They leave Fennel Fields long after closing, the streetlights haloed by a fine mist that drizzles from the overcast sky. Nova clutches her jacket tighter, wishing it were thick enough to dull the throb of bruises on her arms and ribs. Every step radiates pain, but she keeps going, focusing on Adrian's presence beside her. He's wound up—she can tell by the way he scans every shadow, the slightest twitch of movement drawing his gaze. It's as though he's expecting trouble at any moment.

She's never seen him this intense. Sure, Adrian's always been a little off—a blend of sharp-edged humor and casual disregard for normal social cues—but tonight, that cool detachment is painted over with something else: fierce protectiveness. She can feel it crackling off him, like static electricity, each time he shifts to walk on the street side of the sidewalk or automatically steps between her and any passing stranger.

They barely speak. His entire focus is on her and the silent city around them. Occasionally, headlights sweep past, carving streaks of light across the wet pavement. Adrian grips Nova's elbow gently, guiding her away from puddles or broken glass. Despite the ache in her body, she feels a warm flutter in her chest each time he does it. He cares. The thought both soothes and unsettles her. She's not used to someone being so consumed by her safety, especially not in this raw, over-the-top way. It flares her bruised heart with conflicting sparks of gratitude and apprehension.

At last, they reach her duplex, its porch light casting wan circles on the driveway. Adrian quickens his pace, giving the small yard a once-over. The tension in his shoulders ratchets tighter, like he's expecting someone to leap from the bushes. Nova feels a pang of guilt—he's so wound up, and it's partially her fault. But there's also a soft spot opening inside her: He's doing this for me.

She fishes her keys from her coat pocket, but Adrian places a hand over hers, gently sliding the keys away before she can fit them into the lock.

"Let me," He insists in a low voice.

He glances around one more time, scanning the bushes and the side of the house. Satisfied there's no one lurking, he unlocks the door. The hinges creak as he nudges it open.

Nova steps forward, but Adrian holds out an arm, halting her.

"Wait," He murmurs, eyes fixed on the dim interior.

He flicks on the hallway light, scanning the small living room and the short corridor beyond with an intensity that makes her heart skitter. There's something almost comical about him peering around her tiny space like it's a crime scene, but she recognizes the underlying seriousness in his stance: He's ready to pounce on anything suspicious.

Finally, he steps aside.

"Looks clear," He declares, glancing back at her, "Unless the intruder is, like, three inches tall and hiding under a couch cushion," He adds a smirk that doesn't quite reach his eyes—dark humor, but she appreciates the attempt to lighten the mood.

Nova exhales, stepping into the living room. The familiar scent of her home—faint laundry detergent, a lingering trace of coffee from this morning's half-drunk cup—wraps around her. Yet she's still on edge, echoing his watchfulness. She closes the door behind them, but Adrian turns and slides the deadbolt, then the chain lock, testing them both. He even peeks out the window, sweeping his gaze over the yard again.

When he glances back, Nova's still hovering by the couch, arms crossed over her sore ribs. She offers a tiny, apologetic smile, "Adrian... it's okay. Really."

His eyes dart from the window to her, lingering on the hidden bruises beneath her clothes.

"Is it?" He asks quietly, voice tinged with a protective anger that simmers just below the surface, "I mean, you're—" He exhales hard, raking a hand through his messy hair, "I just want to make sure no one's waiting around to hurt you again."

The raw sincerity in his words stabs at her heart. She wishes she could give him closure, to name some attacker he can rage against. Instead, she can only shake her head, swallowing the lump in her throat.

"I— I appreciate it," She says softly, guilt twisting her insides.

Adrian forces a half-grin, but she sees the tension in his jaw. He moves away from the window, scanning her living room as if seeing it for the first time. His eyes catch on the closed door leading to the duplex's other half.

"Your neighbor," He says abruptly, mouth twisting in thought, "That old lady. Are we sure she's actually deaf?"

Nova blinks, surprise breaking through her anxiety.

