Two weeks into Sophia's first semester at Columbia, Adrian's worst fears materialized in the form of a single phone call at three in the morning.
"Adrian?" Sophia's voice was barely a whisper, thick with tears and barely controlled panic.
He was instantly awake, sitting up in bed and reaching for his clothes. "Angel, what's wrong? Where are you?"
"I'm... I'm at the library. I can't... I can't breathe properly. Everything hurts and I can't..." Her words dissolved into rapid, shallow breathing that made Adrian's chest clench with fear.
"I'm coming to get you," Adrian said, already heading for the door. "Stay on the phone with me. What building are you in?"
"Butler Library, third floor," Sophia managed between gasps. "But Adrian, you don't have to—"
"Yes, I do," Adrian said firmly, his car already speeding through the empty streets toward Columbia. "Keep talking to me, beautiful. Tell me what happened."
"Professor Williams... she assigned us to present our thesis proposals next week. In front of the entire cohort. And today in seminar, everyone was so brilliant, so articulate, and I just sat there like an idiot while they discussed Sendak and Milne like they personally knew them."
Adrian's jaw tightened as he heard the self-doubt creeping back into Sophia's voice—the poisonous whisper that told her she didn't belong, wasn't good enough, was fooling herself into thinking she could succeed in this environment.
"Sophia, listen to me," Adrian said, pulling into a parking space near the library. "You belong there. You earned your place there. One difficult day doesn't change that."
"But what if I can't do it? What if I present my proposal and everyone realizes I'm a fraud? What if—"
"Then I'll be there to catch you," Adrian interrupted, jogging across the campus toward Butler Library. "But that's not going to happen, because you're not a fraud. You're brilliant and talented and you have insights that no one else in that room possesses."
Security let him into the building after a brief explanation and a considerable donation to the library fund. Adrian found Sophia exactly where she'd said she'd be—curled in a corner chair between two towering stacks, surrounded by books and papers, looking smaller and more fragile than he'd seen her since that first day in the coffee shop.
"There you are," Adrian said softly, kneeling beside her chair.
Sophia looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes, her face blotchy from crying. "You came."
"Of course I came," Adrian said, gathering her into his arms. "You called. I'll always come."
Gradually, her breathing began to slow as Adrian held her, one hand stroking her hair while the other rubbed gentle circles on her back. The familiar scent of his cologne and the solid warmth of his embrace worked like a balm on her frayed nerves.
"I'm sorry," Sophia whispered against his chest. "I'm sorry for falling apart, for calling you in the middle of the night, for—"
"Stop," Adrian said firmly. "You have nothing to apologize for. This is what people who love each other do—they show up."
"But you have that presentation tomorrow morning with the Japanese investors—"
"Which I can handle on three hours of sleep if necessary," Adrian interrupted. "Sophia, look at me."
She lifted her head to meet his concerned gray eyes.
"There is nothing—no meeting, no deal, no crisis—that matters more than you. Do you understand that?"
Sophia nodded, fresh tears spilling down her cheeks.
"Good. Now, let's go home and get you some sleep. Tomorrow we'll tackle this thesis proposal together."
"We?" Sophia asked as Adrian helped her gather her scattered papers.
"We," Adrian confirmed. "I may not know much about children's literature, but I know about presentations, about owning a room, about making people listen. You provide the brilliant content, I'll help you deliver it with confidence."
Back at Adrian's penthouse, Sophia curled up on the sofa while Adrian made her chamomile tea and heated up leftover soup from dinner. The domestic routine of caring for her when she was vulnerable felt as natural as breathing.
"Tell me about your thesis proposal," Adrian said, settling beside her with the warm mug.
"It's about representation of foster children in literature," Sophia said quietly. "How most books either romanticize the experience or traumatize it, but few show the reality—that foster kids are just kids who need love and stability and the chance to believe in their own worth."
"That's brilliant," Adrian said immediately. "And incredibly important."
"Professor Williams says it's too narrow, too personal. She thinks I should broaden it to general themes of displacement and belonging."
"What do you think?"
