3

"Who are you texting?" Kael's voice came out calm. Too calm, the kind of calm he only used when he already suspected the answer wouldn't satisfy him, the kind that meant he'd already decided how this conversation was going to go before I'd said a single word.

I lowered my phone slowly, screen dimming against my palm, and tucked it half beneath my thigh like that would somehow undo the last thirty seconds. "No one," I said.

His eyebrow lifted, unhurried, patient in a way that felt more dangerous than shouting ever could have been. "That's impressive," he said.

"What?" I asked, glancing up at him.

"You were having a whole conversation with no one. Very advanced skill. You should teach a class," he said, folding his arms and leaning against the doorframe like he had nowhere else to be all night, like he intended to stand there until the sun came up if that's what it took.

I blinked, then frowned at him. "You're making fun of me," I said.

"I'm trying not to," he said, and despite myself I felt the corner of my mouth twitch, almost a smile, almost given away. He crossed the room toward me, unhurried, his eyes never leaving the phone still clutched in my hand like it might grow legs and run if he looked away. "Serena," he said.

"What?" I said.

"Look at me." I made myself meet his gaze, and what I found there wasn't anger. It was worse, a searching, careful attention that made my skin feel too tight, like he was reading the fine print underneath my face and finding all the parts I'd tried to erase. "Is someone bothering you?" he asked.

"No," I said, too fast, and heard it land wrong the instant it left my mouth.

"Then why do you look terrified?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, studying me the way he studied everything, thoroughly, without apology.

"I don't."

"You do. You've got that look you get right before you drop a glass, braced, like you already know something's about to shatter and you're just waiting to see how bad the mess is going to be."

"That's oddly specific," I said, crossing my arms defensively.

"I've watched you drop a lot of glasses," he said, and the corner of his mouth twitched despite the seriousness underneath, some old, fond memory flickering behind his eyes before it vanished again.

"I'm tired," I said, sidestepping, looking anywhere but at him — the window, the lamp, the crease in the sheets, anywhere.

"You always get tired when you're lying," he said, and my jaw dropped.

"Excuse me?" I said, genuinely affronted, heat climbing up my neck.

He only shrugged, infuriatingly unbothered, arms crossing loosely over his chest like we were discussing the weather instead of my complete inability to hold his gaze. "You do," he said. "Your shoulders go up around your ears and you start talking to the floor instead of me. You've done it since the day I met you."

"That's incredibly rude."

"It's also accurate, and you know it, which is why you're mad," he said, smug in a way that made my palm itch with the sudden, powerful urge to throw something.

So I did. I grabbed the nearest pillow off the bed and hurled it at his head. He caught it one-handed without even blinking, mouth curving into something dangerously close to delight, like this was exactly the reaction he'd been fishing for. "Violence?" he said.

"Shut up."

"You missed."

"I was aiming for your face."

"That makes me feel so much better," he said, deadpan, and I bit down hard on a laugh that escaped anyway, traitor that it was. His smile softened watching me, shoulders dropping an inch, and for one fragile second the tension bled out of the room completely — the two of us, ordinary, easy, like none of it existed, like there wasn't a phone burning a hole against my leg and a whole tangle of things I hadn't told him.

Then his expression shifted back, serious, all the warmth folding away at once, jaw tightening in that particular way that meant the teasing was over. "Serena," he said.

I looked up. "Tell me," he said, quiet now, and it wasn't a request.

My fingers tightened reflexively around the phone. "I got a strange message," I admitted, the words coming out smaller than I intended.

"What kind?" he asked, stepping closer, close enough now that I had to tip my chin up to keep looking at him.

"One I don't understand," I said.

He held out his hand, palm open, steady, patient. "Let me see."

I froze — just for a half-second, but long enough. He noticed instantly, of course he did, his hand lowering slowly back to his side, something closing behind his eyes like a door easing shut on its own weight. "You don't trust me," he said quietly, and there was no accusation in it, just a flat, tired sadness that hurt worse than anger would have.

"That isn't what I said," I said.

