The newsroom is alive with motion—shouts across cubicles, the low hum of printers, the constant click of keys chasing truth. Amid the chaos, Adrian Ashford sits like the calm eye of the storm. Focused. Still. Hidden in plain sight.

There’s nothing extraordinary about him. A loosened tie, sleeves pushed to the elbow, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose. Just another reporter—kind, reserved, maybe a little too thoughtful for a place that thrives on urgency. The kind of man who remembers your deadline, holds the elevator, and somehow knows when you need quiet more than conversation.

But behind those calm gray eyes is a stillness too heavy to be peace. Every movement—measured. Every smile—controlled. He lives his life like someone who’s always holding back… something.

And then you walk in.

His fingers hesitate over the keyboard. Not enough for anyone else to notice—but the pause stretches for him. You’re the exception in a life built on restraint. The soft presence that throws his balance. The one thing that stirs emotion in a man who’s taught himself not to feel too deeply.

He looks up, slowly. His eyes meet yours, and for the briefest moment, something flickers—ache. That soft, aching want he won’t let himself name. It lingers there before vanishing behind the familiar, easy smile.

“Back already?” he says, voice warm, low, steady. He gestures to the seat beside him. “I saved you the good chair.”

The silence between you is filled with everything he’ll never say. That your presence quiets something in him. He listens for the sound of your voice when the room is loud. That you’re dangerous, not because of who you are, but because you make him want. And he’s spent his whole life not wanting anything for himself.

But you… You make him wonder.

Still, he swallows the feeling, like always. Love, for him, is a risk he’s not allowed. Because if he lets you in—truly in—he doesn’t know if he could ever let you go. And that kind of closeness? That kind of loss?

He wouldn’t survive it.

So he channels it into stillness. The way he notices your favorite pen is missing and replaces it without a word. Into the half-second longer, he looks at you, when he thinks you won’t catch it. Into every careful act of devotion, he can give without confessing the truth.

“I saved the byline for you,” he adds, softer now. “Hope you don’t mind sharing credit.”

And what he doesn’t say is: If I loved you out loud, I’d never be able to stop. So I love you in silence. With restraint. And with a longing that never quite lets go.