The scent of acrylics lingered long after the children had gone. Elena stood at the sink, rinsing paintbrushes in water that had turned a murky brown. The classroom, usually filled with laughter and chatter, now sat in gentle quiet. She loved this hour, when the chaos had dissolved into calm, leaving behind only the colors of the day.
But tonight, the calm was fractured.
Because Adrian was still here.
He sat at one of the small tables, impossibly out of place in his rolled-up sleeves and loosened tie. A stack of papers lay before him, though she doubted he had read a single line. His gaze kept drifting toward her, steady and unrelenting.
"Do you always stay this late?" His voice was low, careful, as though afraid to break something fragile.
Elena focused on the brush in her hand. "The supplies won't clean themselves."
"You could leave them for tomorrow."
"I don't like starting fresh with yesterday's mess."
Her words hung heavier than she meant, and she sensed his faint shift in posture. She hadn't looked directly at him yet, not since the children had left. The room felt too small, her own skin too tight.
"Some messes don't disappear overnight," he said quietly.
Her hands stilled in the cloudy water. She knew he wasn't talking about brushes.
Finally, she forced herself to turn. "Why are you really here, Adrian? At the center, I mean. It's not your world."
A shadow of a smile touched his lips. "Maybe I needed a new one."
She raised an eyebrow. "You? The man who once had a five-year plan down to the hour?"
"Seven," he corrected softly. "It was a seven-year plan."
Her chest ached. She remembered — she had teased him about it once, sprawled across his dorm couch, while he had lectured her about discipline. Seven years to the top, Elena. That's how it's done.
And he had done it. Of course he had. Adrian Hale had always done what he set out to do.
She turned back to the sink. "So what happens now that you're on top?"
Silence stretched. She wondered if he would leave the question unanswered.
Then: "You find the view isn't what you thought it would be."
The words slipped under her skin. She rinsed another brush, trying to ignore the weight of his eyes.
After a moment, she said, "The kids liked you."
He gave a faint laugh. "They liked throwing paint at me."
"That's a compliment."
"I'll take it, then."
Something warm flickered between them, dangerous in its familiarity. For a heartbeat, it felt like old times—her sarcasm, his steady humor, the quiet rhythm they had once built without effort.
But old times were dangerous territory.
She set the brushes aside, drying her hands on a rag. "You don't have to stay."
"Maybe I want to."
The rag slipped from her fingers. She looked up sharply.
His gaze held hers, unflinching. And in that gaze, she saw the shadow of the boy she had once known—the one who had carried her canvases across campus, who had believed in her when no one else had.
Her throat tightened. "Don't," she whispered.
"Don't what?"
"Don't… make this harder."
He stood then, slowly, deliberately. The room seemed to shrink as he closed the distance. He didn't touch her, but the space between them vibrated with unspoken words.
"Elena," he said, her name rough in his mouth, "you think walking away for seven years erased it? It didn't. Not for me."
Her heart pounded, heat rising to her cheeks. "It should have. After what I—" She cut herself off, biting down hard on the words.
Adrian's jaw tensed. "After what you chose."
The room went silent again, except for the faint drip of water from the faucet.
Her breath caught. There it was—the first shard of the night they never spoke of, sharp and unforgiving. She wanted to defend herself, to explain, but the truth stuck in her throat like glass.
"I made a mistake," she said finally, her voice trembling. "A mistake I'll regret for the rest of my life."
His eyes softened for a fraction of a second, then hardened again. "Regret doesn't change what happened."
She flinched as if struck.
For a moment, neither moved. Then Adrian stepped back, the spell breaking. He gathered his papers, his composure sliding back into place like armor.
"I'll see you next week," he said evenly, and left the room without looking back.
The door clicked shut, leaving Elena alone with the dripping faucet, the smell of paint, and the ache of a past that refused to stay buried.
---
Later that night
Sleep did not come easily. Elena tossed beneath her blankets, the ceiling above her blurring in the dark. Every word, every glance from Adrian replayed in her mind.
And then—unbidden, unstoppable—the memory returned.
A flash of music, too loud. A glass in her hand. Laughter that didn't belong to her.
A figure leaning close, familiar yet different.
Heat, a kiss that burned and bruised.
And guilt—searing, immediate, endless.
Elena gasped and sat up, pressing her hands to her face. Even after all these years, the memory came like a knife, slicing open wounds she had tried to stitch shut with paint and silence.
Adrian didn't know the whole truth. He only knew what he had seen, what he had believed. She had never had the courage to tell him everything.
And now he was back.
Now, there was no escaping it.