Nora woke to sunlight streaming through silk curtains and the distant sound of voices downstairs.
For a disoriented moment, she forgot where she was. Then it all crashed back—the house, Victor, dinner, the terrace.
Adrian.
She pressed her palms against her eyes. Had last night actually happened? Had he really said those things, or had she conjured the whole conversation from exhaustion and too much wine?
You're the one thing in this house I can't have, shouldn't want, and can't stop noticing.
No. That had been real.
The way his voice had dropped. The heat in his eyes before he'd shut it down and walked away.
God.
She needed coffee. And possibly a lobotomy.
Downstairs, the dining room smelled like fresh pastries and brewing espresso. Victor sat at the head of the table, reading the Wall Street Journal on his tablet, still in his bathrobe. Adrian occupied the seat to his right—fully dressed in dark slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, looking like he'd been awake for hours.
He glanced up when she entered.
Their eyes met for half a second before Nora looked away, heat flooding her face.
"Good morning, sweetheart." Victor beamed at her over his coffee. "Did you sleep well?"
"Eventually." She slid into the chair across from Adrian, hyperaware of his presence. Of the fact that she was wearing pajama shorts and an oversized Berkeley sweatshirt. Of the way his gaze had tracked her movement before he'd deliberately returned his attention to his own coffee.
Mrs. Chen appeared with a plate of croissants and fresh fruit. Nora murmured thanks, reaching for the coffee carafe.
"I have news," Victor said, setting down his tablet. "Not ideal timing, but unavoidable. I need to fly to London this afternoon."
Nora paused mid-pour. "Today?"
"Unfortunately. The Ashford deal is imploding, and I need to be there in person to salvage it. Three weeks, maybe four." He grimaced. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I wanted to spend time with you, help you settle in—"
"Victor, it's fine. I'm twenty-two, not twelve. I can handle a few weeks alone."
"Actually," Victor said, in that careful tone that meant he'd already made a decision, "you won't be alone. Adrian's staying."
Her eyes cut to Adrian. He was studying his coffee like it contained the secrets of the universe.
"Staying?" she repeated.
"Here. In the house." Victor gestured vaguely. "He's got that massive project with the Singapore group, needs quiet space to work, and his penthouse is being renovated. It works out perfectly. He can keep an eye on things. On you."
The words landed like a grenade.
"I don't need a babysitter," Nora said, more sharply than intended.
Victor's eyebrows rose. "I didn't say you did. I said Adrian would be here. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
Across the table, Adrian finally spoke. "I can stay at a hotel if it makes you uncomfortable."
His voice was perfectly neutral. Professional. Like last night had never happened.
Nora wanted to scream.
"It doesn't make me uncomfortable," she lied. "I just don't need anyone keeping an eye on me like I'm some teenager who can't be trusted alone."
"No one thinks that," Victor said gently. "But this is a big house, Nora. I'd feel better knowing someone else was here. Humor an old man's paranoia."
The guilt card. Of course.
She forced herself to relax. "Okay. Fine. Whatever makes you feel better."
Victor smiled, clearly relieved. "Thank you. And Adrian, you'll make sure she eats actual meals? She has a tendency to forget when she's painting."
"I'm sitting right here," Nora muttered.
"I'll make sure she's taken care of," Adrian said. Still in that careful, neutral tone.
But when Nora looked up, his eyes were on her. Dark. Unreadable.
The way he'd said taken care of made her stomach flip.
Victor's car left at two.
Nora stood in the circular driveway, waving as the Tesla disappeared through the gates, and tried not to feel like she'd been left alone with a loaded weapon.
Adrian remained on the front steps, hands in his pockets, expression closed.
The silence stretched.
"So," Nora said finally, turning to face him. "Ground rules?"
His mouth quirked. Almost a smile. "You want to establish ground rules."
"Seems smart. You're staying in Victor's house. I'm staying in Victor's house. We should probably figure out how to coexist without—" She gestured vaguely.
"Without what?"
"Without weirdness."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"What would you call it?"
He studied her for a long moment. "Complicated."
That was one word for it.
"Fine," Nora said. "Complicated. Either way, we need boundaries."
"I agree." He descended the steps, stopped a careful distance away. Close enough to talk, far enough to maintain plausible deniability. "I work in Victor's office during the day. I'll stay out of your way."
"I paint in the sunroom. I'll stay out of yours."
