NATE'S POV
The alarm had gone off exactly one hour ago, but I had not moved. I lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the residue of the past night's self-loathing clinging to me like sweat. I was late. Horrifically, unprofessionally late. Every muscle in my body felt heavy, not with sleep, but with the aftermath of emotional warfare and physical collapse. I finally dragged myself up, the sight of my rumpled shirt and tie from yesterday, tossed onto the floor, a stark reminder of the control I had lost.
I made the drive to the precinct on autopilot, the morning rush hour dissolving into an irritating, meaningless drone. My head was still filled with Adrian, the weight of his hips, the heat of his breath, the shameful memory of my own breaking cry. I was formulating excuses for my tardiness, rehearsing the cold, distant professional front I planned to resume, when I was abruptly forced out of my mental haze.
