Days turned into weeks, and Celina found herself growing used to Adrian's quiet presence. He wasn't loud or overbearing like most men she had known; he spoke calmly, thoughtfully, and every word seemed real. Still, old habits die hard. Celina's strange instinct—the one that always told her when someone was lying—never truly left her. It wasn't something she could turn off; it whispered inside her whenever someone's words carried deceit, like an alarm only she could hear. But with Adrian, that alarm stayed silent. It was unusual. No matter how small the lie—a white one, a polite one, or a self-protective one—she always sensed it. But with him, there was nothing, only quiet truth.
One evening she ran into him in the hallway. He was crouched down, tightening a loose door handle. "You're always fixing something," she teased lightly. He looked up, smiling. "Someone has to. The landlord probably won't." Celina leaned against the wall, watching him. "You seem to like being useful." Adrian shrugged. "It keeps me grounded. Besides, I'm not the type who enjoys sitting around." That inner voice in her stayed silent again. No lies. "Hmm," she murmured, trying to hide her curiosity. "You're not like most people here." "Is that a good thing?" he asked, standing up. "I haven't decided yet," she said, a small smile tugging at her lips. They both laughed softly, the sound echoing down the narrow hallway.
Later that night, Celina sat by her window, watching the city lights flicker below. Her thoughts kept drifting back to him. Every word, every smile—there was no false note, no hidden motive. It was refreshing… and terrifying. For the first time, her gift—the one that had once pushed her away from people—drew her closer to someone. Still, a quiet doubt lingered in her chest. No one's perfect. Everyone lies about something. She wanted to believe he was different, but deep down she knew she'd eventually find out what he was hiding. Everyone hid something. And Celina was never wrong.