"We can coordinate kitchen usage if that helps."
"Like a chore chart?"
"If necessary."
This was absurd. They sounded like college roommates negotiating bathroom schedules.
"This is absurd," Nora said aloud.
"Yes," Adrian agreed. "But probably necessary."
He turned to go back inside. Nora watched him retreat—the set of his shoulders, the controlled economy of movement, the way he seemed to take up space without trying.
"Adrian?"
He paused. Didn't turn around.
"Last night," she started. "On the terrace. Did you mean what you said?"
The silence stretched so long she thought he wouldn't answer.
Then: "Every word."
He disappeared into the house before she could respond.
The unspoken rhythm established itself quickly.
Mornings, she'd hear him moving around the kitchen before dawn. By the time she came down, he'd be gone—sequestered in Victor's office with his laptop and endless phone calls in languages she didn't speak.
She'd paint. Lose herself in color and canvas and the familiar comfort of creation. The sunroom became her sanctuary, north light streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows, the faint smell of turpentine and linseed oil, her hands steady with a brush even when the rest of her felt unmoored.
Afternoons bled into evenings. She'd hear his voice through walls—sharp, commanding, the businessman Victor had helped build from rubble. Sometimes she'd catch glimpses of him moving through hallways, always on the phone, always distracted.
They were excellent at avoidance.
Until they weren't.
First collision: the hallway outside the library, both of them turning the corner at the same time. She'd been carrying paint supplies. He'd been holding a stack of contracts. They'd stopped short, close enough that she could smell cedar and something underneath—soap, skin, him.
"Sorry," they'd said in unison.
Adrian had stepped back first.
Second collision: the kitchen at midnight. She'd come down for water, found him already there, leaning against the counter in sweatpants and a t-shirt, eating leftover pasta directly from the container.
He'd frozen when he saw her.
"Hungry?" she'd asked, trying for normal.
"Missed dinner." He'd set down the container. "Conference call ran late."
"There's more in the fridge if you want it heated—"
"This is fine."
They'd stared at each other. The kitchen suddenly felt very small.
"Well. Goodnight," Nora had said, grabbing her water bottle and fleeing before she did something stupid.
Third collision: the library, seven PM, both reaching for the same bottle of red wine on Victor's shelf.
Their hands had touched.
Adrian had pulled back like she'd electrocuted him.
"You take it," he'd said.
"We can share."
"Nora—"
"It's wine, Adrian. Not a marriage proposal."
His jaw had tightened. "Fine. I'll get glasses."
They'd ended up on opposite ends of the leather couch, wine between them like a demilitarized zone, making stilted conversation about nothing important while the tension coiled tighter and tighter.
That had been last night.
Tonight—the third night since Victor left—Nora couldn't sleep.
Again.
She lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around her. Wondering if Adrian was in his room. If he was sleeping. If he was thinking about her the way she was definitely not thinking about him.
This was torture.
She threw off the covers. Maybe a walk would help. Or warm milk. Or literally anything that didn't involve lying in the dark obsessing over a man who'd made it perfectly clear they needed boundaries.
The hallway was dark. She padded toward the stairs, then paused.
What was that sound?
Rhythmic. Percussive. Coming from the basement.
The gym.
She should go back to bed. Should absolutely not investigate. Should respect the boundaries they'd established.
Her feet carried her downstairs anyway.
The gym door was open.
Nora stood in the doorway, one hand braced against the frame, and forgot how to breathe.
Adrian stood in the center of the room, shirtless, destroying a heavy punching bag with methodical precision. His back was to her—broad shoulders gleaming with sweat, muscles flexing with each impact, his entire body a study in controlled violence.
His knuckles were already bruised. He wasn't wearing gloves.
He had to know she was there. The doorway wasn't exactly subtle. But he didn't stop. Didn't acknowledge her. Just kept hitting the bag like it had personally offended him.
Nora's mouth went dry.
She'd seen shirtless men before. College had been educational in that regard. But this—him—was different. This wasn't a boy playing at fitness. This was a man who looked like he'd learned to fight out of necessity, not recreation.
Scars. She could see them now. Faint lines across his ribs. Something that looked like a burn on his left shoulder blade. Marks that told stories he'd never shared.
The bag swung. Adrian followed, footwork precise, every movement economical and devastating.
"Are you going to stand there all night?" he said without turning around. "Or are you going to tell me what you want?"
