Lena's pov"Watch it !"
Too late.
The gin splashes straight across his chest. Clear liquid, crushed ice, the smell of citrus and humiliation.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" I blurt, napkin in hand, trying to blot the damage.
He's tall,broad shoulders, wet hair, eyes the color of bad weather. The kind of man who never looks flustered, not even when he should. But right now, he laughs.
"Guess that's one way to introduce yourself."
"I swear I wasn't aiming," I mutter.
"Shame." His smile deepens. "Would've been impressive aim."
The bartender slides him a towel. I mumble something about dying of embarrassment while he wipes his shirt, unbothered.
"It's fine," he says. "You just saved me from finishing a terrible drink.and it's not every night a beautiful stranger baptizes me in gin."what do I owe you ?
The word beautiful catches me off guard I got a bit flustered but I quickly shaked it off
"I should be asking that," I say. "New shirt, dry-cleaning bill, emotional damages,take your pick."
He chuckles, soft and low. "Start with a drink. Gin and tonic?"
I hesitate, then nod. "Fine. But I'm picking the gin."
"Of course," he says. "You seem like you'd have opinions."
"I do," I reply, sliding back onto my stool. "Mostly bad ones."
"Good," he says, raising his glass when the drinks arrive. "So do I."
That earns a reluctant smile from me. His voice has that calm, easy gravity that draws people in. Rain beats harder against the window; the bar lights gleam off the glass like fragments of gold. Outside, the street hums softly under the downpour, everything blurred and half-forgotten.
He extends a hand. "Adrian."
"Lena."
His palm is cool against mine, firm but not insistent. The spark is instant,too quick to name, too strange to ignore.
"So, Lena," he says. "What brings you to this very fine establishment of sticky floors and watered gin?"
"New job. Long week. Poor decisions."
"Congratulations on all three."
"Thanks. You?"
He studies his glass, swirling the ice. "Habit, I guess. Sometimes silence tastes better in company."
It's a strange answer, but something in it makes me want to know more. We talk. About nothing at first,music, rain, the way people pretend not to be lonely. Each minute folds into the next until I've lost count of the drinks.
He's careful with his words, like a man who's learned that truth costs more than it's worth. Every now and then, his gaze lingers, not on my face but somewhere deeper,like he's listening to thoughts I haven't said aloud.
"You have that look," he says eventually.
"What look?"
"The one people get before they do something they'll regret."
"Maybe I like regret."
"Maybe I do too."
The words hang between us. Then his hand finds mine,lightly at first, a test. I don't pull away.
"You don't even know me," I say, but my voice betrays me.
"Maybe that's the point."
The kiss happens like a secret,sudden, inevitable. Warmth, the taste of gin and lime, a heartbeat too loud in my ears.
When it ends, he's close enough for me to feel his breath.
"Goodnight, Lena," he murmurs, voice softer now, almost kind.
I open my mouth to answer, but he's already pulling away.
By the time I blink, the stool beside me is empty.
Only his untouched drink remains,still cold, condensation sliding down the glass.
The next morning , I'd woken to the echo of rain and the faint ache of a hangover, trying to remember the stranger's voice. Adrian.
"Mum, we're late!" Sam had burst into my room before I could think too hard.
"Already?" I'd blinked at the clock. 7:43. Great start.
I'd thrown on a navy blouse, tugged my hair into something that could pass for professional, and pushed him toward the door with toast in hand .
By the time I drop him at school—barely making it before the bell my pulse has started to slow.
At least work will be normal. Familiar. I've been at Mayfield Therapy Clinic for two years now. I know the routines, the patients, the rhythm of the place.
No surprises. No distractions.
Mayfield sits on a tree-lined street downtown, all pale brick and large windows. Inside, it smells like lavender and fresh paint they just renovated the east wing.
Deb is already at the reception desk when I walk in, coffee in hand.
"Morning, Lena! You look like you need this more than me." She slides a second cup toward me.
"You're a saint." I take it gratefully. "Rough night."
"Aren't they all?" She grins. "Oh, by the way big day today. The new director starts."
My stomach drops. "Wait, today?"
"Yep. Dr. Reeves finally retired last week, remember? His replacement is supposed to be here any minute." She lowers her voice. "I heard he's young. Brilliant, a bit distant though married,poor thing,his wife's not well.apparently he Came highly recommended from some fancy practice upstate."
"Great," I mutter, taking a long sip of coffee. New bosses always mean changes. Evaluations. Scrutiny.
"Staff meeting at ten to introduce him," Deb continues. "Should be interesting."
I nod absently, heading toward my desk in the administrative hub. My computer hums to life. Emails load. Everything normal.
Then I hear it.
Footsteps in the corridor. Measured. Unhurried.
Deb's voice, bright and welcoming. "Dr. Shaw! Welcome to Westfield. Let me show you around"
My blood turns to ice.
Shaw.
I look up slowly.
And there he is.
Adrian.
He's different now polished in a navy suit, crisp white shirt, his expression composed and professional. But it's definitely him. Same gray eyes. Same hands that held my face last night.
He's scanning the office, shaking hands with staff members, his demeanor calm and authoritative.
Then his gaze lands on me.
He stops mid-sentence.
For one terrible, infinite second, we just stare at each other.
Recognition flashes in his eyes shock, then something darker. Something I can't read.
"And this is Lena Rivers," Deb is saying, oblivious. "She's been with us for two years. Keeps this whole place running, honestly."
Adrian recovers faster than I do. He steps forward, extending his hand.
"Ms. Rivers," he says, his voice carefully neutral. "It's a pleasure to meet you."
Meet me.
As if last night never happened.
I force myself to stand, to take his hand. His grip is brief, impersonal.
"Welcome to Westfield, Dr. Shaw," I manage.
His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. "I look forward to working with you."
Then he releases my hand and turns to Deb. "Shall we continue the tour?"
They move down the corridor, and I sink back into my chair, my heart hammering.
Through the glass wall, I catch a glimpse of him in the corridor.
He's standing perfectly still, looking directly at me.
Our eyes meet.
Then he turns and disappears into his office, closing the door behind him.
My phone buzzes.
An unknown number.
We need to talk.
I knew it was him immediately I read the text I stared at the screen, my hands trembling.
Sure, I replied.