ADRIANA'S POV
I didn't sleep.
Not a second. Every time I closed my eyes I kept replaying that moment at the club when Lucas moved. The way his hand just appeared on that guy's wrist. The way he made everything stop without even raising his voice. The way he looked at me like I mattered.
It's 6 AM and I can't stay in bed anymore. My brain won't shut off. My skin feels too tight. Everything feels wrong and right at the same time.
I shower and change. The suite is quiet. I'm walking toward the kitchen thinking maybe coffee will help when I find him already awake at the dining table with a cup of black coffee and his tablet glowing in the early morning light.
He's watching security footage from last night.
I stop moving. He doesn't look up. Just keeps scrolling through clips with the kind of focus that suggests he's been doing this for hours. Not sleeping either.
I pour my own coffee carefully because suddenly everything feels too loud. The water. The mug. My own breathing. I sit across from him and the silence between us is so awkward that it almost hurts.
He glances up. Our eyes meet for half a second before he goes back to his work.
"I'm sorry," I say quietly.
Lucas sets down his tablet. Actually turns to look at me. "For what?"
"Being difficult yesterday. Fighting with you about going out. Being..." I search for the right word. "Stubborn."
He picks his coffee cup up and takes a sip. Doesn't answer right away. Just studies me over the rim like he's trying to figure out if I'm serious or if this is some kind of test.
"You're not difficult," he says finally. "You're trapped. There's a difference."
I look at my coffee because it's safer than looking at him. "Everyone in my life controls me. The label controls what I sing. Vivienne controls where I go and what I do and what I say. The sponsors control my image. The fans think they own pieces of me. I thought you were just another person adding to the list."
Lucas sets down his cup. Leans back. His gray eyes don't blink. "I'm not here to control your life, Adriana."
"Then why are you here?"
"To protect it." He leans forward slightly. "There's a difference. You want to go clubbing every night, that's your choice. But I need to know where you are and who you're with and that I can respond if something goes wrong. That's not control. That's just the job."
I think about last night. About him clearing the venue. About him removing that drunk guy without making a scene. About him being there exactly when I needed him to be.
"We can work together," he continues, "or we can fight about everything for the next six weeks. Your choice."
Six weeks on a tour bus together. The reality of it hits me all at once. Six weeks of him watching me. Six weeks of being this close to someone who makes me feel less alone for the first time in years.
"I want to work together," I hear myself say.
He nods. "Good."
He stands and walks around the table. Extends his hand. It's such a formal gesture that it would be weird except for the fact that we just had this whole conversation and something changed between us and I think we both need to mark it somehow.
I stand and take his hand.
His grip is warm. Strong. The kind of hand that's held a weapon and saved lives and now is just holding mine. For three seconds. Maybe four. Definitely longer than a normal handshake.
He doesn't let go immediately. I don't pull away immediately. We both notice. Both feel whatever this is passing between us.
Then he releases my hand and steps back.
"The tour bus arrives in four hours," he says, his voice slightly rougher than before. "Sound check is at 2 PM. You need to pack and eat something. We have a lot of moving parts today."
Back to work. Back to professional. Back to the distance he's trying so hard to maintain.
I nod because I can't trust my voice not to shake.
He's about to walk away.
"Lucas?" I call out before he closes the door.
He stops.
"Thank you. For last night. For understanding. For..." I struggle for the right words. "For seeing me."
For a second, his professional mask cracks. Just barely. Just enough that I see something underneath. Something that tells me he feels this too.
"Don't thank me yet," he says quietly. "The hard part hasn't started."
He closes the door.
And I stand alone in the suite knowing that in four hours I'm getting on a tour bus with him. Six weeks of being close to the one man I'm absolutely supposed to maintain distance from. Six weeks where every moment is going to matter more than it should.
Because that's the thing about real connections.
They don't care about contracts or managers or rules.
They just exist.
And once they do, you can't pretend they don't.