Adrien #2
She slides off the bed and takes a few steps backward, her gaze never leaving mine, until her back meets the wall by the balcony right next to the French doors, like she’s positioning herself close to an exit or escape plan.
But she doesn’t seem worried at all. Actually, the opposite. She’s not smiling but I just can’t help seeing that little misfit spark behind her eyes that I know too well.
She rests herself against the wall and just takes me in, her eyes dragging over me appraisingly, like she’s trying to decide what I am tonight.
I realize I’m still holding my palms up in an awkward, almost embarrassing—I come in peace—gesture, so I force myself to relax.
I let my hands drop and take two slow steps back as well, mirroring her distance before using the closest piece of furniture for support.
A chest of drawers. I rest one elbow against it, trying to look casual, effortlessly cool, when in reality my pulse is far too loud for my liking.
I’m thoroughly stressed.
But I’m also… happy.
Because whatever this is, it feels good.
We’re standing on opposite sides of the room once again, quiet, speaking only through glances and questionable body language.
And maybe I’m delusional, that’s entirely possible, but there’s something profoundly romantic about it.
Something suspended. Like we’re both aware that one wrong word could snap it, so neither of us dares to speak yet.
This time she doesn’t look like a frightened animal. Not at all. It feels more like I’m the one who wandered into the lion’s den. So I hold that smug smirk in with my whole existence, because I refuse to let her see how much I’m enjoying this shift and how much I like being the one watched.
We just stand there. Comfortable, relaxed, and locked in a staring contest that feels far less like a competition and far more like foreplay.
Somewhere in the middle of it, I realize something. This is the first time I’m taking her in without internal panic clawing up my spine and I finally see how different she is.
She looks sharper. She used to be beautiful in that soft and lush way. Sharp tongue, even worse attitude, but ethereal beauty. But now she looks like she could put a knife to my throat and I’d lean into it. Funny enough, that’s already happened.
She looks more adult, more ripe and formidable, in the hottest way possible, also.
I gulp.
This is so unfair. She’s just over there and yet she’s miles away.
The last time I saw her, she was just days away from turning eighteen. Still half-untouched by the weight of things.
Now she looks like she’s carried too much for too long. I just want to carry it for her from now on, but she has to let me first.
She’s not wearing an oversized T-shirt this time. She’s in a thin tank top and sleeping shorts, and that’s infinitely worse for me.
Way worse.
Every curve of her body is suddenly impossible to ignore, her silhouette outlined by the thin fabric.
Okay.
Let’s calm down now. Let’s not focus on that.
Her head tilts slightly, like she’s waiting or measuring, anticipating whatever comes next.
Then she checks the ceiling for the first time since I’ve been here, but only briefly.
So quick it’s almost a reflex. As if she doesn’t want me to notice or as if she’s just reassuring herself of something before letting the moment continue.
“Say something,” she says suddenly.
Wow.
Whoa.
Give me a second.
She just spoke to me.
This is the first time she’s spoken to me since—
I don’t even finish the thought. I realize I’m smiling from ear to ear.
Her voice is soft, but not fragile. There’s something teasing threaded through it too, like she’s testing the water with her toe instead of jumping in.
Okay. Okay.
Speak, idiot.
“Mine has a spider,” I say, still smiling.
At first, she looks like she’s studying my voice, listening past the words, analyzing my cadence. Then her brows draw together just a fraction.
“What?” she asks.
I swallow and nod towards the ceiling. “My ceiling.”
“Ew,” she frowns, her eyes staying locked on mine.
“No,” I add quickly. “He’s a good listener.”
And then it happens. She giggles.
Oh my God, yes.
Yes. Yes. Yes.
My chest actually tightens, like my body is trying to physically hold onto that sound so it doesn’t disappear. I adjust my stance, elbow still braced against the chest of drawers, the other hand sliding into my pocket because I have absolutely no idea what to do with it.
This is ridiculous. I’m nervous. Me. Nervous. What the hell.
And I don’t want to fix it or take control. I want to stay right here, in this awkward little space where she’s giggling and I’m standing across the room pretending I’m not completely undone by it.
The laugh on her face fades, leaving us in silence again.
What now.
Should I crack a joke? Should we break some more glasses?
I’m lost and suddenly very aware of the fact that I have no idea what the rules are anymore.
“So,” I start. “What are you thinking right now?”
She doesn’t answer straightaway. Her gaze drifts lazily around the room instead—the walls, the lamp, the half-open balcony doors. Like she’s scanning for something invisible or deciding how much she’s willing to hand over. Then she looks back at me.
“Are you a dream,” she asks, “or an illusion?”
I gulp, genuinely stunned by that question.
“Which one do you prefer?” I manage.
She doesn’t hesitate. “I can’t tell them apart.”
There’s no distress in her voice and no drama. Just a statement of fact.
“I don’t think anyone really can,” I say honestly. “Does it matter?”