The first time I saw Adrian, I forgot the sound of my own name.
It was at my cousin’s engagement party, a whirlwind of chatter, laughter, and glittering chandeliers. Everyone was dressed in bright colors, but he outshone them without trying. Tall, broad-shouldered, a dark suit fitted perfectly against him, and a loosened tie that gave him an air of careless rebellion. His hair was black, swept back in a way that framed his sharp cheekbones, and his eyes—storm-gray, unsettlingly direct—seemed to find me in a room of fifty people.
When he smiled, it was dangerous. Not the kind of polite smile you give relatives, but the kind that promised secrets.
“You’re Maya, right?” he asked, sliding into the seat beside me as if it had always been reserved for him.
I nodded, my throat dry. “And you’re…?”
“Adrian.” He extended a hand, long fingers, calloused in a way that betrayed strength beneath refinement. “Your cousin thought we’d get along.”
“Did she?” I tried for a steady voice, but it came out softer than I intended.
“She wasn’t wrong.” His grin was slow, deliberate, like he enjoyed watching me stumble internally.
From that moment, the air between us hummed. I told myself to ignore it, to turn back to the safe warmth of the party. But his presence clung like perfume, intoxicating and impossible to shake.
---
Over the next weeks, we found excuses. The library. The garden. Family dinners where the distance across the table burned like a dare. He teased effortlessly, his words smooth and edged with wit.
“You read too seriously,” he said once, plucking the book from my hands.
“It’s a serious book,” I protested, reaching for it.
“And yet here you are, frowning at it like it owes you money.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “You’re prettier when you don’t frown.”
My pulse tripped. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”
“Why not?” His gray eyes sparkled with challenge. “Because it’s true?”
I turned away, but heat rose to my cheeks. He laughed softly, satisfied, and handed the book back. That laugh—it unnerved me. It was velvet and smoke, a sound I wanted to hear again and again, even if it cost me my sanity.
---
We grew bolder.
One late evening, I was writing in the library when he appeared, leaning casually against the doorway.
“You hide here too much,” he said, stepping inside.
“I like it quiet.”
“Then I’ll be quiet.” He sat across from me, folding his arms, watching.
I tried to write, but his gaze burned. Finally, I slammed the notebook shut. “What?”
His lips curved. “You make it very hard not to look at you.”
“Adrian—”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Tell me you don’t feel it.”
My breath caught. “Feel what?”
“This.” His hand gestured between us, as if the invisible electricity were obvious. “Tell me you don’t want me to reach across this table and—”
“Stop,” I whispered, though my voice betrayed me.
He chuckled, low, dangerous. “You don’t want me to stop.”
And he was right. God help me, he was right.
---
Falling for him was like falling from grace.
It wasn’t sweet or innocent. It was a storm—chaotic, forbidden, glorious. I thought of him when I shouldn’t. I prayed for clarity and ended up whispering his name instead. Every stolen glance felt like a trespass, every word like a confession.
The first time we touched deliberately, it was in the garden. Twilight painted the sky purple and gold, and we walked along the roses. His hand brushed mine once, then again, then held.
“You’re trembling,” he murmured.
“So are you.”
He smiled, but it was softer this time, vulnerable. “Because I’ve never wanted anything this badly.”
“Adrian—if they find out—”
“Then let them,” he said fiercely. “Let them find out that you’re the only thing that makes sense to me.”
And then he kissed me.
Not a hesitant kiss, not a question—but a claim. His hand cupped my jaw, thumb brushing my cheek, while the other pulled me against him. His lips were warm, insistent, tasting of danger and longing, as though he had been holding back a flood and finally let it break.
I gasped, and he deepened the kiss, tilting my head, exploring with a hunger that was both careful and consuming. He kissed like he knew we were falling, like he wanted to drag me with him into the abyss. My fingers clutched his shirt, pulling him closer, terrified he might vanish if I let go.
When we finally broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against mine.
“That,” he whispered, “is what grace feels like when you give it up.”
---
From then on, the world blurred. We met in shadows, exchanged words heavy with meaning, kissed like we were stealing from eternity.
At dinner, he would brush his foot against mine under the table, and I’d nearly drop my spoon. In the library, he’d lean close enough for his breath to stir my hair, just to whisper something reckless: “Meet me tonight.”
And I would. Every time.
---
But whispers grow loud.
One afternoon, my mother confronted me. Her eyes were sharp, her voice strained.
“Maya, you cannot see him. You know this. It will destroy everything.”
I bit my lip, trembling. “I can’t stop.”
Her face crumpled with sorrow. “Then you’ve already fallen.”
---
The final night came with rain. The estate was hushed, thunder rolling in the distance. I found him under the old oak tree, waiting, soaked but magnificent. His shirt clung to him, his hair plastered back, and yet his eyes burned brighter than ever.
“You came,” he said, relief flooding his voice.
“Of course I came.” I stepped closer, rain plastering my dress to my skin.
He cupped my face, thumbs brushing away raindrops—or tears, I couldn’t tell. “Tell me you’ll run away with me. Tell me we don’t have to live by their rules.”
My heart raced. “And if we fall?”
His lips curved into that dangerous, beautiful smile. “Then we fall together.”
And I kissed him—fierce, unrestrained, pouring every ounce of longing and terror and devotion into him. The rain crashed around us, drumming against leaves, against skin, but we didn’t notice. His hands tangled in my hair, mine clung to his shoulders, and the world fell away until there was only this: the fire, the ruin, the grace we’d left behind.
When we finally broke apart, gasping, he whispered against my lips:
“Falling from grace never felt so much like heaven.”
