Elena's POV
You know that kind of exhaustion that clings to you like a second skin?
That was me — sometime after the stormy night Adrian drove me home.
I thought I could handle it all — the workload, the expectations, the constant need to prove that I belonged in his world. But the truth is, I was running on caffeine and stubbornness. And eventually, my body gave up before my pride did.
By the time I got home that evening, my head was pounding, my throat burned, and every muscle ached. I told myself it was just a cold. Just fatigue. Just one more late night, and I'd rest tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came.
When I woke up, it was already dark. My phone was buzzing on the nightstand, my head spinning so hard I could barely lift it. The screen glowed with his name.
Mr. Knight.
I tried to sit up, to sound normal, but my voice betrayed me the moment I answered.
"Hello?"
There was a pause. Then his tone — sharper than usual, edged with concern he didn't bother to hide.
"You sound terrible. Where are you?"
"At home," I murmured. "Just… a little under the weather. I'll be fine."
"Elena," he said, and just the way he said my name made my chest tighten. "You should have told me."
I wanted to laugh, but it came out as a cough instead. "I didn't think catching a cold required a meeting memo."
He didn't respond. Only silence — and then the faint sound of him sighing.
"I'm coming over."
My brain fogged. "What? No, Mr. Knight, that's not—"
He cut the line.
I didn't expect him to actually come.
But thirty minutes later, there was a soft knock at my door.
I opened it to see Adrian Knight, standing there in a dark coat, one hand holding a small bag, rain still glistening in his hair.
He looked completely out of place in my small apartment — all sleek control and quiet authority, standing in a hallway that smelled faintly of cheap coffee and detergent.
"I told you I was fine," I mumbled, leaning against the doorframe.
"You look like you can barely stand." His eyes swept over me, lingering for a heartbeat longer than they should have. "You shouldn't be alone like this."
Before I could argue, he stepped inside — moving past me with that effortless dominance that didn't need permission to exist.
He placed the bag on my counter — medicine, soup, and bottled water. I blinked.
"You… brought this?"
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he rolled up his sleeves, poured the soup into a bowl, and turned on my stove like he'd done it a hundred times before.
"I had the driver stop by a 24-hour pharmacy," he said simply. "You're no use to me sick."
But there was no bite in his voice. Just quiet care, carefully hidden under the excuse of practicality.
He carried the bowl to the couch where I sat, my blanket clutched around me. He crouched down — the Adrian Knight, billionaire CEO, kneeling in front of me — and handed me the spoon.
"Eat," he said softly.
I tried to, but my hands were shaking.
Without a word, he took the spoon from me and helped me instead — slow, patient movements, as if feeding me was the most natural thing in the world.
Every time our eyes met, something in my chest fluttered.
He wasn't looking at me like an employee. Not like someone beneath him.
He was looking at me like… he couldn't help it.
When I'd eaten half, I tried to protest. "You really don't have to—"
"I want to," he interrupted quietly. "Just this once, let me take care of you."
That was the moment my walls crumbled a little.
After I finished, he guided me toward my bed. I tried to argue again, but he only gave me that look — the one that left no room for negotiation.
He tucked the blanket around me, his movements slow, deliberate, almost reverent. Then, with a gentleness I didn't know he was capable of, he reached out and brushed a few strands of hair from my face.
His fingers were warm. His touch was feather-light. But my entire body reacted like he'd just whispered a secret against my skin.
"You shouldn't push yourself so hard," he murmured. "You don't have to prove anything to me."
"I just… don't want to disappoint you," I whispered.
His hand stilled for a second. Then he said, so quietly I almost didn't hear it —
"You couldn't. Even if you tried."
My eyes blurred — not from fever this time, but from something softer. Something I didn't dare name.
He stayed until I fell asleep. I could feel him there — sitting in the chair beside my bed, the faint rustle of paper as he checked his phone, the quiet sigh he thought I couldn't hear.
Just before sleep took me, I felt the faintest brush of his fingers against my hair again — a touch so careful, it felt like a promise he didn't want to make out loud.
When I woke up the next morning, the chair beside my bed was empty.
But on the nightstand, there was a note in his handwriting.
> "Rest. Don't come in until you're better."
— A.K.
I smiled.
Because for the first time since coming to New York, I didn't feel like an employee trying to survive.
I felt… seen.
And that scared me more than anything.
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