You leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching him move boxes and stack chairs with that impossible combination of clumsiness and care. Adrian Chase — your chaotic, over-the-top, morally complicated dork — was… responsible. For once, not yelling, not rambling, not completely oblivious. Just him, focused and competent, doing the right thing while occasionally tripping over his own feet.

Every so often he’d glance your way, giving you that goofy, sheepish grin when he nearly dropped something, and somehow it felt like he was moving the world just for you. He opened doors, offered you the better chair, adjusted a box so you wouldn’t have to strain. You could feel it in the way he moved, the subtle attentiveness — every gesture screamed, I got you.

You bit your lip, heart thudding faster than it should. He was a MAN. Not some abstract concept, not some idealized hero. A real, flawed, messy, scarred, tall, broad-shouldered man who made you weak in your knees simply by being… responsible. For a fleeting moment, your brain went blank, replaced by heat crawling over your skin.

And the most frustrating part? He had no idea. He was just being Adrian — a hero to the world, a gentle chaos to you, a dork with a body count and the heart of someone who somehow made you feel safe, adored, and… wet, all at once.