Adrien #3
She smiles. Genuinely this time and playful. Then she lifts her shoulders in a small, loose shrug that says I don’t know or maybe I don’t care.
I smile back and let the moment stretch instead of filling it too quickly. The air between us starts humming again, that magnetic, dangerous frequency. The right one. Ours.
“Not for me,” she says after a beat. “But that’s why I’m considered insane.”
She says it so casually, without bitterness or self-pity. Just… ownership.
“That’s one way to look at it,” I say, choosing my words with unusual care. “Or—” I pause, then add, “you’re the sane one and the rest of us are just doing a really convincing job of pretending.”
A startled giggle escapes her, this time more like a quiet laugh.
Good. This is good. This is so good.
“You’re ridiculous,” she says, still smiling, like she hasn’t quite decided whether that’s a compliment or a diagnosis.
“I’ve been told.”
That does something to her. I can practically see it happen. The smile fades, not abruptly, just thoughtfully. Her gaze drifts once more, scanning the room like she’s counting exits or confirming that nothing has shifted while she wasn’t looking.
She’s still calm, but there’s a thin layer of vigilance now, sliding back into place, like she remembered she’s supposed to be careful.
She pushes herself off the wall and takes a few steps into the room, and my heart starts beating faster, like it sensed the shift before I did.
She stops at the foot of the bed, one hand settling on the column as if she’s claiming the space and taking a quiet stand. Her bare feet dig into the rug the way a restless cat’s paws do, grounding and testing. Her fingers curl around the wood of the bedpost, gripping it tightly.
So suddenly there are only a few feet between us and she’s the one who closed the distance.
The room fills with nothing but the wet sounds of rain outside and the nearly inaudible hush of her feet brushing against the rug. Everything else seems to recede.
Yet it’s all so intense.
“You’re different,” she says.
“Good different?” I ask, the words slipping out before I can overthink them.
A pleased smirk curves her lips, the kind that looks like she’s smiling at a thought she’s keeping entirely to herself, but she looks away, trying to hide that from me.
I take that as a yes.
Oh God. What is she doing to me?
For a moment, it feels like her, like nothing is wrong, no years were stolen and the world didn’t tear us apart only to rearrange us into strangers.
The familiarity hits so hard it makes me want to cross the space between us and grab her the way I used to.
This is unbearable.
I untangle my ankles and take a single step forward. And instantly, everything shatters.
She jerks, her body snapping into alert, panic flooding her expression as she takes one sharp step back, instinctively reclaiming distance.
I freeze mid-motion.
Closing my eyes, I force myself to stay still, waiting for the crushing, agonizing pain to ease its grip around my ribcage.
There is nothing more devastating, nothing more dismal, than seeing fear flash across her face because of me—seeing my Natalya being physically scared of me.
I keep my eyes shut, riding out the surge of everything that crashes through me at once. I can’t stop those disgusting ideas entering my brain. And I hate that my mind goes there. Hate it. That sick, intrusive spiral forcing images into my head.
I will never forgive myself for those years, for drowning in my own misery instead of questioning the story I was fed.
Instead of checking or making sure. I should’ve been less naive.
I should’ve verified everything myself. I should’ve stalked her myself if that’s what it took to be damn sure whatever Bryan told me was true.
Now I have no idea what happened. What he’s done to her. What he’s been doing to her.
I press myself back to the chest of drawers, my face stiff in a miserable expression. Her pupils flicker between my eyes, searching, recalibrating, and imperceptibly, she eases again.
I don’t move. Not a muscle. Not even when every instinct in me is screaming to close the distance, to reach for her and prove something.
“It’s okay,” I say quietly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
For a moment, it feels like the room might crack under the weight of both of us existing in it at once. She starts looking around again, her gaze darting from the walls to the lamp to the balcony doors, like she’s expecting the space itself to betray her.
“What are you searching for?” I ask.
She looks at me, genuinely surprised by the question, like she hadn’t realized she was doing it.
“For something to change,” she says simply. “I don’t really believe my sight.”
That somehow hits me like a spark of hope.
“So close your eyes,” I say, a smile breaking through.
Her lips part, like she’s about to argue or demand logic, but nothing comes out. She hesitates, considers it and her fingers tighten briefly around the bedpost, knuckles paling, as if she’s bracing for something.
Then, she takes a deep breath and lets her eyelids fall shut.