Adam (POV)
What a terrible journey.
Every muscle in my body aches as if I've been fighting the road itself for hours. The drive from the airport was brutal—broken roads, endless turns, dust everywhere. I kept wondering why anyone in their right mind would choose this place to conduct an important international meeting. On top of that, there's barely any network coverage. No signal. No updates.
What if someone from the club finds her?
What if they try to contact me and I can't respond?
The thought makes my jaw tighten. I push it aside. For now, I have to focus. The meeting is the priority. Finish it. Then go back. Back to searching. Back to the city where I last saw her.
I check in at the hotel around two in the afternoon. The staff seems overwhelmed—too many guests, too many last-minute arrangements. I barely register their apologies. All I want is a shower and a few hours of rest.
When I open the door to my room, irritation hits me first.
There's someone on my bed.
A figure lying there, curled slightly to one side, fast asleep.
For a split second, anger flares. What kind of management allows this? How careless can they be? I take a step forward, already preparing to call the front desk—
And then I see her face.
The world stops.
My breath catches so sharply it hurts.
It's her.
Not a memory. Not my imagination. Not exhaustion playing tricks on me.
Her.
Green eyes closed, lashes resting softly against her cheeks, hair spread across the pillow like she belongs there. My heart pounds so loudly I'm afraid it might wake her.
How?
What is she doing here?
Is this real?
I move closer, slowly, afraid that one wrong step will shatter the moment. I stand beside the bed, staring down at her, memorizing every detail as if she might disappear again if I blink too long.
She looks peaceful. Tired. Vulnerable.
Without thinking, I bend slightly and place a gentle kiss on her forehead.
The simplest touch.
Yet it washes away every ounce of exhaustion from my body. The long journey, the frustration, the restlessness—gone. My heart, which has been restless for days, finally calms.
I straighten and consider leaving the room, giving her space. But my legs refuse to move.
So instead, I lie down on the other side of the bed, careful to keep distance between us. I want to pull her close, feel her warmth, reassure myself that she's really here—but I don't. I don't want to scare her. I don't want her to wake up feeling trapped.
All I want is for her to feel safe.
Minutes pass.
Then I hear it.
A soft sound at first—almost like a whimper. Then another. Her brows knit together, her breathing uneven. She shifts restlessly, fingers clutching the sheets.
A nightmare.
I sit up immediately, heart racing. "Hey… hey," I whisper, unsure if she can hear me. Her face tightens, and then she lets out a small cry.
She's crying.
Panic grips me.
Without thinking, I reach out and gently shake her shoulder. "It's okay. You're safe. Wake up."
Her eyes flutter open, unfocused, struggling against sleep. The room light is dim, but enough for her to slowly register her surroundings. She blinks several times, breathing hard, trying to calm herself.
Then she looks at me.
For a second, she just stares.
Then her hand rises and cups my face.
She smiles.
Not wide. Not dramatic. Just soft and real.
Something in my chest loosens. Relief floods through me so powerfully I almost laugh. Almost cry.
"You're okay," I say quietly, though I'm not sure who I'm reassuring—her or myself.
Her expression shifts suddenly. Confusion replaces warmth. Her eyes dart around the room, recognition dawning slowly. She sits up abruptly, pulling her hand back as if burned.
"This—this is your room," she says, voice shaky.
She swings her legs off the bed and stands up immediately, panic rising. "I'm so sorry. I didn't know. I swear, I thought—" Her words tumble over each other as she starts apologizing repeatedly, her hands twisting nervously.
It hits me then.
She thinks she's done something wrong.
I'm on my feet in seconds.
Before she can step away, I pull her into my arms.
Tightly.
As if my life depends on it.
She stiffens at first, startled, trying to push away. "Wait—please—"
I don't let go.
Instead, I tighten my hold, careful not to hurt her, but firm enough to let her feel me—real, present, not leaving.
"I found you," I whisper, my voice breaking despite my effort to stay composed. "You didn't disappear. You're here."
Her resistance falters. Slowly, her hands come to rest against my chest. I can feel her heartbeat racing, matching mine.
She exhales shakily.
Neither of us speaks for a long moment.
I don't know how fate works. I don't know why this meeting was scheduled here, or why the hotel made such a mistake, or how she ended up in my room out of all the rooms in this place.
All I know is this—
I searched for her everywhere.
And somehow, without either of us trying, we found each other.
I loosen my grip slightly but don't step back. "You're safe," I say again, softer this time. "I promise."
She doesn't answer.
But she doesn't pull away either.
And for the first time since she left, I feel whole again.