"You didn't have to," he said. "I asked for the phone. You didn't move. I don't need a translator for that, Serena."

"It's not about trust, Kael," I said, though even to my own ears it sounded thin, unconvincing.

"Then what is it about?" he asked, voice sharpening slightly, some old frustration finally cracking through the calm. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks exactly like a woman deciding, in real time, what her husband is and isn't allowed to know about her own life."

"That's not fair," I said.

"Isn't it?" he said. "You want me to hand you patience I don't actually have right now, and I'm trying, I am genuinely trying, every single day, but you're going to have to give me something to work with, because right now all I've got is a locked screen and a very bad feeling."

The hurt threading through his voice cut somewhere deep, and I looked away rather than face it directly, staring instead at the small gap of carpet between his feet and mine. "I just need some time," I said.

"For what?" he asked.

"To figure things out."

"Things involving me, or things you're keeping separate from me on purpose?" he asked, watching me too closely for me to hide anything in my face, no matter how hard I tried.

"I don't know yet," I said, and it was the truest thing I'd said all night. "That's the truth. I know that's not a good enough answer, but it's the honest one, and right now it's the only one I have."

He studied me for a long, silent moment, jaw working like he was chewing through a dozen sharper responses and choosing, deliberately, painfully, not to say any of them. Then he nodded once. "Fine," he said, though the word cost him something, I could hear it.

He turned toward the door, and I braced myself for anger that never came. "Where are you going?" I asked, my voice smaller than I wanted it to be.

"Giving you the space you asked for," he said. He paused at the threshold, not looking back, his hand resting flat against the frame like it was the only thing keeping him from turning around and demanding the answer outright. "And Serena, if someone's threatening you, you won't have to face them alone," he added, quieter, almost gentle again despite everything. "I need you to actually believe that, not just nod at it because it's easier than arguing."

The door clicked shut behind him, and I stood there in the sudden quiet, the guilt settling in heavier than any accusation could have, pressing down on my chest until it was hard to breathe evenly.

The next afternoon found me parked outside a small café at the edge of the city, engine off, hands still on the wheel like I might change my mind at any second and simply drive myself home instead. I told myself I was only there for answers. No secrets, no betrayal — just the truth, whatever it turned out to be. That was the lie I kept repeating until it almost sounded convincing, over and over, like enough repetition could make it true. I checked the time. 2:17. Then 2:18. Then 2:19.

"Unbelievable," I muttered to myself, reaching for the ignition, right as someone rapped their knuckles against my window and I nearly screamed out loud.

Adrian stood there smiling, exactly as dangerous as I remembered him, dark hair, sharp eyes, that same maddening half-smile that used to undo me completely, back when undoing me was the only thing he was interested in doing. I unlocked the door on autopilot and he slid into the passenger seat like he belonged there, like no time at all had passed.

"You came," he said, watching me sideways with that same infuriating ease.

"I almost didn't," I said.

"But you did."

"Don't sound so pleased."

"I missed you," he said, simple and unguarded, and I kept my eyes locked straight ahead through the windshield, refusing to give him the satisfaction of my face.

"You shouldn't say things like that," I said.

"Why?" he asked.

"Because I'm trying to forget you," I said. His smile vanished instantly, some of the ease draining out of him all at once.

"And have you?" he asked, quieter now.

I said nothing at all, and the silence answered for me far more honestly than I wanted it to, hanging in the small space of the car like something solid.

Adrian leaned back into the seat, studying me openly now. "Still wearing his scent," he murmured, and heat rushed straight into my cheeks.

"You called me here to insult my perfume?" I snapped.

"No," he said. His eyes traced slowly over my face, unhurried, like he had every right to look. "I called because I wanted to know if you were happy," he said.

My heart stumbled over itself. "I am," I said, looking away.

"Are you?" he asked, gently, which was somehow worse than if he'd been cruel about it, worse than any accusation could have been.

"Yes," I said.

"Then why did you come?" he asked. I had no answer for that, and he knew it, watching me not-answer with the patience of a man who'd asked worse questions and gotten better silences than this one.