"Mrs. Alvarez?" She almost laughs, but he looks dead serious, "She's definitely deaf. She's... sweet. She can't—"

"Could be a cover," Adrian interjects, glancing at the wall separating the duplexes, "Spies do that. Fake disabilities, slip under the radar. Old ladies are often overlooked, you know? No one suspects them," He snaps his fingers, "Bam. Double agent grandma. She sees everything."

Nova can't help the breathy laugh that escapes her. It eases some of the tightness in her chest.

"Okay," She concedes, lips quivering in a near smile, "I think we can rule out Mrs. Alvarez as a secret assassin. She barely leaves her house except for groceries."

He huffs, crossing his arms, "Don't discount the possibility. You never know," Then, noticing her expression, he relents, "But fine. She's probably harmless. Still—" He casts a final wary glance at the shared wall, "I'll keep an eye out."

A hush settles, and Nova realizes how close they're standing, only a foot or two apart in the small living room. She can feel the heat of his body, sense the coil of tension beneath his skin. He's so on guard, his protective instincts dialed up to eleven. And strangely, despite her exhaustion and pain, it makes her feel... safe. Wanted.

Her throat tightens with a surge of emotion.

"Adrian," She murmurs, stepping forward cautiously, like she's approaching a wild animal. She rests a hand on his arm, feeling the taut muscles under his rolled-up sleeves, "Thank you. I mean it."

He looks down at her hand, then meets her gaze. The flicker in his eyes—part anger at the unknown threat, part relief that she's here in one piece—makes her chest twist. His lips press into a thin line, and for a moment, he doesn't speak. When he does, his tone is quieter, almost vulnerable.

"I don't like seeing you hurt," He says, voice rough, "Makes me want to... fix it. Make it right."

She nods, blinking back tears she's too drained to shed again, "I know. But I'm okay, at least for now."

Except for all the madness swirling in my head, she thinks, but doesn't say. She can't burden him with that—especially not when he's already so on edge.

He exhales, nodding. Then he lifts his hand, hovering it near her waist as if uncertain whether touching her there will cause her pain. After a second of hesitation, he places it gently on her hip, eyes flicking over her face in a silent question: Is this okay?

Nova's pulse jumps. She tilts her head up, ignoring the bruises that ache when she stretches.

"It's okay," She whispers, letting her free arm circle his back.

They stand like that—an awkward yet comforting embrace—his chest rising and falling against her. She can sense the tension thrumming through him like a coiled spring, but he's trying to be gentle, mindful of her injuries.

She rests her forehead against his shoulder, inhaling the faint scent of soap and the musty dryness of his jacket. It occurs to her that she never expected to find solace in someone like Adrian: a sociopath with a dark sense of humor, unpredictable and sometimes unhinged. Yet here he is, locked doors and all, making her feel less alone. Maybe we're both messed up in our own ways, she thinks. The idea brings a fragile sense of comfort—I'm not the only one.

He leans his cheek against her hair, his voice soft.

"Does it hurt a lot right now?" He asks, referencing her bruises, his concern laced with an anger that still simmers.

She nods, "Yeah. But I'll manage," The ache is constant, but his warmth dulls the edge, "I just... need rest," Her eyes flick to the couch, but part of her wonders if Adrian will stay the night, watch over her. She's never had to rely on someone this way, but the pull of his presence is magnetic. She likes how he can step in, scanning for danger, locking doors, clearing rooms—like a personal protector.

He follows her gaze and seems to read her thoughts.

"You want me to... I could crash on your couch?" He offers, voice slipping into that blend of matter-of-fact practicality and underlying tenderness, "Make sure you're, y'know, okay. Keep watch for the suspicious old lady," He tries a smirk, referencing his earlier joke, but it comes out more earnest than jesting.

Nova feels relief flood her chest. Part of her knows this might be a risky move—letting him stay, letting him see her vulnerabilities. But she can't deny how desperate she is for someone to be there, to ensure she doesn't black out again, doesn't wake up in some horrible situation.

"I... yeah," She says, trembling a bit, "If you're okay with that."

He nods, giving her waist a gentle squeeze, "Of course. I've already mentally planned out four or five ways to incapacitate intruders, so, you know, might as well put those to good use."

She chuckles weakly, pressing her face into his chest, "You're such a dork."