"I think she's wrong," Sophia said with more conviction than she'd shown all evening. "I think specificity is what makes literature powerful. When you tell one story really well, it resonates with everyone who's ever felt displaced or unwanted."
"Then that's what you present," Adrian said firmly. "Your vision, your passion, your truth. The professors will see your conviction and respect it, even if they don't agree with every detail."
"What if they tear it apart?"
"Then you defend it intelligently and passionately, and you learn from any valid criticism they offer. But Sophia, you can't water down your vision to avoid conflict. The best academic work comes from taking a stand."
They spent the next hour going through Sophia's proposal, with Adrian asking probing questions and helping her anticipate potential criticisms. By the time they went to bed, Sophia's confidence had largely returned.
"Thank you," she whispered as they settled into bed together.
"For what?"
"For reminding me who I am. For not letting me shrink back into fear."
"Always," Adrian promised, pulling her close. "That's what I'm here for."
The next morning, Adrian insisted on driving Sophia to campus before his own meeting. As they sat in his car outside the literature building, he turned to face her.
"Remember," he said, taking her hands in his, "you're not asking for permission to belong there. You're sharing knowledge and perspective that they need. You're the expert on this topic, not them."
"What if my voice shakes?"
"Then it shakes," Adrian said with a smile. "Some of the most powerful speeches in history were delivered by people who were terrified. Courage isn't the absence of fear—it's feeling the fear and doing it anyway."
"I love you," Sophia said suddenly.
"I love you too. Now go in there and show them what brilliance looks like."
Sophia's presentation was scheduled for two o'clock, giving her the entire morning to sit in other classes and watch her fellow students deliver their proposals. By lunch, her anxiety had reached fever pitch as she listened to presentation after presentation of seemingly perfect academic discourse.
At 1:45, she stood outside the seminar room, hands shaking as she clutched her notes. Her phone buzzed with a text from Adrian: "You've got this, angel. Breathe, believe, and be brilliant. I'll be thinking of you."
Taking a deep breath, Sophia walked into the room.
Professor Williams, a stern woman in her sixties with steel-gray hair and intimidating wire-rimmed glasses, nodded at her. "Ms. Chen, you're up."
Sophia moved to the front of the room, looking out at the dozen other graduate students who made up her cohort. They were all brilliant, well-educated, articulate. Most came from privileged backgrounds, had attended elite undergraduate programs, spoke with the easy confidence of people who'd never doubted their right to take up space.
"My thesis proposal," Sophia began, her voice barely above a whisper, "focuses on the representation of foster children in contemporary children's literature."
"Speak up, please," Professor Williams said sharply. "Project your voice."
Sophia cleared her throat, remembering Adrian's advice about owning the room. "My thesis examines how contemporary children's literature portrays the foster care experience, with particular attention to the gap between romanticized narratives and lived reality."
As she continued, her voice grew stronger. She talked about books that treated foster care as a temporary inconvenience solved by finding the "right" family, versus the complex reality of children who'd experienced trauma, loss, and systemic failures. She discussed her own research into books written by former foster children versus those written by authors with no personal experience of the system.
"The problem," Sophia said, her passion beginning to override her nerves, "is that most literature about foster children is written for adults to feel good about themselves—either as saviors or as people who care about disadvantaged children. But what about writing for the children themselves? What about books that don't promise easy solutions but instead offer validation, hope, and the message that their worth isn't dependent on being 'rescued'?"
The room had grown quiet, her fellow students listening intently now rather than waiting for their turn to speak.
"I propose examining a corpus of both mainstream and self-published works, interviewing former foster children about their reading experiences, and analyzing the specific literary techniques that create authentic versus stereotypical portrayals."
When she finished, the room was silent for a moment before hands began to rise with questions.
"How do you plan to access a population that's traditionally difficult to reach for research?" asked James, a particularly pompous student who always seemed to ask questions designed to show off his own knowledge.
"Through partnerships with foster care alumni organizations, former foster parent groups, and social service agencies," Sophia replied confidently. "I've already made preliminary contacts with several organizations that are excited about the research."
