I didn't sleep the night after I saw him.
Not Adrian.
Not the man I tended to every evening, whose heartbeat I'd listened to beneath hospital gowns and pale blankets, whose voice—quiet, warm, healing—still echoed in the corners of my mind.
No.
The man I saw standing in his office. The man that had his face… but not his eyes.
And that single moment—one second, maybe two—had hollowed my chest in a way I didn't know was possible.
He hadn't tried to talk to me.
Hadn't stepped forward or smiled or even acknowledged my presence.
He'd just watched.
Quiet.
Still.
Like he was cataloging the air between us.
And even though no one else seemed to think there was anything strange about him being there, even though the floor carried on like normal… I knew.
The man I saw in the hallway today—
He wasn't him.
But how was I supposed to say that out loud without sounding insane?
How was I supposed to look Adrian in the eyes and say, I saw someone who looks exactly like you, and I think he knew me?
So I didn't say anything.
And the silence lodged in my throat like a stone.
I had taken a cab to the hospital on impulse before remembering he had been discharged early that morning.
By the time I reached Adrian's building, my entire body felt wrong—tight, wired, exhausted in a way that had nothing to do with work.
The elevator ride up to his apartment felt longer than usual, as though some part of me was dragging its feet. Maybe I was scared he would notice something in my face. Maybe I was scared he wouldn't.
When the doors slid open, I stared down the hallway for a long moment, the memory of that other face—so familiar yet so foreign—flashing behind my eyes.
Then Adrian's door opened before I even knocked.
He must have heard the elevator.
"Hey," he said quietly.
He was in soft clothes again—loose sweats and a worn navy T-shirt that made him look younger, gentler. More human than the Adrian Blake the world saw. He still stood a little carefully, like his body was reminding him of what he'd survived, but he looked stronger today. More present.
I forced a smile. "Hey."
His eyes softened the second they landed on me, the way they always did, like I was something he hadn't realized he needed until he had me in his hands.
That look made it so much worse.
Because I couldn't tell him.
Not yet.
Not when he still winced sometimes when he breathed too deep. Not when his body was healing. Not when his heart had only just stopped holding itself together with quiet fear.
"You're tired," he murmured.
And just like that—two words—my throat tightened again.
I nodded, stepping inside. "Long day."
He didn't press. Adrian rarely pressed. That was one of the things that made him dangerous for me—his quiet patience. His willingness to wait for me to speak in my own time.
If only I had the courage to.
We cooked dinner together, though "together" was a generous word—he sliced vegetables slowly with his left hand, still avoiding strain on his right side, and I hovered near him every other second, terrified he would overdo it.
He kept laughing softly under his breath.
"I'm not made of paper, Amara."
"Well you might as well be."
I glared at him until he gave in and let me take the knife away.
When we sat on the couch later, his shoulder brushed mine. Not on purpose—at least I didn't think so—but the closeness pressed against the thing inside me that had been trembling all day.
He leaned his head back against the cushion, eyes drifting shut.
"You can stay over if you want," he murmured. "You look like you need sleep more than I do."
I swallowed hard.
His face was right there—familiar in every angle, every shadow. Warm. Real. Safe.
But the memory of that other face, that other him, sliced through the moment like cold water.
I looked away.
"I might need to head home tonight. A lot of work piled up."
He opened one eye.
"Your schedule isn't supposed to be so busy."
My chest tightened. "Well… It was unexpected."
He didn't push. But I felt his gaze linger on me, heavy with a question he wasn't asking.
When he walked me to the elevator, he touched my arm lightly, the way he always did—gentle, tentative, as though I were something precious he didn't want to startle.
"Text me when you get home," he said.
I nodded.
When the doors were closing, he gave me a small, tired half-smile—the kind he never used with anyone else.
It hit me so hard I almost reached out.
But the elevator slid shut between us.
And all I could see behind my eyelids was the other him.
Watching.
Waiting.
Like a shadow wearing the wrong heartbeat.
I slept poorly again.
Every creak in my apartment felt like a footstep. Every sound from the window made me sit up too fast. By dawn, I gave up and went into work early—earlier than I ever had.
The office was mostly empty at that hour. The elevator chimed softly as I stepped out, and I scanned the hallway without meaning to.
He wasn't there.
Of course he wasn't. Why would he be? Whoever he was—whatever he was doing there yesterday—it didn't mean he'd show up again.
I sat at my desk, forcing my breathing to even out.
And then—
A message popped up on my screen.
Mr. Blake would like to speak to you. Please come to Office 41B. — Admin
My entire body went cold.
Mr. Blake.
The name meant nothing.
There were multiple Blakes in the company if you traced the family line back far enough. But Adrian never asked for me through anyone.
And Office 41B?
That wasn't his.
That office belonged to… no one. Or someone very high up. Someone rarely in the building. Someone who didn't take interns. Someone who didn't—
My hands shook.
I stood.
Walked.
Every step felt wrong. Like my body was moving through water, thick and heavy and unwilling.
When I reached the office, I stared at the nameplate on the door.
Executive Suite — Private.
Then my pulse stuttered.
A silhouette moved behind the frosted glass.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Familiar in a way that made my lungs seize.
No.
No, no, no.
I should have turned around.
Should have walked away.
Should have run all the way back to Adrian's apartment and buried my face in his chest and told him everything.
But I didn't.
I lifted my hand.
Knocked.
"Come in," a voice called smoothly.
Adrian's voice.
But not exactly.
My heart slammed.
I opened the door.
He stood behind the desk, one hand in his pocket, posture relaxed in a way Adrian's never was at work. His suit was darker, sharper. His eyes were the same color—but they held no warmth. No hesitation. No softness.
Just recognition.
And the faintest curl of something that wasn't a smile… but wasn't not a smile either.
"Good morning, Miss Santos," he said, as though greeting an old acquaintance.
The air left my lungs in a rush.
Not because he wasn't Adrain.
But because he knew that name — a name nobody was supposed to know.
The door clicked shut behind me.
And I could tell in that moment nothing would ever be the same again.