who'd trusted him with all of that was the same woman who'd spent this afternoon glaring across a conference table at him.
Fuck.
His mind immediately supplied memories it had no business connecting.
Things you'd told Nocturne paired with moments he'd witnessed in person.
Your expression earlier.
That tiny hesitation when he'd stepped closer.
The way you'd looked at his rolled sleeves—
Owen froze.
Oh, you've got to be fucking kidding me.
Two weeks ago.
You'd told Nocturne about the sleeves.
He actually laughed then, low and disbelieving.
His phone vibrated again.
You: Nocturne?
He should tell you.
There wasn't even a question.
Three months of trust deserved better than whatever fucked-up temptation was currently forming in his head.
His thumbs hovered above the keyboard.
Then another message arrived.
You: Don't tell me you're taking his side.
Owen stared at it.
A slow, deeply inappropriate smile pulled at his mouth.
He was absolutely going to hell.
Nocturne: I haven't decided yet.
You: Traitor.
Owen leaned against the counter.
Nocturne: Tell me something first.
The typing bubble appeared immediately.
You: What?
Owen hesitated.
Then typed:
Nocturne: You talk about Fletcher a lot for someone who supposedly can't stand him.
Three dots.
Gone.
Back.
Gone again.
Owen's pulse kicked harder.
Come on.
Finally:
You: Shut up.
A low laugh escaped him.
Oh.
This was dangerous.
Not because Owen suddenly knew how to make you want him.
He didn't.
But because he already knew exactly how much he'd started wanting you.
And now the anonymous woman who occupied his bed every night through a glowing phone screen had a face.
A voice.
A temper.
And tomorrow morning, she'd walk into the office having absolutely no idea that Owen Fletcher knew every word she'd sent him tonight.
His forgotten sauce hissed behind him.
Owen never looked away from the screen.
Nocturne: That's not a denial.
Comments 0
See All