The morning light crept into the penthouse like a hesitant guest soft, golden, and far too peaceful for the kind of headlines that still buzzed outside.
Clara woke to the scent of coffee and music. Real music not the rehearsed kind Adrian performed for millions, but something quieter, more uncertain.
She found him sitting barefoot at the piano, hair tousled, wearing an old white t-shirt. He didn't notice her at first; his fingers drifted across the keys, searching, almost speaking in melody.
It was the most human she'd ever seen him.
"Is that new?" she asked softly.
Adrian turned, a faint, sleepy smile crossing his face. "Yeah. It's nothing yet. Just… trying to get the noise out of my head."
Clara leaned against the wall, arms crossed. "Sounds like something."
He played a few more chords. "Maybe. But it feels different this time. I'm not writing to sell a record. I'm writing to breathe."
She smiled. "Then it's already perfect."
He met her eyes really met them and something in him softened further. "You always say things like that," he murmured. "Like the world isn't complicated."
"It is," she said, stepping closer. "You just make it harder than it has to be."
Adrian chuckled, shaking his head. "You have no idea how much trouble that honesty of yours gets you into."
She arched a brow. "Oh, I think I do. The internet reminds me every hour."
His laughter faded. "Does it still bother you?"
"Sometimes." She sat beside him on the piano bench. "I try not to read anything, but it's impossible to avoid. It's like everyone suddenly has an opinion about me about us."
He turned toward her, his expression gentle. "Let them talk. They don't know who you are. They don't know us."
"But they think they do." Her voice trembled. "They call me names, Adrian. They say I'm after your money, your fame"
"They don't know you," he interrupted, voice low but firm. "You never asked for anything. You just showed up, worked hard, kept me sane when everything else was falling apart. You have no idea how rare that is."
Clara looked down, her heart fluttering. "You give me too much credit."
He smiled faintly. "You don't give yourself enough."
They sat in silence for a while the kind that didn't feel heavy, just honest. Adrian began to play again, slower this time, and Clara watched his hands move across the keys, sure and graceful.
"You're beautiful when you play," she said before she could stop herself.
He paused, eyes lifting to hers. "Careful, Ms. James. I might start believing you actually like me."
Clara laughed softly, but her gaze didn't waver. "Maybe I do."
The room seemed to shift then the air thicker, the distance between them smaller. Adrian's voice dropped. "Then say it."
Her breath caught. "Say what?"
"That you like me."
She hesitated, eyes searching his face. There was a challenge in his tone, but beneath it, a tremor a flicker of insecurity that made him seem almost boyish.
So she did what she hadn't planned to do. She reached out and brushed her fingers along his jaw. "I like you, Adrian Cole. More than I probably should."
He exhaled, eyes fluttering shut for a second. When they opened again, they were darker, softer. "You have no idea how long I've wanted to hear that."
She smiled. "You just never asked."
He leaned closer, their foreheads nearly touching. "I didn't think I deserved to."
Her voice was barely a whisper. "You do now."
And then he kissed her slow, lingering, with the kind of reverence that felt like both a promise and a question.
Hours slipped away unnoticed.
They spent the afternoon in the living room, sunlight spilling over scattered music sheets and half-empty coffee mugs. Adrian strummed his guitar, humming lines of an unfinished song, while Clara worked quietly on his schedule, trying not to get distracted by the curve of his smile.
Every now and then, he'd glance up, say something teasing, and she'd roll her eyes, pretending to be annoyed. But the warmth between them felt real, easy like they'd stumbled into a rhythm that neither fame nor fear could break.
Around sunset, Adrian tossed his guitar aside and stretched. "You've been working all day. Come on."
She looked up. "Come on where?"
He grinned. "Out. We're sneaking out."
"Adrian"
"No cameras. No reporters. Just us."
She hesitated. "Is that even possible?"
He winked. "Watch me."
They left through the service elevator, hoodies up, sunglasses on ridiculous disguises that somehow worked. The city was alive, pulsing with lights and laughter, and for once, Adrian wasn't the star in the center of it. He was just a man walking beside a woman who made him forget to be anyone else.
They found a quiet café tucked between old buildings, the kind of place where no one cared who you were as long as you liked the coffee.
Adrian ordered for both of them black for him, caramel for her and they sat by the window, watching the world go by.
"This feels… normal," Clara said, smiling softly.
"Normal's underrated," he replied. "I forgot what it felt like."
She stirred her drink. "You really don't get to do this much, do you?"
"Not since the first album," he admitted. "After that, it was bodyguards, fake smiles, and pretending the noise didn't bother me."
"And now?"
He looked at her, eyes gentle. "Now, I think I'm finally remembering what matters."
Her heart warmed. "And what's that?"
"You."
The word landed between them like a heartbeat. Clara looked away, trying to hide the smile threatening to break free.
"You're getting good at this," she teased. "Smooth lines and all."
He leaned closer, voice low. "That wasn't a line."
For a moment, the café around them faded just two people, sitting across from each other, discovering that love didn't have to be grand or perfect. It could be quiet. Simple. Honest.
When they left, the air was cool and gentle. Adrian's hand brushed hers once, then again, until she laced their fingers together. Neither said a word. They didn't need to.
Back at the penthouse, the city lights spilled through the floor-to-ceiling windows. Adrian set his phone down, ignoring the endless notifications, and joined Clara on the balcony.
She was leaning on the railing, hair blowing in the night wind. The skyline glittered below them.
"Do you ever miss it?" she asked quietly. "Before all of this?"
He thought for a long moment. "Sometimes. But not the fame. Just… the simplicity. Back when I sang because I loved it, not because it was expected."
"You could still do that," she said. "Sing because you want to, not because they tell you to."
He looked at her, the corner of his mouth lifting. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not. But maybe you need someone to remind you."
Adrian reached out, resting a hand on her back. "You're that someone."
She turned to him, her eyes reflecting the city lights. "I might be."
He smiled, pulling her gently against his chest. "Stay, then. No more assistants, no more headlines. Just… stay."
Her heart stuttered. "You don't mean that."
"I do," he whispered into her hair. "I'm done pretending I don't want you here."
The confession hung between them, raw and quiet. She closed her eyes, letting herself feel the warmth of his words, his heartbeat steady beneath her cheek.
"I'm scared," she admitted.
"So am I," he said. "But for once, I think that's okay."
They stood there for a long time two people who'd spent years hiding from the world, finally finding a small piece of peace in each other's arms.
Later, as Clara drifted off on the couch, Adrian sat beside her, notebook in hand.
He began to write not for the charts, not for the fame, but for her. The lyrics came easily, flowing like a confession:
> You walked into the silence I called home
Lit a match in the shadows I'd known
Now I'm learning how to breathe again
Because you stayed when no one else did.
He looked at her sleeping face peaceful, soft, untouchable and smiled.
The world would soon demand more. Interviews. Cameras. Questions that would try to twist their truth.
But tonight, none of that mattered. Tonight, the noise was gone.
Tonight, Adrian Cole wasn't the man on magazine covers. He was just Adrian the man who'd finally found something worth singing about.