Elena's POV
You know that kind of exhaustion that clings to you like a second skin?
The kind that makes even breathing feel like effort — like your own body is quietly rebelling against you?
That was me.
Sometime after that stormy night Adrian drove me home, I told myself everything was fine. I'd thanked him, smiled politely, and convinced myself that whatever had passed between us in that car — that quiet, unspoken pull — was nothing more than fatigue and poor lighting.
But deep down, I knew something had shifted.
And maybe that's why I pushed myself harder the next day — buried in work, desperate to prove that I was still the same Elena Brooks who didn't get distracted by her boss's voice, or the way his eyes softened when he said her name.
Except I wasn't.
By late evening, the office had emptied out, the last of the lights dimmed. My screen blurred before my eyes, words melting into static. My temples throbbed with a dull ache. I'd been living on caffeine, adrenaline, and the quiet terror of disappointing Adrian Knight.
When I finally made it home, every bone in my body protested. My throat burned, my head spun, and my skin felt too hot for comfort. Still, I told myself it was fine. Just fatigue. Just a cold. Just one more night, and I'd rest tomorrow.
But tomorrow never came.
When I woke again, it was dark outside — the kind of deep, city darkness that pressed against your windows even when the lights still glowed. My phone buzzed insistently on the nightstand, the sound muffled by the pounding in my head.
I blinked blearily at the screen.
Mr. Knight.
My stomach flipped. I tried to sit up, to sound normal, but my body felt like wet cement. Still, I swiped to answer.
"Hello?" My voice came out rough, barely there.
There was a pause on the other end — a silence so sharp it made me more awake than any coffee ever had.
"You sound terrible." His voice was lower than usual, quieter, threaded with something I'd never heard from him before. "Where are you?"
"At home," I murmured, trying to steady my voice. "Just a little under the weather. I'll be fine."
"Elena." The way he said my name — calm, firm, but laced with concern — made something in my chest twist. "You should have told me."
I let out a weak laugh that turned into a cough. "I didn't think catching a cold was a company-wide emergency."
He didn't laugh. He didn't even answer right away. I could hear him exhale softly, the faint rustle of papers in the background.
"I'm coming over."
My brain froze. "Wait— what? No, Mr. Knight, that's not—"
The line went dead.
For a moment, I just stared at the phone, blinking, trying to convince myself I'd imagined it. There was no way Adrian Knight — CEO of Knight Industries, man who terrified half the board with a single glance — was about to show up at my apartment.
But thirty minutes later, there was a knock on my door.
Soft, steady. Certain.
I opened it slowly, and there he was.
Adrian Knight, in a dark coat still glistening from rain, his usually perfect hair slightly damp, his expression unreadable. One hand held a small paper bag. The scent of rain and expensive cologne filled the narrow hallway, curling around me like something tangible.
He looked impossibly out of place — too refined, too controlled for this tiny apartment with its flickering lights and cluttered bookshelves. I suddenly became painfully aware of my oversized sweatshirt, the mess of blankets on the couch, the pile of tea mugs in the sink.
"I told you I was fine," I murmured, leaning weakly against the doorframe.
"You look like you can barely stand." His eyes swept over me, clinical but not cold — the kind of gaze that noticed everything and missed nothing. "You shouldn't be alone like this."
Before I could protest, he stepped past me, moving into my space like it belonged to him. He placed the bag on the counter, then took off his coat, rolling up his sleeves with deliberate calm.
I blinked at the sight of painkillers, soup, and bottled water. "You… brought all this?"
He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he turned on the stove, poured the soup into a pan, and stirred like it was second nature.
"I had the driver stop by a 24-hour pharmacy," he said finally, his tone even. "You're no use to me sick."
The words were sharp, but the edges were softened by the quiet care behind them. I watched him — this man who commanded boardrooms and headlines — standing in my kitchen under flickering yellow light, sleeves rolled up, steam rising from the pot.
Something about it felt… unreal.
When he brought the bowl to me, I was still staring.
He crouched in front of the couch, setting it on the coffee table. "Eat."
I tried to lift the spoon, but my hands shook too much.
Without a word, he took it from me — movements precise, unhurried — and offered it again, steady between his fingers.
"Mr. Knight—"
"Adrian," he said quietly, eyes meeting mine. "Just for tonight."
My breath caught.
I could feel the heat of the soup, the warmth of his hand so close to mine, the steady rhythm of his breathing in the still air. Each spoonful felt more intimate than words.
Halfway through, I tried to protest. "You really don't have to—"
"I want to," he said softly, cutting me off. "Just this once, let me take care of you."
Something inside me trembled at that.
Because it wasn't the words — it was the way he said them. Like he wasn't used to offering softness, but for me, he'd make an exception.
When I'd eaten enough, he set the bowl aside and helped me up, guiding me toward my bed with a hand at my back. His touch was light, careful — like he was afraid I'd break if he pressed too hard.
"Adrian, really—"
"Elena," he said, and that was enough to silence me.
He helped me sit, then tucked the blanket around me, his fingers brushing against my wrist. The contact was electric — subtle, but enough to make my pulse skip.
"You shouldn't push yourself so hard," he murmured. "You don't have to prove anything to me."
My throat tightened. "I just… don't want to disappoint you."
His hand stilled for a heartbeat. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, almost rough.
"You couldn't. Even if you tried."
I looked up, meeting his eyes — those calm, storm-grey eyes that never revealed more than he intended. But tonight, they looked different. Softer. Human.
For a long moment, neither of us spoke. The room was filled only with the faint hum of rain outside and the distant city sounds below.
And then, without another word, he reached out — brushing a few loose strands of hair from my forehead. His touch lingered just a little too long, and my heart ached with something I couldn't name.
He stayed while I drifted off.
I could sense him nearby — sitting in the chair beside my bed, checking his phone occasionally, exhaling softly every now and then. The quiet presence of him was strangely comforting.
Half asleep, I felt his fingers graze my hair once more — so lightly that I almost thought I'd dreamed it. But I knew I hadn't.
It was a gesture that didn't belong to my boss.
It belonged to a man who cared more than he wanted to admit.
When morning came, sunlight slipped through the curtains, soft and golden. My fever had broken, and the chair beside my bed was empty.
For a moment, I wondered if I'd imagined everything — the soup, the touch, the quiet warmth of him in my apartment. But then I saw the note on the nightstand.
Written in his sharp, deliberate handwriting:
|| "Rest. Don't come in until you're better."
— A.K. ||
Next to it sat a bottle of water and a blister pack of medicine.
I traced my finger over the initials, smiling despite the ache in my chest.
Because for the first time since coming to New York — since stepping into his world of polished glass offices and impossible expectations — I didn't feel like an assistant struggling to survive.
I felt… seen.
And that scared me more than anything.
Because once you realize someone like Adrian Knight sees you — really sees you — you can never go back to being invisible.
*****