The penthouse was quietbalmost unnaturally so.
Elara sat on the edge of the sofa, her fingers intertwined around a warm mug of tea.
Steam curled upward, but she barely noticed. Her eyes were fixed on the city lights stretching beyond the glass walls, yet she wasn’t seeing the city. She was seeing the empty space beside her, the place Adrian had always taken before distance, before separation.
Adrian entered the room quietly, dressed in black again, sleeves rolled up, a subtle tension in his shoulders. He didn’t sit. He didn’t move toward her immediately. He just… observed. Like he was measuring courage, weighing the risk of crossing lines that had just started to blur.
“Elara,” he said softly, voice almost a whisper.
She didn’t look at him. “Yes?”
He took a careful step closer. One foot in front of the other, like walking through water slow, deliberate.
“I… wanted to ask you something,” he said, pausing. His right hand lifted, fingers curling slightly, then relaxing.
Her breath hitched, just slightly.
“You don’t have to answer,” he added. “I just… need permission.”
She finally turned her eyes toward him, meeting his gaze fully for the first time that evening.
“Permission?” she echoed, curiosity and caution mingling in her tone.
His gaze softened. The usual steel in his eyes was gone. Replaced by something careful, almost vulnerable.
“To… touch you,” he said simply.
Her heart sskippe not wildly, but enough to make her breath hitch. She swallowed slowly. Not because she was scared of him… but because she was scared of herself, of how much she wanted him to do it.
“Then…” she whispered, barely audible. “…go ahead.”
Adrian’s eyes widened slightly at the consent. Not in shock, but in the gravity of it. He lifted his hand slowly, the right one, palm open. He let it hover near her arm, giving her time to pull away. She didn’t. She stayed perfectly still, her fingers tightening slightly around the mug.
Then, with a deliberate motion, he placed his hand on hers. Light. Gentle. Warm.
A spark ran through her cchestl not sudden, not explosive but deep and lingering. She felt the weight of his presence, the subtle pressure of his hand, the slow certainty that this was his choice, not an accident, not a reflex.
Her eyes softened. His thumb brushed lightly over the back of her hand. Every muscle in her body stiffened and then relaxed at the same time, like her mind couldn’t decide whether to fight or surrender.
“Does it… feel okay?” he asked quietly.
She nodded. Words failed her. Her heart was already answering for her.
Adrian didn’t move his hand away. Instead, he leaned slightly, just enough that the warmth of his arm brushed against hers. She didn’t flinch. She let it happen.
“I’ve been afraid,” she admitted, voice trembling. “Afraid that if I let anyone in… I’d lose myself.”
“You won’t,” he said softly. “Not with me. Not this time.”
The honesty in his tone wrapped around her like a shield. Slowly, deliberately, her fingers curled over his, holding him back in the safest, quietest way possible. A voluntary touch returned voluntarily, a silent agreement: they were both choosing each other, cautiously, but fully.
For a moment, the penthouse held nothing else. No media, no contracts, no Ethan’s looming presence. Just the two of them, hands entwined, breathing together, measuring the space between closeness and restraint.
Adrian leaned his forehead gently against hers. Just a fraction. Just enough to feel her warmth without claiming her entirely.
“Thank you,” he whispered.
“For what?” she asked, still holding him.
“For letting me stay,” he replied. “For trusting that I wouldn’t break this moment. That I wouldn’t take more than you’re ready to give.”
Her lips curved slightly. Not a full smile. Not yet. But it was the beginning.
“And I,” she said slowly, “thank you… for asking.”
They stayed like that, silent, connected, voluntary a touch that spoke everything words couldn’t.
Outside, the city roared on, indifferent. Inside, they were a universe all their own.