"Proud of it," He replies, though she can sense the undercurrent of truth. He would incapacitate someone. He'd do it gladly for her. The knowledge is both terrifying and comforting. She's still not entirely sure how to handle that side of him—this lethal dedication that's equally a sweet gesture and a red flag. But for tonight, she chooses to find solace in it.

They part enough for him to shrug off his jacket, then together they move further into her living room. He flicks on a small lamp, bathing the space in warm, low light. The hum of the refrigerator in the adjacent kitchen underscores the hush. Nova sinks onto the couch gingerly, wincing as her bruised ribs protest. Adrian hovers over her, frowning in concern.

"I'm fine," She insists, patting the cushion beside her, "Sit," He does, carefully, and for a while they just linger in silence, the tension coiling between them in an odd blend of worry and comfort. She leans her head against his shoulder, and he tentatively rests an arm around her.

"I'm sorry," He says after a long quiet, "I'm probably overdoing it. But I can't help it."

She closes her eyes, exhaustion tugging at her.

"No. It's okay," She murmurs, letting herself relax into his side. Despite everything—her throbbing bruises, her swirling anxieties—she feels strangely calm, "I like knowing you care."

Adrian presses his lips together, nodding. He doesn't say anything, but his hand strokes lightly over her shoulder, careful not to press where she's hurt. The rain outside picks up, pattering against the window. They listen to the gentle rhythm, the hush broken only by an occasional car passing on the street.

For once, Nova feels... safe. Maybe it's fleeting, maybe it's a shaky illusion, but she clings to it. She's not alone in the darkness of her mind—Adrian's here, scanning her space for threats, locking her doors, making conspiratorial jokes about old-lady spies. And despite the bruises lacing her body, she can't help a small, grateful smile.

They sit like that until the glow of the lamp flickers with a slight power surge, and she realizes she's drifting off, half-lulled by his presence. She shifts slightly, pain twinging in her ribs. He notices, brushing a careful thumb over her cheek.

Nova drifts in and out of a doze, the television's faint glow pulsing in the dark living room. She's curled on the couch, leaning against Adrian's chest, lulled by the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The storm outside has lessened to a gentle patter, droplets tapping against the window. The small lamp on the side table bathes the space in warm, gold light, casting their overlapping shadows against the wall. Despite the bruises throbbing beneath her skin, she's strangely content—exhausted, yet calmer than she's felt in days.

Adrian rests one arm around her shoulders, fingers absently tracing circles on her sleeve. Every so often, he shifts, checking the windows or glancing at the locked door, still hyper-alert. Even though her eyes are half-closed, Nova can feel the tension radiating from him. She senses it in the tightness of his posture, the way his muscles stiffen whenever a gust of wind rattles the glass. Yet he's here, with her, and she clings to that simple fact, letting it soothe some of her anxious thoughts.

She's half-asleep when Adrian speaks, "Nova?" His voice is low, rasping.

Her eyes flicker open. "Hmm?"

He doesn't reply immediately, only tightens his arm around her. She tilts her head to look up, catching a glimpse of the turmoil in his expression—anger, concern, and something deeper she can't quite name. A current of want pulses between them, unspoken but unmistakable. Her heart gives a flutter, a reminder of how close they are physically—and how close they've grown emotionally in such a short time.

Nova sits up a little, and the movement brings a jolt of pain. She winces, hissing through her teeth. Adrian stiffens in concern, hands hovering near her like he wants to help but isn't sure how.

"You okay?" He asks, brow furrowed.

She exhales, pressing a hand over her bruised ribs.

"Yeah, just sore," She murmurs. Then, before she can lose her nerve, she leans in, capturing his lips with hers. It's impulsive, but it feels right—like an electric spark snapping in the hush of the room. She senses his surprise, feels him freeze for half a beat, then melt into the kiss, one hand sliding gently to cradle the back of her head.

The kiss deepens, messy and urgent, a clash of pent-up longing and raw relief. The fear and violence that have shadowed them fade to the background. She smells the faint soap-and-sweat scent of him, feels the racing of his heart beneath her palm. He groans softly against her mouth, the sound rumbling in his chest. It ignites something in her—something that stirs beneath the pain, overriding her lingering aches with a flood of heat.

