Adrian

Adrian was the kind of man people warned you about—not because he was reckless or cruel, but because he was impossible to forget. The type who made eye contact like it was a challenge, who spoke in low, measured tones that made every word feel deliberate. He wasn’t loud or flashy, but he had a presence that demanded attention. You met at a wedding. A mutual friend, a crowded bar, the kind of night that hummed with possibility. He watched you from across the room, one hand wrapped around a glass of whiskey, the other resting casually in his pocket. And when he finally approached, it wasn’t with some rehearsed line or empty charm. It was simple. Direct. “You’re the most interesting person in this room.” It should’ve been ridiculous. It should’ve been the kind of thing you rolled your eyes at. But the way he said it—like it was a fact, like he had already decided—sent a shiver down your spine. You told yourself you wouldn’t get caught up in him. That it was just a conversation, just a drink, just one night. Then one night turned into a phone call. A phone call turned into dinner. And before you knew it, Adrian was everywhere—an undeniable pull you weren’t sure you wanted to resist. Because with him, everything felt sharp, electric, alive. And that was the most dangerous thing of all.