The crack

The restaurant was closed.

Not closed as in finished for the night — closed as in emptied. Chairs stacked. Lights dimmed. One long table set for two.

“Is this… normal?” I asked as the host nodded silently and disappeared.

Adrian didn’t answer immediately. He removed his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair with precise care, like the act itself was part of a routine.

“Normal is inefficient,” he said. “This is preferable.”

Of course it was.

The city pressed against the glass walls, neon and movement reduced to a distant hum. It felt suspended, like the office — insulated from the world, curated for control.

We sat.

Wine appeared without being ordered. So did water. So did food — plated beautifully, steaming, fragrant.

I hadn’t been asked what I liked.

Yet somehow, everything on the table was exactly what I would have chosen.

I tried not to think about that.

“This isn’t a meeting,” I said finally.

“No,” Adrian agreed.

“Then what is it?”

He regarded me over the rim of his glass. “An assessment.”

I stiffened. “Of what?”

“You.”

Honesty settled in my stomach like a stone.

“I thought my performance spoke for itself.”

“It does,” he said. “But performance isn’t the only metric that matters.”

I exhaled slowly. “I don’t understand.”

“That’s acceptable,” he replied. “For now.”

I pushed my food around my plate, appetite dulled by the intensity of his attention.

“Why me?” I asked before I could stop myself.

The question hung between us, fragile and dangerous.

Adrian didn’t answer right away. He set his glass down carefully. Too carefully.

“For someone so observant,” he said, “you ask that question as if you expect flattery.”

“I expect honesty.”

His gaze sharpened.

“Be careful,” he murmured. “Honesty is rarely what people want when they ask for it.”

“I do.”

Silence.

For the first time since I’d met him, Adrian looked… elsewhere. Not distracted. Just briefly distant, like his thoughts had slipped past the room and into something older.

“You don’t posture,” he said finally. “You don’t beg. And you don’t pretend this is more than it is.”

“And what is it?” I asked.

“A structure,” he replied. “One you fit.”

That wasn’t comforting.

“I’m not a thing,” I said quietly.

His eyes snapped back to mine.

“I know,” he said. “That’s precisely the point.”

Something about the way he said it made my pulse stutter.

We ate in silence for a few minutes. The quiet felt different here — heavier, more intimate. Like it was listening.

“You grew up learning how to disappear,” Adrian said suddenly.

My fork paused halfway to my mouth.

“What?”

“You don’t take up space unless necessary,” he continued, as if stating a fact. “You manage conflict by absorbing it. You anticipate other people’s moods before your own.”

I set the fork down slowly. “You don’t know me.”

“I know patterns,” he said.

“That’s not the same thing.”

“No,” he agreed. “It’s more accurate.”

My chest tightened. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because it affects how you work,” he replied. Then, softer: “And how you respond to authority.”

There it was.

Control, dressed up as concern.

“I don’t respond well to being cornered,” I said.

A faint smile ghosted his lips. “Neither do I.”

It was the closest thing to a confession he’d made.

I studied him then — really studied him. The tension in his shoulders he never quite released. The way his fingers rested flat against the table, grounded. Controlled.

“You don’t sleep much,” I said.

His gaze flicked up, surprised despite himself.

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re too precise for someone well-rested,” I replied. “And you drink coffee like it’s medicinal.”

A pause.

Then — a quiet, humorless exhale.

“Insomnia,” he admitted. “Is efficient. It leaves room for work.”

“That’s not healthy.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

Something in his expression shifted — not softened, but strained. Like the admission had cost him.

“You don’t let people get close,” I said carefully.

“That’s not a question.”

“No,” I agreed. “It’s an observation.”

He leaned back slightly, eyes never leaving mine.

“People get close,” he said. “They leave.”

The words were flat. Factual. But underneath them was something raw and unresolved.

I swallowed. “Not everyone does.”

His gaze hardened. “Enough do.”

The air between us felt charged now — not with desire, but with something more dangerous. Recognition.

“I don’t need sympathy,” he added.

“I’m not offering it.”

“Good.”

Another silence. This one stretched.

“Why are you really here tonight?” I asked softly.

He considered me for a long moment.

“To see if you’d run,” he said.

My breath caught. “And?”

“You didn’t.”

“I didn’t know I was allowed to.”

His jaw tightened. “You’re allowed to leave anytime.”

I held his gaze. “That’s not what it feels like.”

Something flickered behind his eyes — irritation, maybe. Or something closer to regret.

“Feelings are unreliable,” he said. “Structures aren’t.”

“People aren’t structures.”

“No,” he said. “They’re liabilities.”

The honesty was brutal.

“Am I a liability?” I asked.

He didn’t answer immediately.

Then, quietly: “You’re an exception.”

I didn’t know whether to be flattered or afraid.

The drive back was silent.

The city blurred past again, but this time, it felt closer. Louder. Less distant.

When the car stopped outside my apartment, Adrian didn’t move to get out.

“You should rest,” he said.

“You should too.”

A pause.

“I won’t,” he replied.

I reached for the door, then hesitated.

“This… whatever this is,” I said carefully. “It can’t blur.”

His gaze found mine, sharp and intent.

“It already has,” he said.

The door opened.

I stepped out into the night, heart racing.

As the car pulled away, a single thought echoed through me — unsettling and inescapable.

The crack wasn’t in him.

It was in me.

And it was widening.