ADELINE'S POV
I told myself it was nothing.
A skipped heartbeat meant nothing.
A slight hitch in my breath meant nothing.
Except it happened every time I saw him.
And that was the problem.
Today, I visited my boyfriend's dad alongside my boyfriend, Christopher, for the fifth time in two months. I had to admit Chris absolutely adored his dad, and I couldn't blame him.
It was just the two of them now. Chris's mom died during childbirth, or so he'd told me, and his dad had been alone ever since, raising him on his own.
Marshall was a really great dad. Chris went on about him nonstop every single day, and I never got tired of hearing about it. The pride in Chris's voice whenever he mentioned him was obvious, and it always made me smile.
From the way Chris talked about him, Marshall sounded less like a father and more like a quiet hero who had spent his life holding everything together.
Spending these few rare moments with Chris and his dad had made me fully realize that Chris was one of the lucky guys in the world to land such a great man as a father.
Chris and I were having dinner at the family home, waiting for his dad to return. Chris wanted to surprise him.
The house itself felt warm and lived in. The dining room was simple but elegant, with soft yellow lights hanging above the polished wooden table. A large window overlooked the quiet street outside, where the faint glow of evening traffic lights flickered through the glass.
I sat across from Chris, watching him fiddle with the cutlery as he tried to make everything look perfect.
"You're nervous," I teased softly.
Chris chuckled. "I just want it to be nice. Dad works too much. He deserves a good dinner once in a while."
"You say that like you don't cook for him often."
"I try," Chris admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. "But he's usually the one taking care of me."
His voice softened when he said it.
I smiled.
It was moments like this that reminded me why I loved Chris. He had a good heart. Gentle, honest, and warm in ways that felt rare.
The sound of a car pulling into the driveway made Chris's head snap toward the window.
"That's him," he said immediately, his face lighting up.
My stomach tightened.
The door opened.
He walked in.
Marshall.
As I lifted my eyes from the dining table, my gaze locked with his, and my heart skipped.
I didn't understand it, but for some reason my breath changed whenever I was around him. I couldn't even look at his eyes properly. They looked like dark orbs trying to suck me in.
In all my twenty-two years of life, I had never seen a man so gorgeous it made my breath hitch.
I hated it.
I hated that I noticed tiny details about him—how he walked with a quiet confidence, how he furrowed his brows when thinking or when things didn't go his way, how his voice carried a calm authority even when he spoke softly.
I hated that I noticed the way his sleeves were rolled neatly to his forearms, revealing strong hands that looked like they were used to responsibility.
I hated the way he crossed his legs so effortlessly when he sat, like everything about him belonged exactly where it was meant to be.
And I hated the way he looked at his son with such doting eyes.
It made me wonder, briefly and shamefully, what it would feel like if he ever looked at me that way.
What am I thinking?
I love my boyfriend.
I know I do.
Marshall is just attractive—that's all there is to it.
Nothing more.
Nothing dangerous.
Nothing worth overthinking.
"Adeline," he called my name.
And the resolve I'd tried so hard to build crumbled as I looked up at him.
My body knew before my mind admitted it.
This had been happening for far too long.
And it wasn't going away.
THE SPACE BETWEEN US
"Good evening," I greeted awkwardly as I stood.
"Good evening, Dad," Chris said warmly.
"Good evening, son," Marshall replied, smiling as he gestured for the both of us to sit.
His voice was deep but calm, the kind that naturally commanded attention without trying.
He turned to me and nodded politely—calm, composed—but his eyes lingered half a second too long.
Long enough to feel intentional.
Long enough to make my pulse quicken.
Dinner continued as though nothing had changed.
Chris talked easily, laughing as he told stories from work, filling the space with familiarity. His energy filled the room in the best way, warm and effortless.
I smiled when I was supposed to, nodded when it felt right—but my attention kept slipping, drawn toward the man sitting across from me.
Marshall didn't stare.
He didn't even look at me most of the time.
And somehow that made it worse.
There was nothing obvious about it.
Nothing inappropriate.
And somehow, that made it harder to ignore.
He ate slowly, quietly, listening to Chris with a patience that felt genuine. Every now and then he would ask a question or make a comment, and Chris would grin like a kid who had just been given a gold star.
Watching them together was strangely comforting.
Yet the longer I sat there, the more aware I became of the quiet tension that seemed to exist only between Marshall and me.
I reached for the jug.
At the same time, Marshall did too.
Our fingers almost touched—close enough that I felt the absence of contact like a spark that never landed.
I pulled back too quickly, my heart stuttering in my chest, and pretended nothing had happened.
I wasn't sure if he noticed.
Chris kept the conversation going, completely unaware of the undercurrent moving beneath the table.
Words passed between him and his father, easy and unremarkable, while something unspoken tightened in the room.
I became hyper-aware of Marshall.
Of the way he glanced at me when Chris wasn't looking.
Of the way he looked away just as quickly when I caught him.
Of the way his expression remained composed even when his gaze betrayed something else.
Chris stepped away to take a call, promising he'd be right back.
Marshall and I were alone for a brief moment.
Not long enough for comfort.
Not long enough for escape.
The silence settled heavily between us.
The ticking of a clock somewhere in the house suddenly sounded louder.
I noticed my breathing—too loud in the quiet—and focused on my plate, hoping he wouldn't speak.
"You look different today," he said.
My fork nearly slipped from my fingers.
I looked up at him.
"Different? How?"
"You seem nervous," he said gently. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah—yes, I'm fine," I replied too quickly. "It's just the caffeine. I had coffee a short while before you arrived."
I didn't let him see a trace of what was really going on in my head.
"Oh," he said after a beat. "You should really limit caffeine intake, for your health."
I nodded, forcing a smile.
Maybe I imagined it.
But the way he looked at me, it felt like he saw me.
Not just standing there.
Not just as Chris's partner.
Me.
Completely.
The thought made my chest tighten.
Chris walked back in before I could say anything else.
The shift in the room was immediate, like someone had opened a window and let fresh air rush in.
Chris announced we had to leave—work had come up, something urgent.
I stood immediately, my movements rushed, forgetting to say a proper farewell as we headed out the door.
My mind felt strangely scattered, like I had left pieces of it behind at the table.
As we stepped outside, the cool night air brushed against my face.
I inhaled deeply, trying to steady myself.
Chris kept talking about work, about schedules and deadlines, completely unaware of the storm quietly forming inside my chest.
As we left, one thought lingered in my mind, refusing to let go.
If this was one-sided...
"Why did it feel like we were both holding our breath?"
"And why did I suddenly fear what would happen the next time he looked at me?"