His voice was rough. Breathless. Edged with something dangerous.
Nora should leave. Should apologize for interrupting. Should do anything except walk further into the room.
She walked further into the room.
"Can't sleep," she said.
"So you decided to watch me beat the shit out of gym equipment?"
"I heard noise. I was curious."
He finally stopped. Turned.
And Jesus Christ.
Up close was worse. Sweat slicked his chest, his abdomen, carved shadows into muscle she had no business noticing. His breathing was hard, controlled. His eyes were darker than she'd ever seen them—pupils blown, fixed on her with an intensity that made her skin prickle.
"You should go back upstairs, Nora."
"You keep saying that."
"You keep not listening."
"Maybe I'm tired of listening."
Something flickered across his face. "Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're curious what would happen if you pushed."
The air between them crackled. Alive. Electric. The same energy from the terrace, magnified by proximity and three days of avoidance and the sight of him half-naked and dangerous.
"What would happen?" Nora heard herself ask.
Adrian's hands curled into fists. His bruised, bleeding knuckles going white. "Nothing good."
"You don't know that."
"Yes, I do." He took a step toward her. Then another. Until he was close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off him, see the pulse hammering in his throat. "You're playing with fire, Nora."
She lifted her chin. Met his eyes. Refused to back down even though her heart was trying to punch through her ribcage.
"Maybe I like the heat."
The words hung between them. A challenge. A confession. A line crossed that couldn't be uncrossed.
Adrian stared at her like she'd gutted him.
Then he moved.
One hand shot out, wrapped around her wrist—gentle despite the violence still humming under his skin. His thumb found her pulse point. Pressed. Felt the frantic rhythm there.
"Your heart's racing," he said quietly.
"I know."
"Are you scared of me?"
"No."
"You should be." His grip tightened fractionally. "I'm not a good man, Nora. I'm not one of your college boys who writes poetry and asks permission. I've done things that would horrify you. I've hurt people. I've—"
"I don't care."
"You should."
"But I don't."
His eyes searched hers. Looking for something—doubt, fear, common sense.
She had none of those things. Just want. Just this pull toward him that felt inevitable as gravity.
"This is a bad idea," Adrian said.
"Probably."
"Victor would never forgive me."
"Victor's in London."
"He'll come back."
"In three weeks. Maybe four."
Adrian's thumb stroked across her pulse. Once. Twice. "You don't know what you're asking for."
"Then show me."
The words were barely out before he released her wrist and stepped back, putting distance between them like it physically hurt.
"No." His voice was ragged. "Not like this. Not when I'm..." He gestured at himself—the sweat, the bruised knuckles, the barely leashed violence. "Not when you're—"
"Not when I'm what?"
"Looking at me like I'm something other than what I am."
"And what are you?"
"Dangerous." He grabbed his discarded shirt, pulled it on. "Go to bed, Nora."
"Stop telling me what to do."
"Someone has to. You're clearly not making smart choices."
The words stung. Nora felt her face heat. "Right. Because wanting you is stupid."
"Yes."
"Because you're so much older and wiser and I'm just some naive twenty-two-year-old who doesn't know her own mind."
"That's not what I said."
"It's what you meant."
Adrian closed his eyes. "You're twisting my words."
"Am I? Or are you just a coward?"
His eyes snapped open. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." She crossed her arms. "You admitted you want me. I'm telling you I want you back. But you're hiding behind Victor and age gaps and all these excuses instead of just being honest."
"Honest about what?"
"That you're scared."
The silence was deafening.
When Adrian spoke again, his voice was deadly quiet. "You want honesty? Fine. Yes, I want you. I've wanted you since you walked into that dining room three nights ago. Maybe before that, if I'm being completely truthful. And that terrifies me. Because wanting you means betraying Victor. It means crossing lines I swore I'd never cross. It means risking the only real family I've ever had for something that can't possibly end well."
His chest heaved. "So yes, Nora. I'm scared. I'm fucking terrified. Because if I touch you—if I let myself have what I want—I won't be able to stop. And then we're both screwed."
Nora's breath caught.
"Now go to bed," Adrian said. "Before I do something we'll both regret."
This time, she went.
But as she climbed the stairs on shaking legs, one thought circled through her mind:
He'd said if I touch you. Not when.
If.
Like it was still a choice.
Like the outcome wasn't already inevitable.