Elena's POV
There's something about New York rain that makes you feel small.
Maybe it's the way it falls — relentless, wild, like the city doesn't care who you are or where you're going. It just drenches you anyway.
That night, I was still at the office. Everyone else had left hours ago. The sky outside had turned almost black, thunder echoing between the buildings. I told myself I'd wait for the storm to pass before heading home.
I didn't realize he was still there too.
The entire floor was quiet, just the hum of computers and the soft drumming of rain against the glass. I was reviewing reports when I heard the sound of footsteps — slow, steady, familiar.
"Miss Brooks."
His voice.
Even after days of hearing it, it still had that effect — a strange, fluttery pull in my chest.
I turned. Adrian Knight stood in the doorway, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened. He looked tired — not in the way most people do, but in the way powerful men look when they finally allow themselves to feel it.
"You're still here," he said.
I nodded. "Just finishing up the quarterly files."
His eyes flicked to the window. "It's late. And the weather's getting worse."
"I'll be fine," I said quickly. "I'll call a cab once the rain slows down."
He didn't move for a second. Then, very quietly,
"I'll drive you."
My heart skipped. "Oh— no, that's not necessary, Mr. Knight—"
"Elena."
The sound of my name from his lips stopped me cold.
He rarely said it. And when he did, it felt… different. Personal.
"I'm not letting you wander around the city alone in this weather," he said simply, picking up his coat. "Get your things."
There was no room for argument in his tone — only quiet certainty.
I followed him into the elevator. It was just the two of us, and the space felt impossibly small. The rain outside streaked the glass walls like silver veins.
I kept my eyes on the floor numbers, pretending not to notice how his reflection stood just inches behind mine. How the air seemed charged, humming with something I couldn't name.
When we stepped outside, the storm hit us full force — cold wind, sharp rain. I gasped as water splashed against my face. Without hesitation, Adrian reached out and pulled me closer, his arm shielding me beneath his umbrella.
He didn't say a word, but I could feel the warmth of him beside me — the steadiness of his stride, the quiet control in his movements.
By the time we reached his car, my heart was already racing faster than the thunder.
Inside, the world softened.
The rain pounded against the windows, but in that quiet cocoon of leather and low music, everything felt… still.
He drove without speaking. One hand on the wheel, the other resting near the gearshift — relaxed, composed. The streetlights painted gold streaks across his face, catching in his eyes every time we passed another corner.
I found myself stealing glances.
He looked… different like this. Less untouchable.
"You can stop looking so tense," he said without turning.
I froze. "I—I'm not—"
"You are," he said softly, almost amused. "You hold your breath when you're nervous."
I stared at him, caught between embarrassment and awe. "Do you notice everything?"
His lips curved just slightly. "It's my job to."
Silence settled again, but it wasn't uncomfortable. It was heavy. Charged.
The kind of silence that makes you aware of every heartbeat.
At a red light, he turned his head toward me. The streetlight outside caught his jawline, the faintest trace of stubble, the shadow of exhaustion under his eyes.
"You shouldn't work this late," he said. "You push yourself too hard."
"I don't want to disappoint you," I admitted before I could stop myself.
His eyes softened — just barely.
"You couldn't," he said quietly. "Not even if you tried."
Something inside me twisted.
For a moment, neither of us looked away. The rain blurred the city outside, and it felt like the world had narrowed down to just the two of us — his gaze and mine, caught somewhere between propriety and something far more dangerous.
When he finally looked away, I let out the breath I didn't know I was holding.
He dropped me off in front of my apartment building. The rain had softened to a drizzle. I reached for the door handle, but his voice stopped me.
"Elena."
I turned.
He was watching me — really watching me. Not as his assistant. Not as someone beneath him. But as a woman standing right in front of him.
"Text me when you're inside," he said quietly. "I need to know you're safe."
I nodded, too stunned to speak. "I will."
He gave a small nod, almost imperceptible, and I stepped out. The rain was cool against my skin, but I didn't feel it. Not really.
Because even after I reached my door, even after I texted him, even after I lay in bed that night —
I could still feel the warmth of his arm around me.
The safety of his voice cutting through the storm.
That was the night I realized something had shifted.
Not just in him. In me.
He wasn't just my boss anymore.
He was the man whose silence could speak louder than anyone's words.
And I was starting to listen — even when I shouldn't.
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