When they pull back for breath, Adrian's eyes gleam with intensity behind his glasses.

"I—" He starts, voice rough, "I've wanted..." But instead of finishing the thought, he kisses her again, more forcefully this time, a clash of teeth and lips that sets every nerve in Nova's body alight.

They fumble on the couch, bodies tangling in the cramped space. Nova shifts onto her knees, ignoring the twinge of pain, and Adrian's hands slide to her waist, pulling her closer. The old cushions squeak beneath them. It's not graceful—nothing about them ever is—but it's real, magnetic. She finds herself gripping the hem of his shirt, tugging upward.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to yank the shirt over his head. Nova stares, momentarily breathless, at the corded muscle of his arms and chest—lean but defined. A faint blush rises in her cheeks; she'd suspected he was fit, but seeing it up close, every plane and scar, makes her pulse pound even harder. He's stronger than I realized. She loves it.

Adrian holds her gaze, the corner of his lips quirking in a self-conscious grin.

"What?" He murmurs, self-awareness flickering in his eyes.

"Nothing," She breathes, "just... you're hot," Bold words for her, but she means every one. She settles a hand on his chest, letting her palm rest against his heartbeat. He shudders slightly at her touch, exhaling a shaky laugh.

Then his hands are on her shirt, fingertips skimming the edge of the fabric. She barely has time to brace before he lifts it. For a split second, Nova forgets about her injuries, lost in the thrill of his touch—until the cool air hits her skin, and she hears his sharp intake of breath. She follows his gaze downward to the bruises that sprawl across her arms, ribs, and collarbone like dark, angry constellations.

"Jesus," Adrian grits out, voice low with fury. His eyes seethe with a sudden wave of anger, lips parting in a silent snarl, "Whoever did this..." His fists clench on the couch cushion, "I'm gonna— I swear I'll—"

He can't even articulate it fully; the rage radiates off him. Nova sees it in his face: He wants blood. And surprisingly—she doesn't hate that. Maybe she should recoil, tell him to calm down. Normally, she abhors violence. But in this moment, with her body covered in bruises and her heart still pounding from the dumpster incident, she craves his dark protectiveness. It's twisted, but it reassures her somehow.

"Adrian," She breathes, sliding a hand up to cup his cheek. She can feel the tension in his jaw, the muscle ticking as he grinds his teeth.

He slides his hands to her waist, fingers brushing the top of her jeans.

"Is this okay?" He asks, voice hushed. There's a taut undercurrent to his words, like he's barely holding himself back.

"Yeah," She says, though her bruises protest. She arches her back, letting him slip the jeans open. He does so with a slow, deliberate gentleness that contrasts the turbulent energy crackling through the air. Every small movement feels loaded, like they're teetering on the brink of losing control.

He helps peel her pants down, watching her face for signs of discomfort. She tries not to flinch as the fabric grazes her bruised hips. His gaze flickers over her body, taking in each mark, each injury, fury still simmering behind his eyes. He wants to rage on someone, she can see it. But he focuses on her instead.

When she reaches for his own waistband, he jerks the button open with an impatient yank, as though he's been waiting for this moment for far too long. She can't help the rush of heat that floods her at the sight of him. Desire pulses, overriding pain, telling her to drag him closer, to lose herself in the chaos of their bodies. But Adrian's hands return to her waist, holding her gently.

"Careful," He murmurs, voice tight, "I don't want to hurt you more." He cups the back of her head, guiding her so she's lying against the couch, her bruises supported by the cushions. His eyes burn with want—she can practically feel it radiating from him—but he tempers it, controlling his every move with painstaking caution.

Nova's breath shudders as she feels him settle his weight against her. The sofa creaks, protesting under them. Her heart hammers, a mix of desire and leftover fear. She closes her eyes, letting out a tremulous exhale when his lips brush her collarbone. Despite the raw hunger in his gaze, he's uncharacteristically gentle, as though she's porcelain. She can sense him holding back. She's almost certain he wants to unleash something harder, fiercer. But the bruises have turned him cautious, reining in what she suspects is a wilder side.

