Chapter 114: the lull before the tempest

Adrian didn’t move.

He didn’t breathe.

He stood on the porch like a statue carved from shock and dread, his eyes locked on the woman at the gate as if she were a ghost he thought he’d buried with the past.

But she wasn’t a ghost.

She was very, very real.

And the way she looked at him—like she recognized every scar, every shadow, every version of him he tried to hide—told me this was no harmless acquaintance.

This was someone who mattered.

Someone who changed him.

Someone he didn’t want anyone to know about.

Lucian stepped forward slightly, protective instincts flaring in his posture, but I gently placed a hand on his arm.

“Wait,” I whispered.

His eyes dropped to mine.

“She’s not a threat,” I said softly.

“How do you know?” he murmured.

I glanced at Adrian.

Because he was terrified.

Not of her.

But for her.

“I know,” I replied.

Lucian exhaled slowly, controlled. He trusted my read, even if he didn’t share it yet.

The screen door slid open behind us. Cassian poked his head outside, squinting dramatically.

“Who’s that?” he whispered loudly.

Arian shoved him back inside with a hiss. “Privacy, idiot!”

Aria, tiny and undetected, peeked out under Adrian’s elbow like a hidden baby squirrel.

“She’s pretty,” Aria whispered.

Adrian nearly jumped out of his skin.

“INSIDE,” he snapped, panicked and flustered.

Aria scampered in. “Okay bye!”

Cassian tried to peek again. Adrian slammed the door in his face.

I had to smother a laugh.

The man was unraveling.

Completely.

Adrian turned back toward the gate.

His expression shifted—still guarded, still tight, but now layered with something else.

Something raw.

Something heavy.

Something he’d been trying, and failing, to bury.

He took one slow step down from the porch.

Then another.

The woman didn’t move.

She didn’t smile or wave or pretend everything was fine.

She just watched him with those steady, unreadable eyes that said she already knew he was a storm and still stepped into the rain.

When he finally reached the yard, he stopped a few feet away from her.

Too close for strangers.

Too far for lovers.

Painfully in between.

“Adrian,” she said again, a breathless whisper. Her voice was soft, delicate, but grounded in something steel-strong.

He swallowed. His throat bobbed once.

“…You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.

Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes softened slightly. “I know.”

“Then why are you?”

There.

The question he didn’t want the answer to.

She lowered her gaze for a moment, gathering herself. “Because I needed to see you.”

Adrian flinched.

A full, involuntary shock wave of emotion rippled through him—guilt, longing, fear, anger, panic, all tangled beneath his calm surface.

He took a small step back.

She noticed.

Her breath caught, almost imperceptible.

“I didn’t come to cause trouble,” she murmured.

“You being here… is trouble,” he whispered.

Her jaw tightened. “I’m not your enemy.”

“I know,” he said immediately—and that was the first honest thing he’d said all morning.

The corners of her lips lifted just slightly—not a smile, but a flicker of relief. “Good. Then you also know why I came.”

Adrian went rigid. “Don’t.”

Her voice gentled. “You can’t avoid this forever.”

“I can try,” he muttered.

“Adrian.”

Just his name. Soft. Certain.

And it broke something in him.

I could see it happen—see the exact moment he lost the internal battle he’d been fighting for days, maybe weeks, maybe months.

His eyes closed.

His hands curled into fists.

And when he spoke, his voice cracked.

“You shouldn’t have come.”

She inhaled slowly. “I had to.”

“Why?” he asked, raw. “Why now?”

She stepped closer—a tiny movement, but it felt huge.

“Because I’m leaving,” she whispered.

Lucian stiffened beside me.

My stomach dropped.

Adrian’s eyes flew open.

He looked like he’d been punched.

“…What?”

“I’m leaving,” she repeated, voice trembling just enough to betray emotion. “And I didn’t want to go without—”

She stopped herself.

Without what?

Goodbye?

Closure?

Him?

Adrian’s breath hitched.

He took a step toward her without realizing, stopped himself, tried to step back—but his body refused.

He was standing on the edge of something dangerous and didn’t know whether to jump or run.

“When?” he asked, voice barely audible.

“Tomorrow.”

The world seemed to stop.

Tomorrow.

