Chapter 18
1407 Words
ADRIAN
The first thing I became aware of was warmth.
Not sunlight, not the faint hum of the air conditioner, not even the dull ache in my shoulder from sleeping in a position I definitely shouldn’t have.
No — it was the warmth pressed against my side. Soft. Familiar. Dangerous.
Isabella.
She shifted slightly, her hair brushing my arm, and I froze like a teenager caught doing something he shouldn’t. Which, to be fair, was exactly how she always made me feel. Even now. Even after everything.
Especially after everything.
I opened my eyes slowly. She was still asleep, curled toward me, her cheek resting on the pillow we apparently ended up sharing. Her breathing was soft, steady, completely unaware of the chaos she caused just by existing within a foot of me.
And then she moved again — and the blanket slipped.
My brain short‑circuited.
Right. Clothes. Or… lack thereof.
I dragged my gaze away immediately, staring at the ceiling like it was the most fascinating architectural masterpiece ever created. I wasn’t going to be that guy. Not with her. Not after the way last night had gone.
But I wasn’t going to wake her up either. She looked peaceful. And after the week she’d had — after the argument we’d had — she deserved at least a few minutes of that.
So I stayed still. Quiet. Pretending I wasn’t hyperaware of every breath she took.
It didn’t last long.
“Adrian?”
Her voice was groggy, confused, and then suddenly very awake.
I didn’t look at her. “Morning.”
There was a beat of silence. Then a sharp inhale.
“Why am I—” She yanked the blanket up to her chest. “Where are my clothes?”
I bit back a smile. “Good morning to you too.”
“Adrian.” Her tone sharpened. “What happened?”
I finally turned my head, meeting her wide, panicked eyes. God, she was cute when she was flustered. She always had been. High school Isabella had the same expression whenever I teased her — like she couldn’t decide whether to smack me or run away.
“Relax,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “Nothing happened.”
She blinked. “Then why—”
“You were drunk,” I said simply. “You spilled wine on yourself. You insisted you were fine, then nearly fell over trying to take your shoes off. I helped. That’s all.”
She stared at me like she was trying to detect a lie. “And my clothes?”
I shrugged. “Drying.”
“Drying where?”
I didn’t answer.
Her eyes narrowed. “Adrian.”
I stretched, deliberately casual. “You hungry? I’m ordering breakfast.”
“Don’t change the subject!”
“I’m not.” I reached for my phone. “You like pancakes, right?”
She made a strangled noise. “Adrian, I am not discussing pancakes until you tell me where my clothes are.”
I couldn’t help it — I laughed. A real one. The kind that surprised even me.
She glared harder. “This isn’t funny.”
“It’s a little funny.”
“It’s not!”
“It is,” I said, still smiling. “You’re acting like I hid them.”
Her silence was immediate and suspicious. “Did you hide them?”
I didn’t answer.
Her jaw dropped. “Adrian!”
I held up a hand. “Before you start throwing pillows at me, I didn’t hide them. I just… relocated them.”
“Relocated,” she repeated flatly. “Where?”
I tapped my phone screen. “Breakfast will be here in twenty minutes.”
“Adrian!”
God, I’d missed this.
Her voice.
Her fire.
The way she said my name like it was both a complaint and a plea.
I sat up, running a hand through my hair. “Isabella, nothing happened. You were upset. You drank too fast. I helped you get into bed. I made sure you were safe. That’s it.”
She softened for a moment — just a moment — before suspicion crept back in. “Then why won’t you tell me where my clothes are?”
“Because,” I said, standing, “you’re cute when you’re annoyed.”
Her mouth fell open. “You— what— Adrian!”
I walked toward the door, enjoying the way she sputtered behind me. “I’ll grab the food when it gets here.”
“Don’t walk away from me!”
“I’m not.” I leaned against the doorframe, looking back at her. “I’m giving you time to calm down.”
“I am calm!”
“You’re yelling.”
“I’m not—” She stopped, realizing she was, in fact, yelling. She took a breath. “Adrian, please. Just tell me.”
The “please” did something to me. Something I didn’t want to examine too closely.
I crossed my arms. “You really want to know?”
“Yes!”
I pointed to the far corner of the room. “There.”
She followed my gesture — and groaned.
Her clothes were neatly folded on top of the dresser.
The very tall dresser.
The one she definitely couldn’t reach without climbing.
“You put them up there on purpose,” she accused.
“Maybe.”
“Why?”
I shrugged. “You were being dramatic last night.”
“I was not!”
“You cried because the lamp looked ‘judgmental.’”
She covered her face with both hands. “Oh my god.”
“And then you told me I had ‘betrayed you emotionally’ because I wouldn’t let you eat a fourth slice of cake.”
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.”
She peeked at me through her fingers. “I might.”
I smiled. “You don’t.”
She dropped her hands, glaring again. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re loud in the morning.”
She threw a pillow at me. I caught it easily.
“Feel better?” I asked.
“No.”
“Liar.”
She huffed, crossing her arms under the blanket. “Why are you being like this?”
“Like what?”
“Nice,” she said quietly. “You’re being… nice. And teasing. And normal. After what I did.”
Ah. There it was.
The thing she’d been avoiding saying out loud.
I walked back to the bed, sitting on the edge. “Isabella.”
She looked down at her hands. “You were so angry.”
“I wasn’t angry,” I said softly.
She swallowed. “You're such a liar."
“Okay, maybe I was a little angry.” I exhaled. “But I’m not anymore.”
She looked up, eyes searching mine. “Just like that?”
“Not just like that,” I said. “But I’m not going to punish you just because you don't want to tell me something."
Her breath hitched. “I didn't do anything wrong."
“Okay."
I know because I saw the video recording from the restaurant, but I am not going to tell her that.
“Okay? Just okay?"
I nodded.
She blinked fast, like she was trying not to cry. “Why are you being so gentle about it?”
Because I still care about you more than I should.
But I didn’t say that.
Instead, I reached out and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “Because you’re here with me. And that matters more than anything else.”
She chose me.
She stared at me like she didn’t know what to do with that.
Then, quietly: “Adrian… did something happen last night? Between us?”
I held her gaze, letting the tension stretch, letting her feel the weight of the question.
Then I smiled — slow, infuriating, deliberate.
“Wouldn’t you like to know.”
“Adrian!”
I stood again, heading for the door. “Breakfast should be here any minute.”
“That’s not an answer!”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
She groaned into the pillow. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” I said, opening the door, “you’re still talking to me.”
She threw the pillow again. It hit the doorframe as I slipped out.
I couldn’t stop smiling.
- Writer
