A D R I A N

The storm is over, but the air still hums like it remembers. From my suite window, the boardwalk lies slick and silver, lanterns dimmed to a pulse instead of a blaze. Guests are asleep. Staff scattered. Cameras cycle through empty hallways. Only one window still burns gold, the clinic.

She’s awake.
Of course she is.

I should let it go. I’ve done my rounds, reviewed the damage reports, and sent Ethan to lock the marina for the night. I should sleep, but I can’t. Every time I close my eyes, I see her face under that harsh med bay light, focused, infuriating and alive. The image won’t leave me alone.

I tell myself it’s professional curiosity. I want to make sure the boy Selene found is stable. That’s all. That’s the line I draw, and I almost believe it, right until I’m already walking.

The hallway between our worlds is quiet, the kind of quiet that amplifies mistakes. My steps echo against tile and glass, the scent of antiseptic giving way to something softer, cocoa and salt, the smell of her skin after the rain.

When I push the clinic door open, the lights are low. She’s curled near the exam bed, the boy asleep beneath a mountain of blankets. A paper lantern burns on the counter beside her, its tiny flame dancing against the glass.

She doesn’t look up right away. “You don’t knock anymore?”

“I pay the bills here,” I say, but my voice doesn’t sound like authority. It sounds like a man looking for an excuse.

She finally turns, eyes shadowed and sharp. “Is that why you’re here? To audit the cocoa supply?”

I lean against the doorframe, keeping my tone level. “I came to check on the patient.”

“Stable,” she says. “No thanks to the infrastructure you keep pretending isn’t a problem.”

There it is. The spark. The part of me that always rises to meet her, even when I swear I’ll stay calm. “You think I don’t see the cracks?”

“I think you hide them better than anyone I’ve met.”

I take a step closer. “That’s called leadership.”

She doesn’t flinch. “That’s called denial.”

For a second we just stare at each other across the soft hum of machines. Her scrubs are rumpled, her hair a halo of rain curls, her throat marked by exhaustion. She looks like every line in me I’ve tried not to read.

“I came to talk,” I say finally.

“About what?”

“Boundaries.”

Her eyebrow lifts. “Professional or personal?”

“Yes.”

Her laugh is quiet and disbelieving. “You’re incredible. You create disasters just so you can pretend to fix them.”

“Someone has to.”

She steps closer now, enough that the lantern light catches her face, tired, beautiful and furious. “You really believe that, don’t you? That people only exist to be managed. That if you keep enough control, no one can disappoint you.”

“Control keeps things running.”

“Control keeps you alone.”

Her words land where she can’t see the part of me that remembers faceless lovers, empty suites, every night I mistook precision for peace. I hold her gaze anyway. “And you prefer chaos? Feelings? Spontaneous collapse?”

“I prefer honesty,” she says. “Even if it’s messy.”

Her voice drops, soft but sharp enough to draw blood. “You think boundaries make you safe, Adrian. They just make you untouchable.”

I move before I think, crossing the space until we’re only inches apart. “And what happens when someone crosses them?”

Her breath catches, but she doesn’t step back. “Then you finally have to feel something.”

The words hang between us like static.

For the first time all night, I can’t find a script. I study her mouth, her pulse beating just under her skin. The lantern’s glow flickers against the edge of her jaw, gold and dangerous. I came here to draw a line. Instead, I’m tracing it with my eyes.

She whispers, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“I know,” I say. But I don’t move.

She brushes past me, heading for the counter, but I follow too closely. The heat between us ignites with friction.

“I’m not one of your patients,” I say, low.

“No,” she replies, pouring tea like her hands aren’t shaking. “They listen when I say stop.”

I cage her in before she can move again with one hand on the counter beside hers, the other hovering near her waist, not touching yet but threatening to. “Then say it.”

She exhales, tight and sharp. “Why? So you can prove I want this?”

“I already know you do,” I murmur.