She was leaving tomorrow.

Adrian didn’t move for a long time.

His face didn’t change.

But everything inside him collapsed in a quiet, devastating way that made my chest ache.

He exhaled slowly, brokenly.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he whispered.

She looked at the ground. “Would it have changed anything?”

Adrian didn’t answer.

Because the truth…

was yes.

Yes, it would have.

But admitting that would destroy every wall he had left.

She lifted her eyes again, meeting his gaze with something deep and unguarded.

“One day,” she whispered, “you’ll stop running from what you feel.”

Adrian’s jaw clenched. His voice cracked.

“And one day,” he whispered back, “you’ll realize I was right not to let you in.”

I flinched.

So did she.

Not because of the words…

but because they were a lie.

A desperate, terrified lie.

And she knew it.

“I’ll be back tonight,” she murmured, stepping back from him—this time with a sadness that nearly knocked the air from my lungs. “If you want to talk. If not… this is enough.”

She hesitated.

Looked at him one last time.

Then turned and walked away.

Adrian stood absolutely still until the sound of her footsteps disappeared down the road.

Then—

He exhaled, shaking.

Ran a trembling hand through his hair.

And whispered something so soft I almost didn’t hear it.

“…Damn it.”

He sank onto the porch steps, elbows on his knees, breathing unevenly.

Lucian glanced at me.

I nodded.

“I’ll go,” I murmured.

He pressed a kiss to my temple. “Be gentle.”

I walked to Adrian and sat beside him, silent for a moment.

He didn’t look at me.

But his voice—quiet, shredded, vulnerable—broke the air between us.

“I didn’t want you to see that.”

I placed my hand over his.

“I needed to,” I whispered. “Because now I finally understand.”

His fingers tightened around mine.

Not for strength.

For comfort.

For grounding.

For the first time since I’d known him—

Adrian Vale was not strong, or stoic, or cold.

He was hurt.

Heart-deep.

And he had no idea how to face it.

Adrian didn’t return to the porch that night.

I noticed, of course. I always noticed when any of them disappeared too long — years of surviving Mercer had turned my awareness into something sharp, something instinctual. So when the night eventually stretched past midnight and the house settled into sleep, I stepped quietly away from Lucian’s arms and scanned the hallway.

His door was cracked open.

His bed untouched.

His desk empty except for a single pen still uncapped, as if he’d left mid-thought.

At first, I considered simply letting him be. Adrian had always been the one who needed solitude, who found comfort in stillness, who rebuilt himself in silence the way others sought comfort in conversation. But this wasn’t solitude.

This was avoidance.

Avoidance had a different smell — fear wrapped in discipline, anxiety disguised as composure.

I felt it in the walls tonight.

The house knew something was shifting.

I stepped outside.

The air was cool, with that gentle nighttime hush that always made our land feel like a sanctuary. The garden — our Garden of Lessons, as the girls affectionately renamed it — glowed faintly under the moonlight.

At first, I didn’t see him.

Then I did.

Adrian stood at the far end of the garden, his back tense, his shoulders set in that familiar rigid line, his hands clasped behind him like he was bracing against something inside himself. The moon carved silver across half of his face.

He wasn’t alone.

She stood opposite him.

The mysterious woman.

The one with the quiet presence and the unnervingly steady eyes. The one who had barely spoken during the debriefings, who blended into shadows almost by instinct. The one who smiled with one corner of her mouth instead of two — like emotions came carefully to her, cautiously, like everything she revealed had been filtered through a lifetime of self-protection.

I didn’t know her name yet.

But Adrian did.

I could tell.

His voice, when he spoke, was low. Lower than usual. Softer.

“I don’t understand what you want from me.”

Her response was equally controlled. “I’m not asking anything of you.”

“You are.” His jaw flexed. “You’re asking me to — feel something.”

“I didn’t ask that,” she said gently.

“No,” Adrian murmured, “but you’re still making me.”

It was then that I realized something:

Adrian wasn’t rigid tonight.

He was unraveling.

Internally. Quietly. Beautifully. Terrifyingly.

Like someone had pried open a part of him he’d kept locked for years.

She stepped a little closer — not enough to scare him, not enough to confront him, but enough to make him choose whether to stay or to run.

