Elena's POV
There's something about New York rain that makes you feel small.
Not insignificant — just… tiny against it. Like no matter how important you think your world is, the city will drench you anyway. It doesn't care who you are, how many deadlines you've met, or how many walls you've built. The rain always finds a way in.
That night, I was still at the office long after everyone else had gone home. The sky outside had turned almost black, and the windows rattled softly with the sound of wind and water. Lightning flashed every few minutes, the light bouncing off glass and chrome until the whole floor looked ghostly.
I told myself I was just being productive.
That I'd wait for the storm to pass before heading home.
That I wasn't staying because of him.
But the truth is, I knew he was still there.
And part of me didn't want to leave.
*****
The floor was eerily quiet — the kind of quiet where you can hear the hum of the vending machine two hallways away. The scent of rain drifted in through the barely cracked window, mixing with coffee and paper and that faint, clean cologne that always lingered near his office.
I sat at my desk, hunched over quarterly reports, trying to ignore the ache in my shoulders. The city lights outside blurred through the rain, streaks of gold and white sliding down glass like liquid fire. The rest of the building was dark, except for the single lamp glowing from inside Adrian Knight's office.
I told myself he was probably on a call or finishing emails.
But deep down, I knew what that light meant.
He was still working. Just like me.
When the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall — slow, steady, deliberate — I didn't have to look up to know who it was.
"Miss Brooks."
Even after days of hearing it, his voice still did that thing to me — that strange, fluttery pull low in my chest, like my heart didn't know whether to race or stop altogether.
I turned, pretending I hadn't just been thinking about him.
He stood in the doorway, tall and still, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a folder. The harsh overhead lights were off, but the warm lamplight caught the sharp lines of his face, the loosened tie at his collar, the faint crease between his brows. He looked tired — not the kind of tired that came from lack of sleep, but the kind that came from carrying too much responsibility for too long.
"You're still here," he said quietly, his voice a mix of surprise and something else — something softer.
I nodded, forcing a small smile. "Just finishing up the quarterly files. I wanted to double-check the projections before tomorrow."
His eyes flicked briefly to the window, where rain streaked in uneven rivulets.
"It's late," he said. "And the weather's getting worse."
"I'll be fine," I replied quickly. "I'll call a cab once it slows down."
He didn't move. For a long second, he just stood there, looking at me like he was debating something internally. His expression didn't give much away, but his silence carried weight — the kind that made your pulse quicken.
Then, very quietly, he said,
"I'll drive you."
My heart stumbled.
"Oh— no, that's really not necessary, Mr. Knight. I don't want to trouble you—"
"Elena."
That stopped me cold.
The way he said my name — low, deliberate — sent a shiver through me. He rarely said it. And when he did, it felt… personal. Too personal.
He tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady. "I'm not letting you wander around the city alone in this weather. Get your things."
There was no room for argument in his tone — only quiet certainty.
And I knew better than to argue with Adrian Knight.
So, I nodded, muttering something that might've been agreement, and began gathering my papers. My pulse was doing this strange uneven rhythm that had nothing to do with the rain outside.
I told myself it was fine.
That it was just a ride.
That he was being kind. Responsible.
But deep down, I knew this wasn't just a ride.
*****
We stepped into the elevator together, and suddenly the space felt far too small. The faint buzz of the fluorescent light above us filled the silence, mingling with the sound of rain hammering against the glass walls of the building's atrium.
I kept my eyes fixed on the floor numbers as they lit up one by one. I could feel him standing behind me — close enough that the warmth of him seeped through the air, steady and grounding. The scent of his cologne — subtle, clean, something dark and expensive — wrapped around me like a whisper.
I focused on breathing evenly. On not thinking about how quiet it was.
How intimate silence can become when it's shared.
The elevator doors slid open, and the cold hit us instantly. The rain had turned wild — sheets of silver slashing through the air. Wind rushed through the glass entrance as we stepped out into the storm.
I gasped as raindrops stung my cheeks. Without a word, Adrian reached out and pulled me closer, his arm wrapping around me as he lifted his umbrella overhead. His grip was firm, his movements unhurried — all controlled precision, even in chaos.
For a moment, the rest of the city disappeared.
All I could hear was rain, thunder, and the sound of my own heartbeat.
