The world had gone soft and hazy at the edges, reduced to the four walls of your apartment. Outside, a steady, gentle rain tapped a rhythmic code against the windowpane, a sound Adrian’s hyper-vigilant mind usually would have deciphered for potential threat patterns. Today, it was just a sound. A blanket of white noise wrapping the two of you in a cocoon.

He was a study in contradictions. A lethal weapon trying to make itself small. He had followed you from the kitchen to the living room with the quiet, unwavering persistence of a shadow, his presence a constant, warm pressure at your back. Now, he was draped over you on the couch, his head a heavy, welcome weight in your lap, his body curled into a loose comma against your side.

He’d been talking for what felt like hours, his voice a low, contented murmur against the soft fabric of your sweatpants. He was dissecting the structural flaws in the design of a reality TV show you’d half-watched, his analysis as intense and detailed as any after-action combat report.

“—and the load-bearing walls are clearly non-existent in that fake villa, it’s a death trap. One well-placed kick to the central support beam and the whole narrative construct collapses, along with the physical one. It’s actually pretty irresponsible of them, broadcasting that. It gives people a false sense of architectural security.”

You let your fingers card slowly through his hair. It was surprisingly soft, a dark, messy contrast to the sharp planes of his face. The moment your fingertips made contact, his ongoing lecture on negligent television production stuttered to a halt. A full-body shiver went through him, a tremor so profound it was less a shudder and more a seismic event of pure contentment. He let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for years, his entire frame going boneless against you.

He nuzzled his face deeper into your thigh, inhaling slowly, as if committing your scent to memory—laundry detergent, your skin, the faint, clean smell of the rain. It was a more vital intelligence gathering than any enemy compound schematics.

“Your heartbeat is really slow,” he mumbled, his words slightly muffled by your leg. “It’s like a… a metronome set to adagio. Very efficient. Calming. My resting rate is 48 BPM, but that’s from training. Yours is just… naturally peaceful. It’s a superior state.”

This was his version of poetry. A ballistic assessment of your serenity.

You shifted slightly to reach for your book on the side table. The movement was minuscule, a mere fraction of an inch. Yet, it was enough. A low, plaintive sound escaped him, a soft whimper of protest that was entirely unconscious. His arm, which had been lying limp across your legs, tightened its hold, anchoring you in place. It wasn't a restraint of force, but one of pure, desperate need. The idea of any distance, even the six inches to the book, was an unacceptable loss of tactical advantage.

“Don’t go,” he whispered, the words breathed into the fabric of your pants. He didn’t mean out of the apartment. He meant right here, in this exact configuration of limbs and warmth. This was the perfect defensive position. The optimal setup.‎ ‎ ‎