Her breath catches, and I swear I see her knees soften. But she recovers fast. “Arrogance isn’t a personality, Adrian.”

“No. But want is.”

I close the distance until my chest brushes her back. She stiffens, but doesn’t move. I lower my mouth just beside her ear. “You think I came here for a report?”

“Don’t whisper like that unless you plan to finish the sentence,” she says.

My fingers trail the edge of her hip, still above the fabric. “You didn’t stop me in the cave.”

“That was survival.”

“So what’s this?”

She turns sharply until we’re face to face, barely inches apart. “This is dangerous,” she breathes.

“Good.”

I press her gently against the counter, not trapping her, just making the line clear. Her breath fans across my jaw, her hands braced against my chest but not pushing. Her eyes burn, hungry and defiant.

“I could fuck you right here,” I say, voice gravel. “Bend you over the counter, make you scream into your hand so the boy doesn’t wake.”

She shudders. “You wouldn’t.”

“Try me.”

Her fingers tighten in my shirt. “You’d hate yourself after.”

“I already do,” I whisper.

The silence between us aches. She doesn’t move. Neither do I. The only sound is her breath and the click of the lantern’s glass as the flame shifts.

Then she grabs my hand. Not gently. She drags it to her waist, then lower, sliding it just beneath the hem of her scrub top. Her skin is hot silk, bare and trembling.

“You want permission?” she whispers. “Here. You have it. What will you do now, Adrian?”

My hand clenches at her side. I feel the curve of her hip, the ache under her skin. I want to lift her onto the counter and taste every inch of her until she forgets every man who ever disappointed her.

But I don’t move. Not an inch.

“I won’t take scraps,” I say finally.

Her lips part, confusion breaking through the heat.

“You want me to fuck you angry,” I murmur. “Punish you for making me feel anything. But I won’t. Not until you ask for it like you mean it.”

She jerks back like I slapped her. The heat snaps like a wire. We stare at each other, breathless, wrecked.

“You think you’re in control,” she says.

“I’m not,” I admit. “But I’m not going to break just because you want me to.”

Her eyes flash. “Coward.”

“No,” I whisper. “Patient.”

She steps back first. The chill hits instantly. Not from the air, but from the space between us, open again, raw and wide.

“I’m not your game,” she says, quiet but carved sharp. “Not some storm you get to chase just because you’re bored of being numb.”

“I didn’t come here for that,” I say, though the truth cuts both ways.

“No? Then what is this, Adrian?” She gestures between us, hands now tight fists. “Another controlled burn so you can feel something for five seconds before locking it away again?”

I don’t answer. There’s no version of the truth that won’t sound like confession.

Her chest rises hard. “You want me messy. You want me wild. But only when it suits you. When it’s safe for you to feel. When I can carry the chaos and you get to pretend you’re above it.”

“Stop,” I say, low. Not because she’s wrong. Because it’s too accurate.

She shakes her head, a bitter smile curling. “You know what the worst part is? You don’t even want a partner. You want a goddamn reflection, someone who breaks just enough to justify your armor.”

“Is that what you think?” I ask, stepping forward again.

She doesn’t move. “I think you’re terrified. Of wanting something you can’t control. Of needing someone who might not stay.” Her breath shakes. “I’m not your damage control, Adrian.”

And there it is.

The line.

She throws it like a blade, and it sinks deeper than I’m ready for.

My voice scrapes up from somewhere hollow. “Don’t make me your damage control either.”

Her eyes flicker, but she doesn’t soften. “Too late.”

We stare, wrecked, neither of us ready to retreat, neither of us moving forward.

I want to touch her. I want to leave. I want to stay until the lantern burns out and she stops looking at me like I’m the one who set the place on fire.

But the flame between us isn’t soft now. It’s back to being a warning.

So I do the only thing that doesn’t feel like a lie. I nod once, turn, and leave.

Behind me, the door hisses shut.

I don’t look back.