All I could feel was the warmth of his arm against my shoulders, the way he shielded me from the storm without hesitation.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His presence said enough — calm in the middle of the downpour, solid in a world that kept shifting beneath my feet.
By the time we reached his car — a sleek black Aston parked by the curb — I was breathless. From the rain, I told myself. From the cold.
But I knew better.
*****
Inside, the world softened.
The doors shut, and suddenly everything was muffled — the rain a distant drumbeat against glass. The air smelled faintly of leather and ozone. The dashboard lights glowed soft gold, painting his hands, his face, the faint curve of his jaw.
He started the engine, the low hum filling the space between us.
For a while, neither of us said anything.
He drove like he did everything else — focused, deliberate, no wasted motion. One hand on the wheel, the other resting casually near the gearshift. Outside, the city shimmered — reflections of traffic lights sliding over wet streets, blending into a watercolor of red, blue, and amber.
I found myself stealing glances at him. At the line of his throat where his collar had loosened. At the tired crease near his eye. At the way his lashes caught the light when he blinked.
He looked… different like this. Not untouchable. Not perfect. Just human.
And that was somehow worse.
Because it made him feel closer.
"You can stop looking so tense," he said suddenly, without turning.
My head snapped forward. "I—I'm not tense—"
"You are," he said, amusement curling around the edges of his voice. "You hold your breath when you're nervous."
I blinked, caught. "You notice that?"
He glanced at me briefly, the corner of his mouth lifting. "I notice everything."
There was a warmth in his tone that hadn't been there before — not teasing exactly, but something more intimate. Like he'd just admitted to paying attention when he didn't have to.
I swallowed. "That sounds exhausting."
"Sometimes," he said. "But useful."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was charged — alive in a way words couldn't touch. I could hear the rain, the low hum of the tires on wet asphalt, the faint rhythm of his breathing.
At a red light, he turned toward me.
The glow from the streetlight outside traced his profile — sharp jawline, faint stubble, shadows beneath eyes that had seen too much for one lifetime. For once, the controlled expression slipped just enough to show weariness.
"You shouldn't work this late," he said softly. "You push yourself too hard."
I laughed quietly, though it sounded hollow. "I don't want to disappoint you."
He turned his head fully then, and something unreadable flickered in his eyes — surprise, maybe. Or something deeper.
"You couldn't," he said. "Not even if you tried."
The words hung there between us, heavier than they should have been. They felt like more than reassurance — like a confession neither of us was brave enough to name.
My chest tightened. I wanted to look away, but couldn't. His gaze held mine — steady, unflinching — and for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed down to this: his voice, his eyes, the space between us thick with everything unspoken.
The light turned green, and he finally looked away.
I exhaled shakily, realizing I'd been holding my breath again.
*****
The rest of the drive was quiet. But it wasn't the kind of silence that demanded filling. It was full — dense with meaning, with awareness. Every movement, every glance felt amplified.
When the car finally pulled up in front of my apartment building, the rain had softened to a drizzle, misting the windshield. I reached for the handle, eager and reluctant all at once.
"Elena," he said.
I turned back.
He was watching me — really watching me this time. Not as my boss. Not as the man who signed my paychecks. But as someone who saw me.
"Text me when you're inside," he said quietly. "I need to know you're safe."
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak. "I will."
He gave a small nod in return — almost imperceptible — then looked away, as though the moment had already said too much. I stepped out, the cool drizzle kissing my skin, grounding me back in the real world.
But as I walked toward my building, the echo of his voice lingered — that quiet command that didn't sound like control, but care.
I texted him when I was inside.
Home safe. Thank you.
Seconds later, my phone buzzed.
Good. Sleep, Miss Brooks.
No emojis. No extra words. Just him.
And yet, it felt like more than any goodnight I'd had in years.
*****
That night, as I lay in bed, I could still feel the warmth of his arm around me, the steady rhythm of his breath beside mine under the storm. I could still hear his voice — low, calm, threading through the thunder.
That was the night something shifted.
Not just in him.
In me.
Because Adrian Knight wasn't just my boss anymore.
He was the man whose silence spoke louder than anyone's words —
and the man whose quiet concern was starting to feel far too dangerous to ignore.
*****