Chapter 13 Adaline
Adaline
The minute I think he is not outside my door anymore, I grab the nearest pillow and shove it over my face. Then I scream. Really scream.
Not a cute, frustrated little “ugh,” either. A full-body, muffled, primal scream that shakes my ribs and finally lets out every tangled feeling clawing under my skin.
Because my ankle hurts, yes. But that’s not why I’m losing it.
No, I’m screaming because I had to let him help me. Again.
Because Hunter Rexon carried my weight. Because his hand was on my waist, his arm around my shoulders, his fingers on my ankle. Because he looked at me like I wasn’t an inconvenience, or a disaster, or a walking probation warning, but like I was his responsibility.
And the worst part?
He was kind in a way that didn’t ask for permission.
Not grumpy, not cold, or sarcastic. Just kind in a way that completely messes with my brain.
I scream harder into the pillow. I want to be loud, but I can’t risk waking everyone—and that restraint somehow makes it worse.
When my lungs burn, and my throat feels raw, I finally drop it. The pillow flops onto the bed beside me as I slump back against the headboard, breathing in short, angry bursts.
“Pull yourself together,” I mutter, pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes until little sparkles appear.
The pain in my ankle throbs in sync with my pulse. It’s not unbearable, but it’s definitely going to bruise. I blow out a slow breath, trying to steady myself. In. Out. In. Out. I’ve handled worse, emotionally, physically, and even professionally. This shouldn’t be the thing that undoes me.
A knock raps softly on my door.
I jump.
“Adaline?” His voice feels low and close, like he is already near me.
I smooth my hair back, wipe at my face in case there are tears, there are not, thank goodness. I try to sound casual.
“Yeah?”
The door opens a crack, then wider, and Hunter steps inside.
He’s unfairly handsome—broad shoulders, powerful build.
His sleeves are pulled up, and my attention snags on a small North Star inked near his left elbow, one I swear I hadn’t noticed before. Then again, the last few times I’d been close to him, I’d been too busy thinking about his lips to notice much else. The intense gray eyes don’t help either.
But his personality should be a deterrent. Brooding, grumpy, and so cold. The kind of man who keeps people at arm’s length without even trying. The kind who should be easy to dismiss.
So why am I thinking about him like this?
I decide to blame the pain, my throbbing ankle, the lingering shock, and the fact that my body is still buzzing from leaning on him. Clearly, discomfort is scrambling my judgment. That’s the only explanation that makes sense.
Hunter clears his throat, and I finally notice.
He’s carrying a small armful of things. A couple of those instant ice packs you smack to activate, a bottle of water, a blister pack of pain meds… and a sandwich, wrapped in cling film.
My stomach chooses that exact moment to growl.
Perfect.
He doesn’t comment, just walks in and sets everything on the nightstand, his movements precise and efficient.
“I brought these,” he says, nodding toward the ice packs. “For your ankle.”
“Thanks,” I say, trying very hard not to sound like I want to throw the pillow at his head and also maybe hug him.
He picks up the blister pack. “Over-the-counter pain meds. Take one with food.” He glances at the sandwich. “And water. In case you need it.”
I look at the sandwich, then back at him. “Did you… make that?”
His mouth twitches like he’s fighting a smile. “No. Mrs. Lane made it earlier.”
“That was nice of her,” I say automatically.
“She usually makes one for me,” he says.
The words hang there for a beat.
Oh.
Oh no. So this is his sandwich.
The one waiting for him. His late-night snack. The one I’m now supposed to eat while icing my poor, stupid, twisted ankle that he just helped me limp upstairs on.
My chest squeezes with something awful and warm all at once.
“I can’t take your dinner,” I blurt. “You should—”
“It’s fine,” he cuts in, tone flat but not unkind. “I’m not hungry.”
My eyes narrow slightly. “That sounds fake.”
He lifts a brow. “You’re the one who almost face-planted into the rose bushes. Take the sandwich.”
I huff because he has a point, and it’s annoying when he has a point. “You really don’t want it?”
“I wouldn’t have brought it if I did,” he says simply.
