The first thing Amara noticed was warmth.
Not just the soft weight of the blanket cocooned around her, but the faint, lingering scent clinging to it. Clean. Subtle. Something sharp but calming, like cedarwood and fresh soap.
Her lashes fluttered open, and she blinked against the muted glow seeping through the curtains. It took her a moment to orient herself. The bed beneath her was too firm to be hers, the sheets too smooth. The walls weren't familiar, either....gray with sleek shelves along the side.
Then memory returned in pieces: the party, the drinks, Adrian's steady hand leading her out, the nausea in his car, the shame of throwing up on him, the shower, the oversized shirt she wore now.
Her eyes widened, and she sat upright suddenly.
She was in his room.
Amara pushed the blanket aside, her heart thrumming. The T-shirt slipped slightly off one shoulder, reminding her all over again that these weren't her clothes. They were Adrian's.
Her fingers brushed the hem as if touching proof.
She groaned softly, falling back into the pillows. "Oh no… oh no, no, no."
How was she supposed to face him now? What must he think of her...drunk, messy, needing to be taken care of like some reckless teenager? She pressed her palms against her heated cheeks, burying her face.
A knock at the door startled her.
"Amara?" Adrian's voice, low but even.
Her pulse skipped. "Y-yeah?"
"Breakfast," he said simply. "If you can get up."
There was no teasing in his tone, no judgment. Just plain words, clipped as always. Yet somehow that steadiness only made her chest tighten more.
She scrambled out of bed, tugging the shirt into place, brushing her damp hair back with her fingers. When she caught sight of herself in the mirror above his dresser, she winced. Puffy eyes. A mess. She sighed, resigning herself, and padded out.
The living room smelled faintly of coffee and toast. Adrian was already seated at the table, hair still damp from his shower, wearing a plain gray sweatshirt and black joggers. He looked casual, almost disarmingly so, but his posture was as straight as ever.
On the table sat scrambled eggs, toast, and two mugs of coffee.
"You didn't have to…" Amara trailed off, hovering at the edge.
"You needed it," Adrian said, gesturing to the chair opposite him. "Sit."
She obeyed, sliding in carefully. For a moment, silence stretched between them, filled only by the faint hum of the refrigerator and the clink of Adrian's fork against his plate.
Amara picked at her toast, sneaking glances at him. His expression was unreadable as always, eyes focused downward. But there was something softer in the way he poured her water without asking, sliding the glass across to her.
Finally, she cleared her throat. "About last night…"
Adrian didn't look up. "You don't have to explain."
"But I...."
"You don't." His voice was calm, steady. "It happens. You don't need to feel bad about it."
Her fingers curled against her lap. "I threw up on you."
"Barely."
"And then I passed out in your bed."
"You needed rest."
She blinked at him, baffled by how easily he brushed it all aside. "Why are you not… making this weird?"
At that, his eyes finally lifted to hers, cool gray catching the morning light. "Because it isn't weird. You were drunk. You needed help. That's all."
Her heart gave a strange little tug. The way he said it, so matter-of-fact, stripped of any judgment, almost made her want to cry.
Amara dropped her gaze, mumbling, "Still… thank you."
For a beat, his lips twitched, as though he might actually smile. "You're welcome."
The meal passed quietly, but not uncomfortably. Afterward, Adrian gathered their dishes, moving with his usual efficiency. Amara rose to help, but he waved her off.
"You should rest more," he said, rinsing plates.
"I feel fine now."
"Still."
She tilted her head, watching him. His movements were precise, practiced, almost graceful. The kind of person who had control over even the smallest details. Except last night, she thought, when he'd kissed her forehead.
Heat crept up her neck at the memory. She hadn't dreamed that, had she? It had been quick, soft, but real. She couldn't ask him about it now. Not without shattering the fragile balance between them.
When he finished, Adrian leaned against the counter, drying his hands with a towel. His eyes flicked briefly to her. "I'll drive you back later."
"Right," she said, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "Thanks."
Her gaze slipped to the hoodie draped on the back of a chair...his, the one she'd worn before. She imagined slipping it on now, how it would feel, how he might look at her if she did.
Stop, she scolded herself. Don't read into things.
The hours stretched lazily. She dozed on the couch while Adrian read quietly at the desk by the window, his focus unwavering. At one point she stirred, finding him watching her with a gaze she couldn't quite decipher, but when she blinked fully awake, his eyes were back on his book.
By afternoon, he finally stood, keys in hand. "Ready?"
Amara nodded, gathering herself. She followed him down to the car, the silence between them filled with unspoken things.
The drive back was quiet, but different from the night before. The silence wasn't heavy.....it carried something fragile, something suspended. Every so often, Amara glanced at him, catching the slight furrow of his brow, the way his fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel.
She wanted to ask what he was thinking. She wanted to tell him she remembered the kiss. But the words stuck, caught between fear and hope.
When they reached her dorm, he pulled up to the curb. She unbuckled slowly, hesitating.
"Adrian?" she said softly.
He looked at her, his expression calm but his eyes sharp.
She opened her mouth, then faltered. What could she even say? Thank you for everything. Thank you for taking care of me. Thank you for seeing me when I'm a mess.
In the end, she only whispered, "See you in class."
His lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly. "See you."
She slipped out, the hoodie still draped over her arm. As she walked toward the dorm entrance, she felt his gaze linger, warm and heavy against her back.
Inside, away from his eyes, Amara pressed the hoodie to her chest, her heart pounding.
And she couldn't stop smiling.