That morning, the office seemed oddly heavier, as though the walls themselves sensed a change between us. Throughout the briefing, Adrian hardly gave me a glance. His posture was too flawless, his speech too controlled—the kind of perfection someone employs to conceal turmoil. I pretended to concentrate on the documents as I sat across the table, but every number on the page was drowned out by the sound of my heartbeat. I couldn't blame him, but the way he avoided my eyes stung more than I anticipated. The near-moment from last night still hung between us like static. I could sense him fighting himself, fighting us, fighting the reality neither of us wanted to express aloud. There was going to be a break soon.
When the meeting finished, I waited behind, hoping he would say something—anything—to ease the tension. Rather, he gathered his files and silently turned to face his office. Driven by a mixture of frustration and need that I could no longer ignore, I followed him. "Adrian," I whispered. He froze, his back straightening as if my voice had trapped him in place. He turned to face me slowly, and I could see the struggle in his eyes. He appeared emotionally exhausted, as if he had been struggling with himself all night, rather than physically exhausted. He uttered the final words, "We can't do this," but his voice broke. It wasn't a rejection. It was the kind of terror that conceals more profound emotions.
I took a step forward him, closing the gap that had plagued us all morning without actually touching him. I said, "You never tell me what you want, but you keep saying we can't." He gulped, his throat bobbing, and he averted his gaze for the first time. Adrian Cole never took his eyes off anything. My chest hurt to see him trembling. "It doesn't matter what I want," he said. "You deserve someone who isn't complicated." I was irritated by his remarks not because he was self-conscious but rather because he was unaware that his vulnerability simply made me feel more intimate. I whispered, "Maybe I get to decide that." His expression cracked slightly, allowing hope to seep through as his breath caught.
Like a man attempting to outrun his own thoughts, he paced the length of his office as he passed me. "You have no idea how much this could cost," he remarked. "Everything we've built—my job, your career." I allowed him to talk while observing the strain in his shoulders and the way he combed through his hair, a gesture he reserved for moments when he was losing control. "Perhaps," I said, "but it's also costing us to act as though nothing is wrong between us." His eyes met mine with a rawness I had never seen before, and he stopped there, really halted. He said, "You think I don't feel this?" Just that statement made us feel as though gravity was shifting beneath us, drawing us into something from which neither of us could break free.
After that, there was a heavy silence, but this time it was acknowledgement rather than avoidance. He walked slowly toward me, cautiously, hesitantly, as though he were stepping on a line he had vowed not to touch. There was an electrical charge in the air between us when he halted in front of me. "I'm attempting to safeguard you," Adrian stated in a scarcely audible voice. It was a reality that troubled him, not an excuse. I reached up, keeping my hand just close enough for him to sense my intention without actually touching him. "And who keeps you safe?" I inquired. The man in charge of boardrooms stood helplessly in front of me for a moment as the question stunned him.
He let out a trembling breath, the kind that comes when one finally stops struggling with oneself. He remarked, "You make everything harder," yet his tone was one of genuine, unreserved compassion rather than annoyance. I gave a small smile. "Perhaps you're accustomed to being by yourself." He was more affected by the truth than by any disagreement. Even Adrian had forgotten what was behind the walls he had erected. Those walls were insufficient now that I was standing here. His hand rose, shaking with self-control, and stopped just short of my cheek. I could learn more from that little tremble than from words. He desired me. He was afraid that he might want me. Nevertheless, he was unable to move away.
The moment was broken by the loud buzzing of the intercom from his desk before he could back away. Adrian dropped his hand to his side and winced. "Yes?" he asked, suddenly returning to his calm, businesslike tone. The board urgently wanted to study the quarterly predictions, his assistant told him. We were reminded that reality didn't stop for prohibited feelings as the outside world reappeared. He stared at me, truly looked at me, with a face that was a mix of exasperation, longing, and something perilously close to surrender when he hung up. He said, "We'll talk later." However, he didn't sound dismissive. It was a pledge that rested on a thin line of caution.
I nodded and made my way to the door, but he yelled my name before I could leave. He stood there when I turned, not as my employer, not as the guarded guy who shoved me away, but as a man engaged in a battle within himself. He whispered, "Don't give up on me." It wasn't overly dramatic. It wasn't anticipated. It was honest and unvarnished, the kind of candor that comes only when one is finally fed up with running. My breath caught. "I didn't intend to," I answered. I knew that whatever was going on between us had reached a breaking point as soon as I entered the corridor. Soon, something would crack, and neither of us could stop it this time.