E L A R A

The clinic is quiet enough to hear the tide breathe. Not the roar from the boardwalk, just the slow exhale against the windows, steady and relentless. I’m in the storage room behind the clinic, sleeves rolled, hair falling out of its knot, sorting bandages and counting syringes like order might save me from the chaos waiting outside those glass doors.

I keep thinking about the moment I told him I was staying. The way his eyes changed, less battle, more something else I’m not ready to name. Pride maybe. Relief. Whatever it was, it stuck under my skin. I keep catching myself smiling like an idiot.

“Get over it,” I mutter, shoving a crate into place. The smile still won’t die.

The room smells like antiseptic and salt. Boxes stacked to the ceiling. A narrow aisle that barely fits one person, let alone two. I’m almost convincing myself I like the quiet when the door creaks open.

“Figured you’d be here.”

Adrian’s voice does that thing it always does, low, uninvited, too calm for how much space it takes up inside me.

“Have you ever knocked?”

He lifts a cardboard box like it weighs nothing. “Didn’t think I needed to. This is technically my clinic.”

“It’s technically my storage room tonight.”

He steps in anyway. The door swings shut, the air shifts, warmer and smaller. He smells like wind and soap and something sharp that’s just him.

“What are you even doing?” he asks.

“Counting. Organizing.”

“At midnight.”

“Because the universe collapses without sterile gauze.”

He huffs a laugh. “You could let someone else do it.”

“I could,” I say, stacking another box, “but then I’d have to stop thinking, and that’s worse.”

He doesn’t answer for a moment. When I look up, he’s watching me like I’m something fragile he doesn’t want to scare.

“I get that,” he says finally. The words shouldn’t mean much, but they land like touch.

“If you’re here to supervise, grab that crate behind you. The heavy one.”

He obeys, but the space is too narrow; our shoulders brush. Heat spikes, and neither of us moves.

“Sorry,” he says, even though he’s not.

“It’s fine.” I step sideways, bump a shelf, curse under my breath.

“Careful.” His hand catches the edge of the box before it can slide off, and somehow his fingers end up over mine. Heat, solid and simple. Nothing special, except it feels like everything. I don’t pull back fast enough, neither does he. The silence turns thick. The only sound is the dull rhythm of the sea outside and our breathing, too even and too aware.

“Your hands are freezing,” he murmurs.

“Occupational hazard.”

He doesn’t let go. “You should sleep.”

“So should you.”

He smiles, barely there, the kind that hides more than it shows. “You first.”

“Not likely.”

He moves closer to reach the top shelf, pretending that’s why, and the whole world narrows to the space between us. His arm grazes my sleeve. There’s nowhere to stand that isn’t touching him.

“I didn’t realize this room was so small,” I say, too lightly.

“It wasn’t,” he says. “Until now.” I laugh, breathless, and hate how much it sounds like a sigh. He lowers the box onto the counter beside my hand, he doesn’t move away. His voice drops. “You really stayed.”

“Yeah.” My throat’s dry. “Guess I did.” Something flickers in his eyes, admiration, relief, danger. Maybe all three. We both start to speak at once. Stop. Then it’s just quiet again. That’s when I notice it, how close we’ve drifted. His breath skims my cheek, salt and heat. My pulse slams, and I swear the walls shrink another inch.

There’s a pale scar under his jaw, healed wrong, like something that shouldn’t have been there at all.

“Does it hurt?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He blinks. “Not anymore.” His eyes stay on mine. “Most things don’t. Not until you show up.” The air goes strange like gravity just doubled. My heart stumbles. I open my mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. His thumb ghosts over the back of my hand, slow enough that my pulse chases the motion.

“You’re making that face again,” he murmurs.

“What face?”

“The one that makes me forget why I’m supposed to stay away from you.”

My throat tightens. “Maybe that’s your problem.”

“Maybe it’s both of ours.”

His other hand lifts, hesitant, like he’s giving me time to flinch. I don’t. He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, and the brush of his fingers knocks the air right out of me.

“Tell me no,” he says, voice low, uneven.

I mean to. I open my mouth, but the word doesn’t come. What comes is a breath, shaky and useless. He leans in just enough that the world blurs around him, his lips hover inches from mine. I feel the heat of his breath, the faint smell of salt and coffee, the promise of something I’m not sure either of us could stop once it starts.

I whisper, “You’re really bad at personal space.”

He smiles, barely. “You love that about me.”

And I do. God help me, I do. My hand lifts, almost on its own, fingertips grazing the side of his neck. His forehead dips until it touches mine, the lightest pressure, and I think, just one kiss, maybe it won’t destroy everything.

Then the door slams open.

“Elara? Do we have more saline..”

We both jerk like we’ve been shot, lena freezes in the doorway, eyes wide. There’s a crate balanced on her hip and a pen behind her ear. She blinks between us, the distance we just tried to invent, and her mouth curls.

“Oh my god,” she says. “I can come back later, or never. Either’s fine.”

“It’s not..” I start, too fast. “We were just..”

“Inventory,” Adrian adds, voice an octave lower than usual.

“Uh-huh.” Lena looks at the mess, at our red faces, and grins. “Don’t let me stop the sterile procedure.”

I groan. “Lena.”

“What? You know I support staff bonding.” She slides the crate onto the nearest counter and leans a hip against it, completely unfazed. “Need me to log this under hazardous materials or emotional damage?”

“Neither,” I snap, but there’s a laugh buried under it.

Adrian doesn’t help, he crosses his arms, pretending calm, though the corner of his mouth keeps twitching. “You realize we could write you up for eavesdropping.”

“Oh please,” Lena says, waving him off. “You two were one dramatic pause away from a soap-opera kiss.”

I want the floor to open and swallow me. “I’m going to restock the hallway supplies.”

“Good plan,” she chirps. “Hydrate too.”

“Out,” Adrian says finally, laughter tucked behind it.

Lena salutes, grabbing her pen. “Yessir. Continue… organizing.” She winks at me on her way out. “Try not to drop anything fragile.”

The door shuts. I press my hands to my face and groan into them. “She’s never going to let me live that down.”

“Probably not,” he says, amusement still in his voice.

I peek through my fingers, he’s still standing there, still too close, still the reason my pulse hasn’t slowed.

“This is your fault,” I say.

He raises an eyebrow. “Pretty sure you were leaning first.”

“I was not..”

“You were,” he says, quiet but certain. Damn him, he’s right.

I drop my hands, try to breathe normally. “We should probably finish the actual inventory.”

“Yeah.” He takes a small step back, just enough to let air in again, but his eyes stay on me, steady and unreadable. “Later,” he murmurs.

The word slides through me, low and dangerous, and I don’t know if it’s a threat or a promise. Maybe both. I nod, pretending my hands aren’t shaking, pretending the word didn’t just burn itself into my skin.

He leaves first, the door clicking shut. The room exhales with him, but it doesn’t feel like relief, it feels empty. I touch the counter where his hand was a moment ago, stupid instinct, and the warmth there is gone.

Through the frosted window I can see the faint line of dawn creeping over the sea. A new day, pretending to be innocent.

“Later,” he said. I replay it under my breath, once, twice, until it doesn’t sound like a joke anymore.

Somewhere outside, waves hit the rocks harder than before. The wind smells different, sharp with storm and salt, and I know peace never lasts here. Not for him. Not for me. Still, I close the supply ledger, breathe out slowly, and whisper to the empty room, “Later, then.” The sea answers with a crash that feels like a warning.