Elara
I don’t ask him to leave.
That feels significant.
We’re still in the quiet corner of the library office after closing. The lights are dimmed, rain tapping faintly against the windows, the world outside blurred and distant. Marcus’s presence still lingers like smoke in my lungs, but Adrian’s hand at my waist is grounding.
He hasn’t moved it.
He’s waiting.
The restraint makes my pulse race harder than if he’d simply taken what he wanted.
“You can let go,” I whisper.
His eyes search mine.
“Do you want me to?”
The question lands low in my stomach.
“No.”
The word surprises both of us.
His fingers tighten slightly — not enough to trap, just enough to acknowledge. Heat seeps through the thin fabric of my blouse. I can feel the exact shape of his palm.
“You’re shaking,” he murm
