adrian

My thumb pauses mid-scroll when I see it—a photo retweeted by someone in the art department. Kiara Rossi at Isabel Chen's exhibit downtown.

I don't follow Kiara, but our circles overlap enough that her posts slip through sometimes. Same art shows, same campus events, same crowd.

So she's at the gallery where Margo's been begging me to go tonight, insisting I need to see her new photos. I've been dodging her texts for days, but now...

If Kiara's going, that means Sydney Quinn will be there. And where Sydney goes—

Blair.

I stare at my phone longer than I should, knowing this is exactly the kind of impulsive decision I usually avoid. But before I can talk myself out of it, I'm already texting Margo back.

What time does it start?

Stupid. Really stupid.

--

The moment I step inside, Margo's there, exactly as I knew she would be. Her fingers brush my forearm, lips grazing my cheek—gestures that used to mean something. Now they just feel hollow.

"You came," she said in an overly enthusiastic way, like she can't believe it. I keep my expression neutral, letting her words wash over me. Something about this event, about how she's been trying to reach me. I'm barely listening, eyes scanning the room instead.

Then I see her.

Blair Augustine, engaged in a conversation. She's wearing that subtle concentration in her features—the kind that suggests she's mentally connecting dots, piecing together fragments of information. Sydney Quinn stands beside her, eagerly waiting for her turn to talk.

"Adrian?" Margo's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Are you even listening?"

"Sorry, just..." I gesture vaguely at the place. "Taking it all in."

She follows my gaze, and I silently curse when I realize Blair's no longer where she was standing. I spot her again near a photograph in a quieter corner. Perfect.

"I need to make rounds," I tell Margo, already stepping away. She lets me go, but I can feel her eyes following me.

I find myself walking toward her before I can think better of it. She's standing alone, pretending to study a photograph that I know isn't nearly as interesting as she's making it seem. There's this nervous energy running through me as I near her, which doesn't make sense at all because I don't get nervous about approaching women. Ever.

Yet here I am.

Count to three, I tell myself. Just walk past her if you're going to be nervous about it.

But I don't.

"Fancy meeting you here," I say. A little too excited for my taste. Christ help me.

I find myself watching her instead of the photo—the way she holds herself in spaces like these, effortless and untouchable. It's not just about looking expensive or fitting in. Blair Augustine exists in these rooms like she's above them, not beneath them.

"Didn't take you for an art enthusiast."

"I'm not," she says flatly. "Just hiding."

"From?"

"People who think they need to know me."

The words hang between us like a confession. She finally turns to look at me, and for a second, I see something flash in her eyes—it could just be irritation, really. Or something else. I'm too preoccupied to think.

"Ah," I gestured to the crowd. "Should I go back then?"

Well, I really had the intention of starting a playful banter with her but she's way too serious tonight.

"Not working, Adrian."

I shift closer to her, shrinking the already small space between us. "So what brings you here if not art?"

She said it was Sydney's plan and she just tagged along to help her. Explains why she out here trying to get some air.

"And you? I'm pretty sure you're not involved in this."

You. I went here with the hope that you'd be here.

That's if I'm being honest. I don't even know why I wanted to see her again. My fixations—they can be a quite problematic.

Of course, I lied. Told her it was a last minute invitation of what I called an old friend to not make things complicated. Surely they won't meet each other tonight.

Or so I thought.

Not even a minute passed, Margo crashed in, and everything goes to hell.

"I've been looking all over for you," she says, and I can hear the possessiveness in her voice. Shit.

I watch as Blair's expression shifts, barely noticeable unless you're looking for it. The way her eyes flick between us, the slight arch of her eyebrow. She's figuring it out.

"Old friend," I cut in when Margo starts to introduce herself, but it's too late. The damage is done.

Blair's "Ah, old friend" drips with sarcasm, and something in my chest tightens. This isn't how I wanted this to go. But Margo is being Margo, turning this into exactly what I was trying to avoid.

When Blair walks away, every instinct tells me to follow her. Explain. But Margo's hand is still on my arm, and I know if I go after Blair now, Margo will never let it go. She's always been too good at reading me, and I can't give her that ammunition.

So I stand there, watching Blair disappear into the crowd, feeling like I'm losing something.

I wait for a few minutes before pulling out my phone.

Where are you?

My thumb hovers over the send button. Another stupid move. But I press it anyway.