The storm carried into the next day, turning the city into a watercolor of rain-streaked windows and gleaming streets. Elena woke to the sound of it drumming against her glass, her heart still tangled in last night's almost.
How many times could she tell herself it couldn't happen, and yet still find herself standing inches from him, ready to surrender?
She tried to bury herself in work, arriving at the gallery before dawn, moving through the rooms with mechanical efficiency. She checked the security systems, polished the glass cases, rearranged a few of the smaller displays—anything to keep her hands busy, her mind distracted.
But she wasn't distracted. Not really. Because he was everywhere. In the way she touched the art, remembering how his fingers had brushed her jaw. In the silence of the halls, hearing his voice saying her name like a secret.
By midday, she knew she couldn't keep running.
She found Adrian in his office at the Blake Hotel. The rain followed her inside, drops clinging to her hair, her coat damp from the walk. His assistant barely had time to announce her before she was already at his door.
He looked up, surprise flickering across his face before something deeper settled there—something that looked dangerously like hope.
"Elena."
Her throat tightened. She almost lost her resolve right there, but she forced the words out. "We need to talk."
He stood immediately, moving around his desk, concern and intensity in every step. "What's wrong?"
"Everything," she whispered. Then louder: "Adrian, this… whatever this is between us, it has to stop."
His jaw tightened, but he didn't step back. "Why?"
"Because it's consuming me," she admitted, her voice trembling. "I can't think, I can't sleep, I can't breathe without feeling you everywhere. And it scares me."
For a moment, silence stretched between them, heavy as the storm outside.
Then Adrian reached for her, his movements steady but deliberate, giving her every chance to pull away. When she didn't, his hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing the raindrops—or were they tears?—from her skin.
"Elena," he said softly, his voice raw, "you think I'm not terrified too? I am. But I'd rather be afraid with you than safe without you."
Her chest broke open at the words.
And then—finally, inevitably—he kissed her.
It wasn't tentative, wasn't testing. It was a kiss years in the making, born from every glance, every almost, every denial. His mouth was warm and insistent against hers, and when she responded—when her hands gripped his shirt and pulled him closer—it felt like falling and flying all at once.
The world disappeared. The rain outside faded, the storm inside her found its answer. All that remained was the heat of his lips, the strength of his arms, the truth she had been running from: she wanted him.
When they finally broke apart, both breathless, both trembling, Adrian rested his forehead against hers. "Tell me to stop now, and I swear I will. But if you don't… I'm not letting you go again."
Her answer came in a whisper, shaky but true.
"Don't stop."
His breath caught, and then his mouth claimed hers again, sealing a promise neither of them could undo.
That night, Elena lay awake in her apartment, her lips still tingling, her body still humming from his touch. Fear coiled in her stomach, yes—but so did something else. Something she hadn't felt in years.
Hope.
And it terrified her most of all.