Sleep never came.
The night pressed in, thick and restless, every sound amplified by the quiet. I lay awake, replaying the way Adrian had looked at me—like restraint was a decision, not an instinct.
A soft knock broke the silence.
Before I could answer, the door opened. Adrian stood there, jacket gone, shirt sleeves rolled up, control etched into every rigid line of his posture.
"You should be resting," I said quietly.
"So should you." His gaze swept over me, sharp, assessing, lingering longer than necessary. "You're shaking."
"I'm fine."
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him. The click sounded final.
"You're lying," he said calmly.
I swallowed. Rule two. Don't lie.
"I'm not used to this," I admitted. "The danger. The control. You."
Something shifted in his expression—brief, unguarded. Then it vanished.
"You think I am?" he asked.
The question startled me. "You thrive in it."
"No," he said softly. "I survive it."
The words landed heavier than any command.
He moved closer, stopping just short of touching me. The air between us vibrated with restraint. I could feel his warmth, the steady control in his breathing compared to the chaos in my chest.
"This is where people fail," he said quietly. "They confuse proximity with permission."
"And you?" I asked. "What do you confuse it with?"
His jaw tightened. His eyes dropped—to my mouth. Just for a second.
"Risk," he said.
My heart thundered. I should have stepped back. I didn't.
The space narrowed. His hand lifted—stopped inches from my face. Not touching. Never touching. The restraint was worse than contact.
"Say the word," he murmured. "And I leave."
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. All I felt was the pull—the impossible gravity of him.
"Adrian…"
My voice broke. That was all it took.
His hand dropped. He stepped back sharply, like he'd crossed a line only he could see.
"This can't happen," he said, voice hard again. "Not ever."
"I didn't ask it to," I whispered.
"That's the problem."
He turned away, running a hand through his hair once—once—before facing me again, fully armored.
"Tomorrow," he said, "everything changes."
Then he left.
I sank onto the bed, heart racing, lips still tingling with something that never happened.
We hadn't kissed.
But something had broken.
And I knew—without doubt—that next time, restraint might not win.