He didn’t just drop me off and vanish. He went downstairs. Got ice, medicine, water, and his sandwich. Brought them up here while he could have done nothing. Instead, he’s in my room, being… decent.
My throat feels suddenly thick. I look down at the blanket, picking at a thread near my knee.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For this.” He looks at me for a long moment. Then he nods once. “Don’t wander around the garden alone at night next time.”
I bristle. “I wasn’t wandering. I was walking. There’s a difference.”
“Your ankle doesn’t know the difference,” he says dryly. I almost smile. Almost. He reaches for the door, then pauses, glancing back. For a second, his expression softens, just a flicker.
“Keep the ice on for twenty minutes,” he says. “Then again, in an hour, if it still hurts.”
“Yes, doctor,” I mutter. He ignores the joke, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch again.
“Goodnight, Adaline.”
“Goodnight,” I say, and it comes out softer than I intend.
He steps out and closes the door behind him.
The room feels smaller. I stare at the door like I can still see him through it.
Then I sigh, reach for one of the ice packs, snap it until it crackles cold, and press it carefully against my ankle.
The jolt of cold makes me yelp.
“Okay. Yeah. That’s real.”
I shift, propping my leg a little higher on the pillow he positioned under it. The skin around my ankle is already tender, the ache deep and insistent. But as the numbness spreads, the sharp edges of the pain start to dull.
I unwrap the sandwich slowly. It’s simple: turkey, cheese, lettuce, just a hint of mustard.
“I’m stealing his sandwich,” I whisper to the empty room. “Great. Just add it to the list of things I’ve messed up.” Still, I take a bite.
It’s good. Really good.
Warmth spreads through me, not just from the food, but from the whole stupid situation. Him in the garden, catching me, and then in the elevator, close enough to breathe the same air. I don’t think I can ever forget the sight of him kneeling by my bed, hands gentle on my ankle.
That look in his eyes turned into something when he was leaving my bedroom. I’m just going to blame my throbbing ankle; it’s messing with my head.
I chew slowly, staring at the wall.
I came here to start over. To escape drama, not… create a new brand of it with my grumpy, complicated, secretly-kind boss who rescues me, fixes my car, shares his sandwich, and still insists I’m on probation.
And to add to that, we almost kissed.
I press the ice pack a little closer and lean my head back against the wall.
And for the rest of the sandwich, every bite tastes like trouble with a hint of apple-cinnamon Hunter Rexon.
And I can’t stop thinking about him.
Sleep is apparently not happening again tonight.
It wasn’t like this during night shifts at the hospital, when exhaustion eventually won.
I twist on the bed for what has to be the hundredth time, the sheets tangled around my legs, my ankle pulsing in dull, annoyed waves.
The room is dim and quiet, but my brain is anything but.
Every time I close my eyes, all I see is Hunter, his hand on my ankle, his forearm braced on the mattress, his voice kind when he told me to keep the ice on for twenty minutes.
Infuriating man. Infuriatingly kind.
I groan and flop onto my back, staring at the ceiling. My phone lies on the nightstand, screen dark, silently accusing me.
Earlier tonight, I ignored North. I left him mid-conversation, right after he asked if someone broke my heart. I’d intended to reply, twisted my ankle, got carried around by my very intimidating boss, and the night derailed from there.
Still, I disappeared without a word.
“Okay,” I whisper to myself. “One good decision today.” I grab my phone and unlock it. My HeartLines app icon blinks with that familiar little red dot. I tap it, pulse already slowing a fraction.
North is online.
A breath I didn’t realize I was holding slips out.
Wind: Are you still there?
The answer comes back almost instantly.
North: Always.
Something warm and stupid flutters in my chest. North admitted that he only uses that word in our messages. Just with me.
Wind: Sorry, I vanished. Something came up.
I stare at that line. Something came up. Like, oh hey, I twisted my ankle, had to grab my boss’s hand for support, let him help me upstairs, and now I’m in bed eating his sandwich while thinking about him.
Yeah. That’s not happening.
The typing bubble appears.
North: It’s okay. I figured you had a life or whatever.
I smile, rolling onto my side and tucking the blanket closer around me.
Wind: Or whatever? Wow, such faith in me. What did you do while I left you hanging?