He stayed.

“Emotions,” he said stiffly, “don’t… work for me. Not like that.”

Her head tilted. “Emotions aren’t machines to be operated.”

“No,” he said, “they’re vulnerabilities.”

“Do you think I’m a vulnerability?”

His silence screamed.

I stepped back into the shadows, hidden, unseen — not to intrude but because something sacred was unfolding, something that didn’t yet belong to the world or the family.

Adrian ran a hand through his hair — a frustrated, helpless gesture so unlike him that I felt my breath hitch.

“You don’t understand,” he whispered.

“I’m not… built for this.”

“Then let me show you you’re wrong.”

He shut his eyes.

And for one impossible second, he leaned toward her. Just slightly. Just enough to betray the truth he would never speak aloud.

But before anything else could unfold, before the delicate charge between them could snap or deepen, she stepped back.

Deliberately.

Respectfully.

Painfully.

“Not tonight,” she said softly.

“You’re not ready to meet the truth yet.”

Adrian’s eyes snapped open, and something raw flickered there — anger at himself, maybe. Fear. Yearning.

Or all three.

She nodded once, turned away, and disappeared into the shadows with the same quiet grace she always held.

Leaving Adrian alone.

Except he wasn’t.

Because I was watching — unseen, but aching for him.

For the first time since I’d known him, Adrian’s composure cracked.

His breathing grew uneven.

His hand trembled.

He pressed both palms to his face like he could hide from himself — from the thing he felt clawing at the walls he’d built, from the softness trying to bloom where he’d sworn he would never allow it.

And then he whispered — so faintly I almost thought I imagined it:

“…Why her?”

Not in disgust.

Not in confusion.

But in terrified, reluctant wonder.

I stepped quietly back inside.

He needed time.

He needed space.

He needed to fight himself in private before letting any of us see the war inside him.

And he would.

He always did.

But for the first time, I realized this battle…

he might actually lose.

And maybe — finally — that was the best thing that could ever happen to him.

The next morning, the house felt different.

Not tense.

Not heavy.

Just… aware.

Adrian’s absence at breakfast didn’t go unnoticed.

Aria kept glancing toward the staircase, her little curls bouncing with each impatient turn of her head. Arianna sat quietly with her cereal, too observant for her age, eyes narrowed like she was studying an invisible pattern. Arian scribbled notes on a piece of paper, his brows furrowed like he was conducting an investigation.

Lucian placed a cup of tea into my hands and lowered his voice.

“He didn’t sleep,” he murmured.

“No,” I whispered back. “He didn’t.”

Lucian squeezed my shoulder. “He’ll come to us eventually.”

Eventually.

The problem was getting him there.

After breakfast, while the kids ran outside to play, I headed upstairs.

Adrian’s door was closed.

That alone spoke volumes.

I knocked lightly.

“Adrian?”

A pause.

“You can come in.”

I pushed the door open.

He sat at his desk, immaculate as ever — hair perfectly combed, shirt ironed, posture military-straight. Every detail of the room was precise, controlled, untouched by life.

Except his eyes.

Those gave him away.

“You didn’t sleep,” I said.

“I rested,” he said calmly.

Another lie.

“You’ve been quiet.”

He didn’t respond.

“You’re scared,” I said softly.

His jaw flexed — a tiny, involuntary betrayal.

“I’m not scared.”

“You are. And you don’t have to be.”

Silence.

Finally, he sighed — a short, sharp exhale, like he was cutting the emotion out of his lungs.

“I shouldn’t have spoken to her last night.”

“Why?”

“Because it made this worse.”

“This?”

He swallowed. “Whatever I’m feeling.”

My heart tightened.

“You’re allowed to feel something for her, Adrian.”

“I don’t,” he said quickly — too quickly.

“I don’t want to.”

“That’s not what I said.”

He stood abruptly, turning away, staring out the window like he could escape through the glass.

“It’s a weakness.”

“No,” I said firmly. “It’s human.”

He didn’t answer. But his shoulders sagged — just for a moment — before he pulled himself back together again.

“All of this,” he murmured, “is a distraction.”

“Maybe it’s what you need.”

