The silence in my apartment was unbearable after the door shut.
For a moment, I just stood there, phone pressed against my chest, as if its warmth could steady the frantic rhythm beneath my ribs. My lips still tingled, even though his hadn't touched them. Almost. Too close. God help me, too close.
I moved automatically—setting the phone on the counter, filling the kettle, grinding beans. Coffee. Routine. Something safe. But when I brought the cup to my mouth, it only reminded me of him. The way he leaned against my counter like he owned the air I breathed. The way his voice dipped, husky, when he said my name. The way my body betrayed me, leaning forward when I should've stepped back.
By late morning, I'd buried myself in work at the table. Spreadsheets, emails, a meeting over video. Numbers usually grounded me. Today they blurred, useless. Adrien's face kept flickering across the screen in my mind instead.
My phone buzzed. A text from Lila.
Oh. My. God. Nora. Don't freak out. Just check Twitter.
My stomach dropped. Hands clammy, I opened the app.
It was there. Splashed across feeds, already reposted by gossip accounts. A single photo. Adrien walking out of my building, sun catching on his tailored jacket, expression unreadable. My building. My street. My front door in the background, sharp and damning.
The caption was mercilessly vague:Adrien Duval seen leaving an apartment in Paris this morning. Who's the mystery woman? 👀
The comments were worse.— He never spends the night. Who is she?— Mystery girlfriend? Assistant? Gold digger?— He looks… happy? Weird.— Bet it won't last.
My breath came shallow. Heat rose in my cheeks, then cold, then heat again. The room tilted. This was my life now? Just because I let him drive me home, because I didn't throw him out, because I almost—almost—let myself taste him?
The phone buzzed again. Lila, then two coworkers, then an unknown number. Messages stacking. Is this you? Please tell me it's not true. Girl?? Spill??
I pushed the phone away like it burned. My reflection in the dark laptop screen stared back: hair mussed, skin pale, eyes wide with panic.
A part of me wanted to laugh. Just this morning I'd been worrying about whether I could control myself around him. Now the entire city seemed to think we were already something.
The worst part? My body still remembered the way his gaze lingered. The shiver when he leaned in. The way I didn't want him to stop.
I tried to work again, failed, tried to breathe, failed. Finally, I grabbed the phone, thumb hovering over his name. The impulse was reckless. Dangerous. Yet every nerve screamed to hear his voice, to ask what do we do now?
Before I could press call, the screen lit up. Adrien.
I froze, heart pounding harder than it had when his face was inches from mine. I swallowed, thumb trembling as I slid across the screen.
"Hello?" My voice cracked, thin.
"Nora." His tone was lower than usual, stripped of its polished edges. Not the Adrien the world knew, not the man in those headlines—just him. "You've seen it."
A bitter laugh escaped me. "Hard not to, considering the entire internet has."
Silence stretched, heavy. For once, I didn't rush to fill it. Let him sit in it, let him feel the panic pressing against my ribs.
"I should've predicted this," he finally said. "I should've anticipated the possibility of someone watching."
His self-reproach startled me more than the scandal itself. I almost wanted to ease it, to tell him it wasn't his fault. Almost. "So what now?" I asked instead.
"We do nothing," he said, measured, careful. "We let it burn out."
The words lodged in my throat. We. Not you, not me. But we. The heat in my chest twisted. "Easy for you to say. They don't even know my name yet, and already I'm—" I broke off, unable to finish.
His voice softened. "You are not what they're calling you."
For a heartbeat, I believed him. His certainty, his command—it wrapped around me like armor I didn't ask for but desperately needed.
"Adrien…" My breath faltered. It was ridiculous, this intimacy through a phone line, but I could feel him, the same as when he'd leaned in, almost kissed me. The same fire sparking low, insistent.
A long pause. I could almost hear him deciding how close to step, how much to risk. Then, quietly: "Tell me you don't regret last night."
My pulse skittered. My lips parted, but the word tangled before it could escape. Did I regret it? The truth was dangerous. If I said no, I'd be admitting just how much I wanted the kiss. If I said yes, I'd be lying.
"Adrien," I whispered, "don't make me answer that."
Another silence. Not empty this time, but thick, charged, humming with everything we couldn't say.
When he spoke again, his voice had hardened. "Then let me be the one to handle this. Trust me, Nora."
The line went quiet. Not disconnected—just him, waiting. Waiting for my permission, for the smallest thread of faith.
I closed my eyes, pressing the phone to my cheek. The city outside carried on—horns, footsteps, life moving. But inside my apartment, the world had shrunk to his breath on the other end.
Against my better judgment, against every rational protest, I whispered back:
"Okay."