North: Handled a situation.
I squint at the screen.
Wind: That’s vague. What kind of situation?
There’s a longer pause this time.
North: An annoying cat got herself into trouble. Again. She hates it when I rescue her.
I blink. Then laugh. Out loud. The sound bounces softly off the walls, surprising me. I didn’t realize how much I needed that.
Wind: You have a cat?? This is new information.
North: I don’t “have” her. She’s not mine. She’s just always in my space, messing with things she shouldn’t touch.
Wow. Okay. I’m starting to feel like I was definitely a cat in another lifetime—chaos-prone, accident-prone, and apparently in constant need of rescue.
Wind: Sounds like she likes you. Cats don’t hang around people they hate. They just… leave.
North: She mostly looks like she wants to claw my eyes out.
I snort.
Wind: Maybe she’s conflicted. Or maybe you need to show her some love so she stops trying to murder you.
North: Trust me. She’s not the kind of cat that can be tamed.
His words somehow wrap around me with the blanket. I sink deeper into my pillow.
Wind: You might be underestimating her. Or yourself.
He doesn’t respond right away. The little bubble comes and goes. I picture him somewhere, some quiet place, lit by the glow of a screen like mine, thinking too much and saying too little.
My ankle throbs beneath the ice pack’s fading chill. My eyes feel heavy, but my mind doesn’t want to be alone yet.
Wind: Will you stay online till I fall asleep? Just… knowing you’re here helps.
I hesitate for half a second, then hit send before I can chicken out. The reply is immediate.
North: Yeah. I’m here.
My chest tightens in that soft, unfamiliar way again.
I roll onto my back, holding the phone above me so I can stare at the tiny text like it’s more than pixels.
Maybe it is. Because for all the chaos in my life, Connor’s mess, Hunter’s moods, the gossiping town, my own upside-down feelings—North is… the only thing grounding me.
Honest in ways people in my real world never seem to be. And I, apparently, am crushing on a man whose face I’ve never seen. Fantastic.
Wind: Thank you.
North: For what?
Wind: For being here. For not thinking I’m ridiculous.
North: Who says I don’t think you’re ridiculous?
I bite back a laugh.
Wind: You’d miss me if I were sane.
North: Probably.
I exhale slowly, eyes slipping half-closed. The glow from the phone screen bathes the room in a soft, bluish light. Outside, the wind rustles through the rose bushes. Somewhere down the hall, the house creaks, like a big, old, living kind of sound.
My thoughts drift. I think about North, whoever he is, dealing with cats and complicated people and secrets. I imagine his voice… low, calm. I imagine what he looks like. Glasses? No glasses? Coffee addict? Would we recognize each other, sitting across a table?
Or would we walk right past, never knowing?
I think about asking to meet him someday. The idea sends a tiny thrill through me… and a bolt of fear. Because if he knew me, really knew me, face and name and all my messy baggage, would he still say I’m stronger than I think?
Or would he see every flaw up close and decide I’m not worth the trouble?
I yawn, my eyes fully closing now. And right on cue, my brain betrays me. Because instead of thinking about North’s hypothetical face, I see Hunter’s gray eyes. Sharp jaw. Grease-smudged hands, while he rolls out from under my car.
The way he held on, while I tried to recover and stand. The way he looked at me in the elevator, silent and solid at my side. He’s difficult, infuriating, but somehow also keeps… catching me.
I tell myself we can’t stand each other, and I force my mind to think of the last thing North wrote to me.
Yet when my mind drifts further, when the edges blur, and my thoughts start sliding into dreams—it isn’t North who appears in them.
It’s Hunter.
Standing too close in his office. Looking at my mouth. Saying my name in that low, rough voice like it tastes different when he uses it. Somewhere far away, my phone buzzes softly with one last message. I glance at it.
North: Sleep, Wind. I’ve got you.
But in my dreams, it’s Hunter whose arms I fall into.
When morning light finally pries my eyelids open, my ankle has a faint pain, my phone is dark on the pillow beside me. And my heart is an absolute mess. Because I’m crushing on a stranger online, and painfully drawn to a man I swear I can’t stand. And neither of them feels simple anymore.