He closed his eyes briefly — a moment of pure, raw conflict — and whispered,

“I can’t afford to want something I can’t control.”

I touched his arm gently. “Then let it come slowly.”

No response.

But for the first time, he didn’t pull away.

I left the room without pushing further. Adrian needed space, not pressure.

When I stepped outside, the kids were… waiting.

All three of them — lined up like three tiny detectives ready for a briefing.

Aria held a notebook.

Arianna had her arms crossed, expression sharp.

Arian clutched binoculars bigger than his face.

“Oh no,” I whispered.

Aria stepped forward. “Mommy, we’ve detected emotional weirdness.”

“Emotional what?”

“Weirdness,” Arianna repeated seriously. “From Uncle Adrian.”

Arian nodded. “Massive weirdness.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Kids—”

“We’re worried,” Aria added softly.

That softened me immediately.

I knelt. “He’s okay. Just… thinking.”

Arian lifted his binoculars. “Thinking about a girl?”

I froze. “Why would you think that?”

“Because he looked like Daddy when Daddy stares at you,” Aria whispered.

Arianna gasped. “So he IS in love.”

“No one said that,” I said quickly.

The kids exchanged a look of pure chaos.

Then—

Aria whispered, “LOOK!”

I followed her gaze.

Adrian was stepping outside.

The kids instantly straightened — too innocent, too quiet, too observant.

Adrian’s eyes flicked to them, suspicious.

“Why are you all staring at me?”

“Because we love you,” Aria said sweetly.

Arian nodded too quickly. “Yes. Very much. Extremely.”

Arianna smiled with all her teeth. “So much love.”

Adrian narrowed his eyes. “What did you three do?”

“Nothing!” they chorused — which only made him more suspicious.

Before I could intervene, everything froze.

Because she appeared.

The woman.

The same one from the garden the night before — calm, composed, beautiful in that quiet, controlled way that matched Adrian’s sharp edges perfectly.

She walked through the gate with the same soft confidence as before.

Adrian stilled.

Like someone pressed pause on him.

The kids watched him in fascination.

She gave a small nod. “Good morning.”

Adrian’s throat moved as he swallowed.

“Good morning,” he managed, voice low.

Even the kids gasped at how strange he sounded.

“Someone’s nervous,” Arian whispered loudly.

Arianna elbowed him, but she didn’t deny it.

The woman looked at the kids, then at me, then focused back on Adrian.

“May we talk?” she asked gently.

Every muscle in his body tightened.

But he nodded.

“Yes.”

Aria squeaked.

Arianna scribbled something in her tiny notebook.

Arian kissed his binoculars like they had granted him a prophecy.

Adrian shot them all a warning glare that could have withered a tree.

But the kids were already vibrating with curiosity.

The woman moved toward the woods. He followed.

When they were out of earshot, Arianna whispered, “Mom…”

“Yes?”

“She makes him nervous.”

“Yes,” I said softly. “She does.”

Aria asked, “Is that bad?”

“No,” I murmured. “It’s the beginning.”

Meanwhile, in the woods…

They stopped at a quiet clearing.

She faced him calmly. “You avoided me this morning.”

Adrian’s voice was strained. “I didn’t avoid you.”

“You did.”

He looked away.

“I wasn’t sure what to say,” he admitted.

“You don’t need to know what to say,” she replied. “You only need to be honest.”

He exhaled slowly. “I regret last night.”

“Do you?”

He hesitated.

And that hesitation was everything.

Her voice softened. “I’m not asking anything of you.”

“You already are,” he whispered.

“No,” she said gently. “I’m only offering something. You’re refusing it.”

He closed his eyes.

“This can’t happen,” he breathed.

“I don’t want it.”

She took a small step forward — enough for him to feel her presence, not enough to overwhelm him.

“And yet,” she murmured, “you still came.”

His eyes snapped open.

She held his gaze.

“You’re not ready,” she said softly.

He said nothing.

“But that’s okay,” she added.

“I can wait.”

She turned and walked away before he could respond.

Leaving Adrian standing alone in the clearing, breathing harder than he wanted to admit… his composure cracking, his heart waking up for the first time in years.

And he hated it.

And he needed it.

And he didn’t understand any of it.

Not yet.