A D R I A N

I don’t mean to stop outside her clinic. Honestly, I tell myself I’m just walking, clearing my head after another board meeting that felt like chewing glass.  But the light under her door is still on, and I hear the soft rise and fall of her voice.

She’s not talking to me. She’s probably talking to someone, phone, probably. Her tone’s that low, tired kind that happens when you’ve run out of politeness and all that’s left is truth.

“…it’s not about them, Mara. It’s about me.” A pause, a breath. “I thought leaving would make me feel clean. It doesn’t. It just makes me feel like I quit.”

Transfer. That word flashes through my head before she even says it, because of course there’s a transfer offer. The board hates the mess between us. They probably think moving her to another island is the fix.

The air smells like salt and disinfectant. It’s too damn familiar. I lean against the wall, careful not to let my shadow show through the glass.

“No, I haven’t signed,” she says. “Because I can’t keep running every time someone calls me difficult.”  Silence, then a small, rough laugh. “You’d love this place, Mara. Everything’s beautiful until it bites you. The ocean, the boardwalk, the people.”
Another pause. “But it’s mine now. I earned this fight.”

My throat goes tight. I don’t even know what I’m supposed to feel, relief, pride, the sharp twist that feels like both. She’s staying. She doesn’t even know I’m out here, hearing her swear loyalty to the same storm that’s half killed us both.

She’s pacing inside. I can picture it without looking, her hand in her hair, the tired sway of her shoulders, that thin line between exhaustion and defiance. I used to think control was about keeping everything spotless, perfect. She’s teaching me it’s the opposite, it’s what you keep standing when everything falls apart.

Her voice drops again, almost a whisper. “Tell Mom I’m not taking the transfer. I’m staying.” A long silence follows. The kind that isn’t empty, just full of everything she’s not saying.

I press my fingers against the wall. If I took one step forward, if I opened that door, I’d ruin it. I’d make this about me when it isn’t.  She deserves to have this moment alone, and I’m greedy enough to want to hear it anyway.

“Because for once,” she says softly, “I don’t want to start over. I want to finish something. I want to make this place safe. I want to prove that kindness doesn’t get you killed.”  Her voice cracks on the last line. Just a little. Enough to gut me.

I close my eyes. That’s it, isn’t it? The difference between us. I build things to look unbreakable. She builds things so people survive when they do break.

She keeps talking, quieter now. “And if he, if Adrian.. can’t handle that, that’s his problem.” I almost laughed. Can’t handle that. No, I can’t. Not when she says my name like it still means something.

The ocean outside slaps against the pilings, rhythmic and steady. Her window glows dim blue from the monitors. It looks like the whole room’s underwater.  She’s standing in it, breathing through it, refusing to drown.

I don’t know how long I stand there. Long enough for the tide to crawl closer, long enough for my chest to ache with everything I can’t tell her. That I’m proud of her.
That I’m terrified of her. That I’ve never respected anyone this much in my entire life.

She hangs up. The silence that follows feels sacred, like a held breath.

I back away before she turns the lights off, before she can catch me in the act of listening, but it’s too late. I’ve heard enough to know the truth. She’s not leaving, and I’m never going to be the same.

I make it halfway down the boardwalk before I stop again. The night air tastes like rain that never came. I tell myself to keep walking, to give her the space she deserves, but then her clinic door opens.

She steps out barefoot, hair loose, lab coat hanging off one shoulder. There’s no phone in her hand now, just a mug, steam curling up into the dark. She looks tired, but not fragile. Never that. Just… real.

I duck behind the railing like a coward. Like a kid hiding behind his own empire. The boards creak under her feet. She walks to the edge of the dock, lifts her face to the wind. I can’t see her expression clearly, only the line of her throat and the way her shoulders drop, finally, like she’s exhaling everything she’s carried since the day she landed here.

The moonlight catches her hair. It looks silver for a second. I used to think light like that belonged to no one. Now I know better.

She sets the mug down, wraps her arms around herself, and whispers something I almost don’t catch.  “I’m not afraid anymore.”

That’s when I almost moved. My body leans forward before my mind can stop it, the impulse stupid and primal, go to her, tell her she’s not the only one who’s tired of running. But I stopped. My hand finds the post, grip white-knuckled. This isn’t my moment to claim.

Her head tilts, like she feels me there, her eyes scan the boardwalk shadows. For a heartbeat I think she sees me, maybe she does, but she doesn’t call out, she just smiles a little, barely, and goes back inside. The door clicks shut again, soft as the tide.

The kind of smile that’s left behind in a man’s chest isn’t the heroic kind. It’s quieter. Heavier. It pulls at something deep and unguarded. Mine happens before I know it’s there. Just that small stretch in my cheeks, that ache behind my ribs, the heat that won’t go away.

She chose to stay, after everything I threw at her, all the ways I tried to push her out, she stayed. I look at the door she just closed, and I can’t remember the last time something made me this proud. Not the resorts, not the board’s applause, not the headlines with my name. None of that ever felt like this.. this stupid, helpless admiration that makes me want to laugh and punch a wall at the same time.

The sea hushes below, slow and constant. I let out a breath that sounds like surrender.
“Good girl,” I whisper. Not as a command this time, just as a prayer. The word feels different now. It means strength. It means home.

My phone buzzes. The sound cracks the quiet open, for a second I think about ignoring it, but habit wins. I check the screen.

Kai: Board leak. Headlines by dawn. Marina’s spin is trash. Get ready.

Another message follows before I can breathe. She’s in it, brother. Her name’s all over the file.

My jaw tightens, of course. Because peace never lasts here. Not for her. Not for me. I lean against the railing, staring at the black line where sea meets sky. The wind tastes different now, like something burning far away, salt and smoke. The world’s about to wake up and start tearing at what we just mended.

For a heartbeat I imagine what it’ll be like when she finds out, her anger, her fear, that flicker of disappointment that always hits me hardest. I’ll have to face it, fix it, protect her, even if she tells me not to.

The tide crashes harder. The first gull cries into the gray. I glance once more toward her clinic, the faint light under the door, the shadow that might be her moving inside and that same small smile finds me again, stubborn as the tide.

Let them come. She’s not leaving.  And this time, neither am I.