Lena's pov
"Watch it !"
Too late.
The gin splashes straight across his chest. Clear liquid, crushed ice, the smell of citrus and humiliation.
"Oh my God, I'm so sorry!" I blurt, napkin in hand, trying to blot the damage.
He's tall,broad shoulders, wet hair, eyes the color of bad weather. The kind of man who never looks flustered, not even when he should. But right now, he laughs.
"Guess that's one way to introduce yourself."
"I swear I wasn't aiming," I mutter.
"Shame." His smile deepens. "Would've been impressive aim."
The bartender slides him a towel. I mumble something about dying of embarrassment while he wipes his shirt, unbothered.
"It's fine," he says. "You just saved me from finishing a terrible drink.and it's not every night a beautiful stranger baptizes me in gin."what do I owe you ?
The word beautiful catches me off guard I got a bit flustered but I quickly shaked it off
"I should be asking that," I say. "New shirt, dry-cleaning bill, emotional damages,take your pick."
He chuckles, soft and low. "Start with a drink. Gin and tonic?"
I hesitate, then nod. "Fine. But I'm picking the gin."
"Of course," he says. "You seem like you'd have opinions."
"I do," I reply, sliding back onto my stool. "Mostly bad ones."
"Good," he says, raising his glass when the drinks arrive. "So do I."
That earns a reluctant smile from me. His voice has that calm, easy gravity that draws people in. Rain beats harder against the window; the bar lights gleam off the glass like fragments of gold. Outside, the street hums softly under the downpour, everything blurred and half-forgotten.
He extends a hand. "Adrian."
"Lena."
His palm is cool against mine, firm but not insistent. The spark is instant,too quick to name, too strange to ignore.
"So, Lena," he says. "What brings you to this very fine establishment of sticky floors and watered gin?"
"New job. Long week. Poor decisions."
"Congratulations on all three."
"Thanks. You?"
He studies his glass, swirling the ice. "Habit, I guess. Sometimes silence tastes better in company."
It's a strange answer, but something in it makes me want to know more. We talk. About nothing at first,music, rain, the way people pretend not to be lonely. Each minute folds into the next until I've lost count of the drinks.
He's careful with his words, like a man who's learned that truth costs more than it's worth. Every now and then, his gaze lingers, not on my face but somewhere deeper,like he's listening to thoughts I haven't said aloud.
"You have that look," he says eventually.
"What look?"
"The one people get before they do something they'll regret."
"Maybe I like regret."
"Maybe I do too."
The words hang between us. Then his hand finds mine,lightly at first, a test. I don't pull away.
"You don't even know me," I say, but my voice betrays me.
"Maybe that's the point."
The kiss happens like a secret,sudden, inevitable. Warmth, the taste of gin and lime, a heartbeat too loud in my ears.
When it ends, he's close enough for me to feel his breath.
"Goodnight, Lena," he murmurs, voice softer now, almost kind.
I open my mouth to answer, but he's already pulling away.
By the time I blink, the stool beside me is empty.
Only his untouched drink remains,still cold, condensation sliding down the glass.
The next morning , I'd woken to the echo of rain and the faint ache of a hangover, trying to remember the stranger's voice. Adrian.
"Mum, we're late!" Sam had burst into my room before I could think too hard.
"Already?" I'd blinked at the clock. 7:43. Great start.
I'd thrown on a navy blouse, tugged my hair into something that could pass for professional, and pushed him toward the door with toast in hand. By the time I dropped him off at school, my pulse had slowed. Almost.
The city was still slick from last night's rain, the pavement glistening like melted glass. Everything smelled like coffee, exhaust, and new beginnings , and I kept telling myself that's what today was. New job. New start.
No mysterious men in bars. No distractions.
The clinic looked friendlier than I expected , pale walls, too many plants, and that sterile calm that therapists love to project. The receptionist greeted me with a cheerful wave and a visitor badge.
"You must be the new assistant. Welcome! The director will meet you shortly."
I nodded, forcing a polite smile. "Thanks. I'm,"
"Lena Rivers, right? He knows."
He knows. The words landed oddly.
I smoothed my blouse, waiting, palms damp. Somewhere beyond the hallway, a door opened.
Footsteps. Firm, unhurried.
And then,him.
Now he's all edges and distance , navy suit, composed face, not a trace of the man who kissed me in the rain.
"Good morning," he says, his voice formal. "You must be Ms. Rivers."
My mouth goes dry. "Adrian?"
The receptionist laughs. "Oh, so you've met! Dr. Shaw, this is our new admin assistant."
Dr. Shaw.
He extends a hand. The same hand that held my face hours ago.
"Welcome to Westfield Therapy Clinic," he says evenly. "I hope you find the work fulfilling."
"Th-thank you," I manage. My pulse is chaos.
He smiles , polite, practiced , then turns away. "I'll see you in the staff briefing at ten."
And just like that, he's gone down the corridor.
The receptionist leans closer, lowering her voice. "He's something, isn't he? Brilliant man. A bit distant, though. Married, poor thing. His wife's not well."
Married.
The word hits harder than it should.
I swallow. "Right. Of course."
She leads me to my desk, chatting about office schedules, but I barely hear her. All I can think about is his voice, his hands, the way he looked at me , like we were strangers and something more all at once.
When I finally sit, I glance through the glass wall into the corridor.
And for the briefest second, I see him standing there. Watching me.
Expression unreadable.
Then he turns away, disappearing behind his office door.
My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number:
We need to talk.
I stare at the screen, my hands trembling.
Behind me, the receptionist hums cheerfully, watering plants.
And somewhere down that corridor, behind that closed door, Adrian Shaw , Dr. Shaw , is waiting.
But for what?