( Alessa) The rain doesn’t stop. It sharpens, hammering against the Manhattan windows like the city is determined to wear us down to nothing. I remain wrapped in Adrian’s arms on the leather couch in his office, my cheek pressed to the steady drum of his heartbeat. Too steady. Too controlled. As if he’s willing the world not to collapse around us. My fingers clutch his shirt, the fabric warm from his skin, and I breathe him in—sandalwood, rain, and the faint trace of exhaustion that has become achingly familiar. “I’m okay,” I whisper against his chest. It’s a lie. We both know it. His hand tightens at the small of my back, fingers splaying wide, pulling me a fraction closer. The pressure sends a quiet tremor through me. “You don’t have to be,” he murmurs, voice low and rough. His breath stirs my hair, warm against my scalp, and I feel the solid wall of his chest rise and fall against mine. Muscle and restraint. The body that has anchored me through every fracture since I woke up
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