"Tell me if it hurts," He whispers. His voice cracks on the last word, betraying how desperately he wants to keep going, how fiercely he wants her. She nods, tangling her fingers in his hair, tugging him into a kiss that's slow but charged with tension.

Their breathing syncs, the soft heat of skin on skin making her head spin. Each time he shifts, a slight pang stabs her ribs, but it's overshadowed by the desire coursing through her veins. She arches into him, craving closeness. He holds her steady, swallowing back groans of need. Their bodies align, and for a moment, the world blurs to just the two of them—pain and mania forgotten, overshadowed by the pulse of raw want.

Adrian's movements are measured, almost agonizingly so. He grips her hips with gentle hands, ensuring he doesn't press too hard on any bruise. He's holding back so much, she can feel it. The tension in his arms, the quivering restraint in his thrusts. He wants to bury himself deeper, faster. She can sense it. And part of her wants that too—some primal spark urging him to lose control. But each jolt of her ribs forces them both to slow down, to be cautious. She tastes frustration on his lips, mingled with fierce adoration.

"Nova," He groans, burying his face in the crook of her neck, "I want— God, I want to—"

He breaks off, nails biting gently into her skin where he grips her. She runs trembling fingers along his shoulders in encouragement, wanting to ease that ragged edge. Her mind flickers with the knowledge: He'd do anything for me. He'd kill for me. And instead of fear, a thrill courses through her, a twisted sense of comfort that she can't quite rationalize.

She moans softly when he shifts his angle, a flush coloring her cheeks. He's careful yet unrelenting, each slow roll of his hips sending a pulse of pleasure through the haze of pain. She grips his arms, nails digging in, urging him on while wincing at the sting flaring up her side. Their rhythms turn messy—ragged breaths, whispered expletives—and the faint squeak of the couch underscores each motion.

Adrian's muscles tighten, and Nova can feel him trembling with the effort of restraint. His mouth finds hers in a searing kiss, swallowing her gasps. The heat builds and builds, a crescendo that's half ecstasy, half desperation. When they finally crest that wave together, it's a swirl of mingled relief and electricity. Her vision goes hazy with adrenaline, and she clings to him, nails scraping softly at his back.

He collapses against her, careful not to put his full weight on her bruises. Both of them breathe raggedly, hearts pounding as the tension unravels into tingling aftershocks. For a long moment, they lie there, sweat dampening their hair, the room's quiet broken only by their labored breathing.

Eventually, Adrian lifts his head, brushing aside stray strands of her hair. Concern chases the lingering satisfaction in his gaze.

"You okay?" He murmurs, eyes roving over her face, searching for any sign of pain she's not confessing.

Nova offers a shaky smile, reaching up to trace his jawline.

"Better than okay," She whispers, though her body protests with dull throbs.

The truth is, she aches everywhere, but it's tempered by a strange warmth—both physically and emotionally. She sees relief flood him as he gently kisses her forehead.

They disentangle slowly, moving carefully to avoid jostling her bruises. The couch cushions have shifted, half falling off, but they manage to pull a blanket over themselves. Adrian stays close, arms sliding around her waist in a protective gesture that warms her from the inside out.

"I meant it," He says softly, voice steel underneath the softness, "Whoever did this to you—I'll make them pay. No mercy."

Nova rests her forehead against his, eyes drifting shut. Normally, she'd rebuke any talk of violence. But right now, the idea that he'd fight for her, that he'd let the darkest part of himself off the leash to keep her safe... it soothes something wild and wounded in her own mind. She nods, letting out a slow breath.

"I know," She whispers, and a small, almost feral smile tugs at her lips, "And I think... I'm okay with that."

Adrian's eyes burn with satisfaction, an understanding passing between them that feels more potent than any vow. He kisses the corner of her mouth tenderly, then tucks her into the crook of his shoulder. The violent rain outside has subsided to a gentle tapping, as if granting them temporary peace. Nova curls against him, battered body and battered soul for once finding solace. In the hush of her dark living room, they drift toward sleep, entwined in each other's complicated warmth, the tension still pulsing just below the surface—waiting.

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