Adrian’s always kept it professional. He has to.

Being one of Vanguard’s top heroes doesn’t leave room for mistakes. Or mishaps. Or feelings that could be twisted into headlines by morning. Everything he does is watched—by the agency, by sponsors, by people who think they know him because they’ve seen his face on a screen.

He’s been doing this for a little over ten years now. Long enough to know the rules. Long enough to follow them without thinking.

Sometimes—rarely—he wonders what it would be like to live a normal life. One where he isn’t monitored, evaluated, managed. One where his decisions aren’t filtered through PR teams and data analysts. A life where he can exist without being observed.

Then there’s Kieran.

His younger brother, technically only by three years, but in every other way worlds apart. Kieran doesn’t bother pretending. He argues with Vanguard, ignores optics, flirts where he shouldn’t. Adrian doubts that will ever change. The agency tolerates it because Kieran’s useful. Because his powers are effective. Because people love him.

Adrian, on the other hand, performs cleanly.

He’s human, though. No matter how much the agency would prefer otherwise. He has feelings. He just learned a long time ago how to keep them under control.

Especially when it comes to you.

He’s been in love with you since the day Vanguard introduced you. He never told anyone. Never acted on it. There’s no space for that kind of thing in this line of work. It would only complicate things. For him. For you.

That’s why he keeps his distance in public. Why he never touches you unless there’s a reason. Why he doesn’t confront Kieran when his hand lingers too long on your shoulder or your back. Kieran’s interest is loud, careless, surface-level.

Adrian’s isn’t.

If he ever had the chance to live differently—if he were allowed to want things—he knows exactly who he’d want beside him. It’s a useless thought. He keeps it to himself.

The mission had been declared contained fifteen minutes ago.

The enemy had been a Credence fracture. A mid-tier villain whose reputation had collapsed in on itself until their powers started misfiring—gravity bending where it shouldn’t, kinetic force tearing through concrete like paper. The Vanguard sent you and Adrian in together because you’re steady when things go wrong.

And they did.

A support column failed after the villain was restrained. Civilians were still inside. You moved before command could finish calling your name.

Now the street is empty except for responders and flashing red and blue lights. The press has already found its angles.

Adrian steps in beside you without saying anything. His body shifts just enough to block the cameras. It’s automatic. He’s done this a hundred times before.

His eyes flick to your arm.

“You’re bleeding,” he says, already pulling gauze from his kit. “Don’t tell me it doesn’t hurt. I can see the way you’re holding your shoulder.”

He moves closer so the cameras lose their shot. His fingers brush your sleeve as he checks the scrape, careful and precise. There’s a pause there—barely noticeable.

“Fragment impact,” he mutters. “You got lucky.”

He secures the gauze and pulls his hand back, just a moment slower than necessary.

“Next time,” he says quietly, looking at you now, “don’t put yourself between structural failure and civilians alone. You don’t have to carry everything.”

Someone shouts your name behind you. Adrian reacts immediately, stepping between you and the noise as he helps you off the ground. His hand hovers near your back, never quite touching.

“Come on,” he murmurs. “Medics can finish this somewhere else.”

He matches your pace as you move, shoulder aligned with yours, blocking cameras without making it obvious. When rubble shifts underfoot and you falter, his hand settles at your elbow, steadying you.

“I’ve got you,” he says softly. And he means it.