The house was quiet that night, heavy with the kind of silence that only made the ticking clock louder. The master bedroom was colder than it should have been, shadows pooling in the corners, the curtains shifting faintly in the breeze that crept through a cracked window.
Adrian Vale lay awake, staring at the ceiling. He had tried—God knew he had tried—to ignore the slight warmth at his side, to shut out the sound of Elara's steady breathing. She was wrapped in her cocoon of blankets like a stubborn burrito, tucked all the way to the far edge of the mattress. She might as well have been an ocean away.
And yet, he couldn't sleep.
Every time his eyes drifted shut, her image burned into his mind: too thin, too pale, lips chapped but soft, hair like sunlight turned brittle from neglect. He hated how that image lingered. Hated how easily it slipped beneath his armor.
"Get a grip," he muttered, voice rough against the darkness.
But the night stretched long, and when sleep finally came for him, it wasn't the restful kind.
A soft sound cut through the dark.
Adrian's eyes snapped open. At first he thought it was nothing—just the creak of old wood, the sigh of the wind through the shutters. But then it came again, clearer this time: a stifled whimper.
He rolled onto his side.
Elara's face was twisted in sleep, her brows drawn tight, her lips trembling with quiet cries. Her body shifted restlessly beneath the comforter, caught in a nightmare that refused to let her go.
Adrian sat up slowly, his chest tightening despite himself. He wasn't supposed to care. He wasn't supposed to feel anything. And yet—
Her hand twitched as if fending off a blow.
"Damn it," he whispered, the curse more fragile than angry.
Then, without warning, Elara bolted upright, her eyes still closed, expression slack with sleep. She climbed off the bed with unsteady steps, dragging her comforter behind her like a shield. Her bare feet padded soundlessly to the far corner of the room. And there, without hesitation, she lowered herself to the floor, curling into the fabric as if this were the place she belonged.
Adrian's stomach turned cold.
Sleepwalking. No—more than that. Instinct. Habit.
He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, standing in one smooth motion. His voice was rough when it broke the silence.
"Elara."
No response. She had already pulled herself small, head bowed, arms wrapped around her knees like a child waiting for punishment.
Adrian's hands curled into fists. The sight burned into him like acid.
In three strides he was crouched beside her. He gripped her shoulder—not hard, not rough, but firm enough to ground her. Her skin felt cold even through the blanket.
"Listen," he said, low and steady, fighting the unfamiliar strain in his voice. "You don't belong on some goddamn floor anymore."
She didn't stir. Didn't wake. The words slid past her as though her mind couldn't recognize them.
Adrian swore under his breath. And then, without giving himself another second to think, he scooped her up—comforter and all—into his arms.
She weighed next to nothing. Too little. Her head lolled against his shoulder, golden hair brushing his jaw. For one reckless heartbeat he held her closer than he should have, his chest tightening at the feel of her.
Then he carried her back to the bed.
He set her down carefully, pulling the blanket around her fragile frame. She stirred once, murmuring something unintelligible, then rolled instinctively toward him.
Before he could retreat, her arm curled across his chest.
Adrian froze.
Her body pressed against his side, soft in all the places that still held shape despite her frailty. Her cheek rested near his collarbone, breath warm against his throat. She clung to him like a lifeline, as though even in unconsciousness she feared slipping back onto the floor.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
For a long, suspended moment, Adrian didn't move. He didn't breathe.
Then, slowly, his hand rose—hovering above her brittle hair. He wanted, desperately, to smooth it back, to offer some quiet assurance. But the thought itself disgusted him, and he let his hand drop with a sharp exhale.
He stared at the ceiling again, fury burning through him—not at her, but at himself. At the fact that his pulse raced because of her touch. At the fact that his body reacted to the shape of her curves against him, even when his mind screamed not to.
"She's nothing like Helena," he muttered to himself, voice hoarse. "Nothing like her."
And yet he couldn't push her away.
Instead, against every instinct of self-preservation, he shifted just enough to pull the blanket higher around her.
She sighed softly, the sound brushing against him like a whisper, and her grip on him tightened the slightest bit.
Adrian Vale closed his eyes.
"Idiot," he whispered—to her, to himself, to the whole damned world.
Sleep came late, but it came with her still wrapped against him.
The morning light broke through the curtains in soft streaks of gold.
Elara stirred first, blinking blearily at the unfamiliar ceiling. For a moment, confusion clouded her features—until she realized she was still in the bed.
Her lips parted faintly.
Nice, she thought in silence. She had never slept through the night in a bed before. Usually she would wake on the floor, cold and aching. But this time... this time she had remained where she lay.
A flicker of surprise crossed her hollow face, quickly smoothed over by practiced calm.
Adrian stirred beside her. His eyes cracked open, blue and sharp even in the haze of sleep.
"Morning," he muttered, voice rough. He propped himself on one elbow, studying her with an expression too guarded to read. "Feel better after actually sleeping in a bed and not the damn floor?"
Elara didn't answer immediately. She only tucked the comforter tighter around herself, her gaze sliding away.
Adrian watched her for a long moment. Then, with a sharp sigh, he flopped back onto his pillow, staring at the ceiling again.
"Stubborn woman," he muttered.
But the corner of his mouth betrayed him, twitching into something dangerously close to a smile.