Fake Date, Real Fate-Chapter 97: Where She Fits

ADRIEN’S POV

The first thing I notice is the weight of her on me—warm and it feel so perfectly right.

Sunlight is pouring in through the drapes that I never bothered to close, and filtering through her hair like it was made to be there. I wouldn’t trade the view for a thousand dollar painting.

She moves, just a littl, and every nerve in my body lights up. I tighten my arm so she knows she isn’t leaving unless she pull me off with a crowbar.

God, Walton, breathe.

Last night, the kitchen, the bed—hell, everywhere—I took her apart. But this...this quiet weight of her breathing on my chest is the thing that cracks something open inside me. Something I didn’t know was there, something protective and fierce and terrifyingly vulnerable. ƒгeeweɓn૦vel.com

Its not the heat of desire, it’s not the thrill of the chase, and it’s definitely not the victory of possession.

It’s... peace. A bewildering, anchoring peace I haven’t felt in years, if ever. It feels fragile like the sunlight on her hair and just as important.

My fingers wander, tracing the curve of her spine through the thin sheet.

I could stay like this forever. I want to stay like this forever.

She shifts, and my eyes slam shut instinctively. Why? I don’t know.

She shifts again, a soft sigh escaping her lips. The weight of her head on my chest is still there, but differently, more present, less surrendered.

I hold my breath, just listening. I can’t see her, but I can feel her freeze, the subtle change to her breath as she becomes aware.

What is she thinking? Is it the same bewildering peace, or is it regret? A frantic scramble to get dressed and leave? God, don’t let it be that. Don’t let this fragile, perfect moment shatter before I even get to hold it in the light.

I’ve faced boardrooms full of sharks without flinching. But this? Waiting for her next move? This terrifies me.

My body tenses instinctively, wanting to pull her closer, to anchor her here. But I force myself to remain still, a statue of sleep. It’s a ridiculous performance. She must know I’m not that deep a sleeper. But the fear of breaking this, of scaring her away with the sudden, overwhelming intensity of what I feel, is stronger than my pride.

She moves. Not away, not yet. Just her stretching a little.

Then, she lifts her head. The weight is gone, and for a terrifying second, I think she’s gone too. But then I feel the soft, warm air of her breath on my face, closer now. She’s looking at me. I can feel the heat of it before I even open my eyes.

"You’re staring again."

I know my voice is rough, still soaked in sleep, and I curse myself for ruining the silence. But the words are out, floating between us, an unwieldy gesture.

I opened an eye, just a little. I see her face, inches from mine, framed by the tangle of her hair. Her expression is... unreadable. Not regret, not fear, but something I can’t quite decipher. Curiosity, maybe? Or something softer, something more... hopeful.

she flinches—then tries to cover it with bravado.

Perfect.

****

She says she can’t move. Pride bubbles up, hot and unapologetic, in my chest. It clashes strangely with the soft peace that’s been settling there, but somehow, it fits.

I test the waters, call her bunny──the way her nose scrunches kills me, and she threatens me with a pillow. A crumpled, innocent-looking pillow from beside her head. And instead of feeling annoyed, or challenged, or anything remotely close to my usual morning-after detachment, I feel... my chest swell. Like a ridiculous, lovesick fool.

She starts spiraling. Her body, which moments ago felt like a perfect fit against mine, stiffens slightly.

The words come out in a rush, tumbling over each other, laced with an edge I haven’t heard since we first met – the professional, no-nonsense edge she uses to handle clients, not... this..

Fake relationship. PR. Contract. She asked about it.

I feel the shift the moment the words are out. The air thickens and the gentle warmth of the morning is suddenly replaced by a sharp chill.

Her eyes, which were just moments ago soft with sleep and perhaps a flicker of something else, now hold a fearful question, mirroring the one she just voiced: did I imagine everything he said? The unasked question rings louder than her spoken words.

No. Not letting that rot take root.

So I ask if she wants it spelled out

And I say it—three words that, in my world, carry more risk than any nine‑figure deal: "I love you,"

The air left my lungs, a silent, violent whoosh. Her heart was thumping wildly against the palm on my chest. It answered the frantic thumping in my own ears. She said it back. God. She said it back. The tension I’ve carried since the night we met; I almost shake with the relief of it.

And because I’m a greedy bastard, I take her again—slow enough she knows it’s worship, hard enough she remembers exactly who she belongs to. She lets out one scream; I drink it in like it is the most expensive liquor in the world.

We collapse together, our intertwining limbs sweat-soaked, lungs on fire. The silence is thick after; thick with all our cries and all the weight of the three small words we exchanged.

Then I postponed our schedule for the day. I postpone them with a single text. She is the emergency; no lie there.

Her head finds its familiar place on my chest, the same perfect fit from earlier, but now there’s no pretense of sleep. Her breathing is still shallow, ragged, matching mine. My arm aches with the effort of holding her, but I wouldn’t loosen it for a million dollars. Couldn’t loosen it. Not yet.

My fingers, still trembling slightly, settle on the damp hair from her forehead. I kiss her there, tasting the salt of her skin. It feels like sealing a vow, a chaotic, unspoken promise made in the wreckage of our carefully constructed world.

I love you.

The words replay in my head, foreign yet undeniably true. I’d throw them out like a shield, a desperate gamble against her doubt, against the cold logic of the ’fake’ relationship. And she’d caught them. Held them. Returned them.

She asks if keeping her would be so bad. A razor of fear slices through me—do not ruin this—but I mask it with a hand to her cheek, a quiet warning that once she’s truly mine I won’t hand her back.

Then Thomas knocks. Reality tapping on the door. I give him five minutes because any less would be suspicious and any more would result in him calling the paramedics.

****

I haul myself out of bed, grab a robe, throw her the spare because if I watch her walk to the bathroom naked we will not see breakfast.

"Put this on before you tempt me again. I’m hanging on by a thread, and it’s frayed."

It’s half‑true. It’s frayed, sure — but if she asked, I’d let it snap without hesitation.

I scoop her up—because I can, because she squeaks, because the sound detonates something proprietary in my chest—and head for the stairs.

"I can walk, you know."

I grunt—one syllable, that is all the consent she’s getting this morning.

She doesn’t argue further, just wraps her arms around my neck and tucks her head into my shoulder. Smartest thing she did all morning.

Each step down the staircase feels weighted, not with effort but with significance. I’m not just carrying her; I’m carrying her, into my world, past the gatekeeper of my ordinary life.

Thomas is standing at the bottom of the stairs, just like I thought he would. Standing at the entrance of the dining room, hands clasped behind his back.

He doesn’t show surprise often. Years of dealing with my particular brand of chaos has honed his stoicism to a fine art. But even Thomas has limits.

He takes one look at us – me in a slightly rumpled silk robe, her cradled in my arms wearing a robe obviously too big for her, her face a picture of charming mortification – and a flicker, a micro-expression, danced across his normally impassive face.

Not disapproval.

Something closer to... relief? Or perhaps just the quiet satisfaction of a man whose morning routine has finally been broken by something slightly more interesting than my usual solitary grumpiness.

R𝑒ad latest chapt𝒆rs at freew𝒆(b)novel.c(o)m Only