The fever Élisa had battled finally receded, leaving her body weak but her mind sharply aware of the confusing intimacy she'd shared with Adrien. She couldn't shake the sensation of his hands on her, the low murmur of her own name escaping her lips. The shame was potent, yet beneath it, a strange curiosity bloomed. He had been there, she knew it. He had heard her.
She found him later that day, not at the university, but at a quiet, secluded café tucked away in one of Casablanca's older, winding streets. The scent of mint tea and spices hung in the air, a stark contrast to the heavy silence between them. He sat across from her, a small, unreadable smile playing on his lips as she approached.
"You're feeling better," he stated, his voice calm, betraying nothing of the night before.
Élisa's hands trembled as she clutched her teacup. "You were there. In my room," she accused, her voice barely a whisper.
Adrien's smile faded, replaced by an intense, unwavering gaze. "I was." He didn't deny it. He never did. His honesty, in its own way, was as unnerving as his secrecy. "You were calling out for answers, Élisa. And you found some, didn't you? In your dreams."
Her heart hammered against her ribs. He knew. He always knew. "What do you know about Clara?" she demanded, her voice gaining strength. "The journal... the photo... what don't I know?"
He leaned forward, his elbows on the small table, his gaze locking with hers. "You think you know what happened to your sister. You don't. There's a truth about Clara that only I know." His voice dropped, becoming a low, intimate rumble that sent shivers down her spine. "A secret she shared with no one else. Something that goes far deeper than a simple accident, or even a forbidden love."
A flicker of raw pain crossed Adrien's face, a brief, startling glimpse of genuine emotion that softened the usual ice in his eyes. It was a vulnerability Élisa hadn't seen since that fleeting embrace in the garden. Drawn by an impulse stronger than her fear, Élisa reached across the table, her fingers brushing his arm. He didn't flinch. Instead, his hand rose, covering hers, and he pulled her fingers to his lips, kissing them softly, deeply. It was a moment of profound, shared intimacy, a silent understanding passing between them, a fragile truce born of shared secrets. He squeezed her hand, his thumb stroking her knuckles, pulling her into a silent embrace that transcended the physical distance. But as quickly as it came, the vulnerability vanished. His grip tightened, almost painfully, and he pushed her hand away, his face hardening, the mask of coldness slamming back into place. "Don't mistake tenderness for weakness, Élisa," he murmured, his voice now devoid of warmth. "You still haven't chosen your side." He had given her a piece of his secret, but taken back more of her control.