"Don't you think your personal connection to the subject might compromise your objectivity?" asked another student.
Sophia felt a flash of anger but channeled it into conviction. "I think my personal experience provides insight that can't be gained through purely academic study. The goal isn't to eliminate bias but to acknowledge it and use it productively. Some of the most important research on marginalized communities has been conducted by members of those communities."
Professor Williams leaned forward. "Ms. Chen, while your passion for this topic is evident, don't you think the scope is somewhat narrow? How would this work contribute to broader literary theory?"
This was the question Sophia had been dreading, but Adrian's coaching kicked in. "I believe specificity strengthens rather than weakens theoretical contributions," she said firmly. "By deeply examining one particular representation gap, we can develop frameworks for analyzing how literature treats other marginalized childhood experiences—immigration, poverty, disability, family dissolution. The methodological approach could be applied broadly while the specific insights serve the foster care community directly."
Several students nodded thoughtfully, and Sophia saw something that looked like respect in Professor Williams's eyes.
"Additionally," Sophia continued, feeling a surge of confidence, "children's literature shapes how society views childhood itself. If we want to create more inclusive communities, we need to examine how our stories either validate or exclude certain childhood experiences."
When the questions ended, Professor Williams nodded curtly. "Thank you, Ms. Chen. We'll discuss your proposal and provide feedback next week."
As Sophia gathered her materials, several classmates approached her.
"That was really powerful," said Maria, a kind student who'd been friendly since orientation. "I never thought about foster care representation that way."
"The personal experience angle is really smart," added David, another student. "It gives you access to perspectives that pure academic study would miss."
Walking across campus afterward, Sophia felt like she was floating. She'd done it—she'd stood up for her vision, defended her ideas, and earned her classmates' respect. More importantly, she'd proven to herself that she belonged here.
Her phone rang as she reached the subway station.
"How did it go?" Adrian's voice was eager, concerned.
"I think... I think it went really well," Sophia said, unable to keep the smile out of her voice.
"Tell me everything."
As Sophia recounted the presentation during the subway ride home, Adrian felt his chest swell with pride. The scared, apologetic girl from three weeks ago had transformed into a confident academic who could defend her ideas with passion and intelligence.
"I'm so proud of you," he said when she finished. "You didn't just survive that presentation—you owned it."
"I kept hearing your voice telling me to own the room," Sophia admitted. "It helped."
"That was all you, angel. Your passion, your intelligence, your courage. I just reminded you what was already there."
"I love you," Sophia said softly.
"I love you too. And I have a surprise for you when you get home."
"What kind of surprise?"
"The kind that celebrates brilliant academic women who conquer their fears and fight for important work."
When Sophia arrived at the penthouse, she found the dining room transformed. Candles flickered on the table, which was set with Adrian's finest china and crystal. A bottle of champagne chilled in an ice bucket, and the scent of something delicious wafted from the kitchen.
"Adrian, what is all this?" Sophia asked, overwhelmed.
"A celebration," Adrian said, emerging from the kitchen wearing an apron over his suit. "Of your first major academic victory."
"It was just a thesis proposal—"
"It was you refusing to be intimidated," Adrian interrupted, untying his apron. "It was you standing up for your vision despite pressure to conform. It was you proving that you belong exactly where you are."
Dinner was perfect—Adrian had somehow managed to prepare her favorite pasta dish along with a salad that included herbs from his window garden. Over champagne, Sophia told him more details about the presentation, her excitement bubbling over as she described how it felt to see her classmates really listening to her ideas.
"Professor Williams still thinks the scope is too narrow," Sophia said, twirling pasta around her fork.
"What do you think?" Adrian asked.
"I think she's testing me. Seeing if I'll stick to my guns or cave to academic pressure."
"And will you?"
"Stick to my guns," Sophia said firmly. "You were right—the specificity is what makes it powerful. If I try to make it appeal to everyone, it won't mean anything to anyone."
"There's my brilliant girlfriend," Adrian said with a grin. "The woman who's going to change how literature represents foster children."
