E L A R A

The harness strap digs into my shoulder as I yank it tighter, harder than necessary. The nylon burns against skin already rubbed raw from four straight hours of drills. I welcome the sting, because pain is easier than thinking, easier than remembering the way Adrian looked at me last night, like I was something breakable, or maybe already broken.

He didn’t say goodbye, he didn’t touch me again, he just stood there, staring at the waves like they were whispering something only he could hear, then he’s gone. Now he’s here watching, and I can’t tell if I want to scream at him, or press my mouth to his and ask if it meant anything.

“Radio check,” I bark, the words too sharp, the intern flinches, then fumbles with the walkie clipped to her vest. “Yes—uh, receiving, East dock station clear.”

“Repeat it like you mean it,” I snap, and she does, but this time her voice doesn’t shake. Good. I move down the line, ten staff in neon vests and sweat-slick brows. We’re staging mock faintings, rolled ankles, and water rescues, the kind of chaos I’ve lived through a thousand times, but here it’s all theater, all part of Adrian’s suddenly urgent “public trust initiative.”

He’s behind me somewhere, I haven’t turned to look, but I feel him like a second sun. Hot, heavy and unavoidable. I haven’t slept, not really, beacuse I replayed last night’s conversation over and over, but this morning? .. nothing, no text, no knock, no follow-up meeting, just silence and this drill.

My skin itches under my shirt, sweat and salt and nerves, I adjust another staff member’s sling and feel his shadow before I hear him.

“Your pacing’s off,” Adrian says.

I keep my back to him. “We’re simulating real response time, not boardroom optics.”

“The boardroom funds those stretchers,” he says, stepping closer. “And your radio delays are too long, you didn’t account for panic.”

My temper flares. “Maybe if your cousin hadn’t siphoned half the medical budget for wine tastings..”

“Don’t,” he says, voice like steel. “Callum’s done.”

“Then act like it,” I snap, turning. “Stop hovering like this is a PR shoot and let me train the team.” The space between us closes, I don’t remember moving and I don’t remember him moving either. But suddenly, we’re inches apart.

“You think this is about the press?” he says, low and sharp. “I’m here because that photo wasn’t the last.”

“What photo?”

His jaw flexes, eyes scanning mine like he’s debating how much truth I deserve. “Later.”

“No. Now.”

“I’m not discussing threats in front of staff,” he snaps. “You want transparency? Then show me you can run this without losing control.”

“I’m not the one unraveling,” I shoot back, chest heaving. “You disappeared after that boardroom meltdown, after what you said to me on the balcony, and now you’re what? Alpha-moding through a safety drill?”

His nostrils flare. “You think I wanted this?”

“I don’t know what you want, Adrian because last night I thought I did.” A flicker crosses his face, pain, or guilt, maybe both. He glances down at my hands, I’m holding the edge of a clipboard so tight the plastic is bending. He reaches out, slowly, like I might bolt and brushes a finger along my knuckles. The contact is light, almost an accident, but I feel it all the way up my arm.

“This isn’t about last night,” he says softly. “This is about keeping you alive.” And that shouldn’t wreck me, shouldn’t turn my ribs to glass, but it does, because he’s not talking about the training anymore. A whistle blows behind us, Ethan calling time, staff start to reset positions. No one’s watching, but it suddenly feels like the entire world is.

I start to step back, Adrian moves first, his hand lands on my waist, firm and unyielding. He walks me back without speaking until my spine hits the training shed wall, hard enough to jolt breath from my lungs. He cages me there, one hand beside my head, the other still on my hip and his eyes are molten.

“This isn’t optics,” he says, voice hoarse. “This isn’t stress, don’t lie to yourself.” He leans in, close enough to count the flecks in his irises and close enough that I know if I move an inch, our mouths will meet.

His breath is ragged, his body… tight, Like he’s holding himself back with everything he has.

“Say it,” he whispers. “Tell me to stop.”

I want to, I should, but I don’t. Instead, I let my head tip forward that our foreheads touch. It’s not a kiss. Not yet. It’s worse, because it’s honest. I’m seconds from closing the gap, from chasing what we left in that cave, from making a mistake I’ll replay in every hallway, every staff meeting, every time I smell salt on his skin.. When the door slams open.

“Sir?” Ethan’s voice cuts through like a knife. “Press is here early.” Adrian doesn’t look away, but I do. My hands push against his chest, too late, too soft, but enough.

“I need to..” I don’t finish, I just slide past him and walk fast. Not toward the press or toward safety, I just want away from here. The air outside hits colder than I expect, but that’s not what makes me shiver. It’s the echo of his body against mine, the heat that hasn’t left my skin. I walked fast, too fast, hoping no one saw, hoping my face wasn’t broadcasting exactly how close I came to losing myself. Again.

Ethan’s voice follows, quiet and low. “Sorry. I didn’t know you were..”

“We weren’t,” I snap, harsher than I mean, his brows lift, but he doesn’t argue, he just nods and falls back, letting me create space, letting me pretend I have control. By the time I reach the check-in table, Marina’s already there, flanked by two women with press badges and the kind of tailored sunglasses people wear for power. Her smile is PR-glossed, but her eyes clock me immediately, sweat-streaked, shirt wrinkled, pulse still clearly visible in my throat. She knows, of course she does.

“Doctor Quinn,” she says, her voice honeyed over razors. “We were just discussing the clinic’s proactive response standards.”

“Excuse me,” I mumble, skirting around the table, I don’t wait for the questions and don’t wait for Adrian. I head straight for the supply shed and shut the door behind me hard enough to make the metal rattle. It’s dark inside, hot and smells like iodine and rubber. I brace both hands against the wall and drop my head between them, trying to breathe.

What the hell am I doing? He looked at me like I was the only thing keeping him grounded. Then let me walk away like it cost him nothing, or maybe it cost too much. Either way, I’m the one alone now. In a shed, hiding like a teenager who almost made out with her teacher in the hallway, and I’m supposed to be the one in control.

I slide down the wall, knees drawn up, forehead resting on my arm. I should be thinking about the drills. About oxygen station delays and response times and the second round of training I’m supposed to lead this afternoon. Instead, I keep replaying that moment, his breath on mine, his voice rough, “This isn’t stress.”

But what if it is? What if this is just proximity and adrenaline and months of held tension, and I’ve confused survival instinct for attraction? Again? I thought I left that behind in New York. I thought I knew better than to fall for power dressed like passion.

But then there was the cave, and the balcony, and the way he looked at me when no one else was watching, like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to kiss me or break something just to feel real again. My fingers twitch, and I press them to my chest, over my heart. The same spot he touched last night.

It still feels warm, and I close my eyes, breathing shallow. One question coils tight behind my ribs. Is this just stress? and worse.. What if it’s not?