Emily swayed on the edge of the pavement, laughter bubbling up from somewhere deep in her throat. She didn't notice the three men surrounding her not their leering smiles, not the tension in their postures. She was floating, numb, disconnected.
"C'mon, sweetheart," one of them said smoothly. "Let's go somewhere warmer."
"Party?" she asked with a dazed smile, barely able to keep her balance. "I like… warm."
Another man reached for her elbow.
"Then came a voice sharp, low, and final.
"Step away from her."
The three turned, startled.
Out of the dark, from between the trees, a tall figure emerged with a slow, deliberate gait. Black coat flowing behind him like the night itself, pale skin luminous in the moonlight, and those eyes violet, cold, unblinking.
Dr. Adrian Blackwood.
One of the men straightened. "Who the hell are you?"
Adrian didn't answer. He moved closer, his gaze locked on the girl beside them—drunk, vulnerable, and completely unaware of the danger she was nearly swept into.
"She's coming with me," he said.
"You her boyfriend or something?" another sneered, glancing at Emily, who barely recognized the tension.
"I'm her lecturer."
The name dropped like a weight. The men hesitated, looked at each other, then at Emily, who giggled at the mention of "lecturer" and made a lazy attempt at a wave.
The tone in Adrian's voice didn't leave room for negotiation. "Walk away."
Something in the way he stood still as death, eyes unreadable made their skin crawl.
One muttered, "Whatever, man. Not worth it," and within seconds, the trio turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Adrian watched until they were gone. Then, without a word, he turned to Emily.
She blinked up at him. "Dr. Black… Black-coat… Adrian…" She hiccupped, wobbling. "Fancy seeing you…"
"You're drunk," he said simply.
She offered him the bottle. "Wanna join?"
"No." He reached for it and tossed it into the nearby bin. "You need to leave this place."
Her smile faded as the cold wind kissed her cheeks again. "Where would I go? Back to that tiny shoebox room? Cry myself to sleep? Or maybe find another guy who wants to win a game with me?"
He didn't respond. Instead, he bent and, with practiced ease, picked her up. She didn't resist. She was too tired, too broken.
…..
The house looked like something out of a painting Victorian-style, looming behind wrought iron gates and half-buried in climbing ivy. It stood apart from the world, as if untouched by time or city noise. Inside, the contrast was immediate.
Warm. Clean. Dim golden lighting spilled over wooden floors and walls lined with books. The fire crackled again, casting dancing shadows across the hardwood floor, flickering against the shelves of ancient books and framed sketches whose edges curled with age. The warmth seeped into the silence, but it did nothing to soften the cold between them.
She sank into the deep cushions of the couch, pulling the velvet blanket tighter around her shoulders. She looked around the room, dazed.
"You live in a haunted library," she mumbled.
Adrian ignored her comment entirely. He was already in the kitchen nook, putting a kettle on the stove.
"Do you want tea?" he asked flatly, without turning around.
She blinked. "What?"
"To sober up," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Warm liquid helps."
"Tea?" She let out a bitter laugh. "I'm unraveling and you're offering me tea?"
"Or coffee."
"You're a machine," she muttered, curling deeper into the blanket. "Do you even feel anything?"
Adrian didn't respond. He reached up for a ceramic mug, opened a small wooden drawer, and pulled out two different tea packets.
"Chamomile or mint?" he asked calmly.
Her mouth dropped open. "You're doing this on purpose."
"Chamomile is calming," he added, as if that explained everything.
"You're such an ass," she snapped, sitting up too fast, nearly dropping the blanket. "You just… sit there with your sharp jaw and your ancient teapot like none of these matters."
He looked over at her briefly, then poured hot water over the tea. "You're not very good at holding your liquor."
"And you're not very good at holding your heart," she shot back.
His expression didn't change.
She got to her feet, wobbled slightly, and stepped toward the kitchen where he was now preparing a second mug.
"I trusted Jake," she said, voice cracking. "He made me feel seen. Like I was something more than background noise. And now… now I find out I was just a damn bet. A checkbox. A joke. And the worst part?"
She paused, her eyes meeting his.
"I thought maybe you were different. You barely looked at me, but when you did it felt like you saw something. Like you noticed. I guess that was just me being stupid."
Adrian handed her the cup.
"Drink. You'll feel better."
She stared at it, then slowly took it from his hands. The warmth of the mug seeped into her cold fingers. She sipped.
It was mint.
She glared at him over the rim. "I didn't pick this."
"I made the choice for you," he said.
Her lips curled in disgust. "How very on-brand."
He turned and walked back to the fireplace, settling into a high-backed leather chair that looked like it belonged in a Victorian study. His eyes fixed on the flames.
"I'm not asking for you to fix anything," she muttered, sitting down again. "I just wanted someone to see me."
He didn't respond.
"I was an idiot," she continued. "Believing in… kindness. In decency. In attention that wasn't calculated."
She paused, watching him. "Do you always do this? Pull people in with silence and stares and then push them away like they don't matter?"
Adrian leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on one knee. "Do you want toast?"
"What?"
"For your stomach. It helps," he said dryly.
"I swear to god," she said, exasperated. "You could be talking to a girl bleeding out and ask if she prefers rye or sourdough."
"I prefer rye," he answered without missing a beat.
Emily blinked, then burst out laughing. It was loud, almost hysterical. But it faded fast, sinking into a soft sound that bordered on tears.
"I don't even know if I hate you or need you," she whispered.
He didn't speak. He just sat there, watching the fire like it might give him answers.
The tea grew cooler in her hands.
Emily eventually leaned back, letting her head sink into the pillow, legs curled under her. Her breathing slowed. The dizziness faded. Her heart still ached, but exhaustion was overtaking it.
"I'm not forgiving you," she said again, half-asleep.
"I didn't ask you to," came his quiet response.
And that was the last thing she heard.
The fire whispered on. Adrian didn't move from his chair. He stayed there long after her eyes had closed, as still as stone. Watching. Listening. Guarding.
From what, even he didn't quite know.