After dinner, they moved to the living room, Sophia curled against Adrian's side as they shared a piece of chocolate cake he'd somehow found time to acquire.
"I have something for you," Adrian said suddenly, reaching into his jacket pocket.
"Adrian, you've already done so much—"
"It's not expensive," he assured her, pulling out a small wrapped package. "Just... meaningful."
Inside was a simple silver pendant on a delicate chain—a tiny open book with a heart inscribed on its pages.
"It's beautiful," Sophia breathed.
"I had it engraved," Adrian said, lifting the pendant to show her the back. In tiny script, it read: "For the stories that heal hearts - A.B."
Tears pricked Sophia's eyes as Adrian fastened the necklace around her throat. "Adrian..."
"Every time you doubt yourself, every time someone questions your vision, I want you to touch this and remember what you're fighting for," Adrian said softly. "You're not just studying literature—you're working to heal hearts, including your own."
"How do you always know exactly what I need?" Sophia asked, her fingers automatically going to the pendant.
"Because I love you," Adrian said simply. "Because your dreams matter to me as much as my own."
"Speaking of your dreams," Sophia said, settling back against him, "how did your meeting go with the Japanese investors?"
Adrian had completely forgotten about the morning's presentation until she mentioned it. "Good. Great, actually. They're funding the expansion."
"That's wonderful! Why didn't you tell me earlier?"
"Because your success was more important," Adrian said honestly. "The deal was just business. What you did today—that was courage, growth, everything I love about you rolled into one perfect moment."
"I couldn't have done it without you," Sophia said quietly.
"Yes, you could have," Adrian corrected. "But I'm glad you didn't have to."
Later that night, as they lay in bed together, Sophia traced patterns on Adrian's chest while he played with her hair—their usual routine that had become as natural as breathing.
"Adrian," Sophia said quietly.
"Mmm?"
"What happens when this gets hard? When school gets more demanding, when I'm stressed and crying at three AM more often than not?"
"Then I'll be there at three AM," Adrian said simply. "With tea, with hugs, with whatever you need."
"What if I have to present at conferences? What if there are networking events and academic social functions that trigger my anxiety?"
"Then we'll figure out strategies to manage them, or we'll find alternatives, or we'll leave early. Whatever works for you."
"What if I fail?"
Adrian was quiet for a moment, considering his words carefully. "What if you succeed beyond your wildest dreams? What if your research changes how publishers think about foster care narratives? What if your thesis becomes a book that helps thousands of children feel less alone?"
"You really think that's possible?"
"I think you're capable of anything," Adrian said firmly. "But more importantly, I think you're starting to believe that about yourself."
Sophia was quiet for a long moment, processing the events of the day and the growth she'd experienced.
"I do," she said finally. "For the first time in my life, I actually believe I might be capable of something important."
"You are capable of something important," Adrian corrected. "You're already doing something important. Every day you choose courage over fear, every time you refuse to shrink yourself to make others comfortable, every story you write or research you conduct that validates the experiences of children who've been overlooked—that's important work."
"I love you so much it sometimes scares me," Sophia admitted.
"I love you so much it sometimes amazes me," Adrian replied. "But I'm not scared anymore. I'm excited—excited to see what you accomplish, excited to support your dreams, excited to build a life with someone who makes me want to be better."
"A life?" Sophia asked softly.
"A life," Adrian confirmed. "If you want it. If you want us."
"I want everything with you," Sophia said without hesitation. "The good days and the bad ones, the triumphs and the setbacks, all of it."
"Then you've got it," Adrian promised, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. "All of it. Forever."
As sleep claimed them both, Sophia thought about how much had changed since that first morning in Luna's Café. She'd gone from invisible to valued, from scared to brave, from alone to beloved. And tomorrow, she'd wake up and continue building the life she'd never dared to dream possible—not because someone had rescued her, but because someone had loved her enough to help her rescue herself.
The pendant rested against her heart, a tangible reminder of her purpose and Adrian's faith in her. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, more moments of doubt, continued growth and struggle. But tonight, surrounded by love and possibility, Sophia Chen was exactly where she belonged.