My heart was still sowhere between my throat and the floor.
Adrien held like it was nothing—like I hadn’t just burst into the restaurant barefoot, chanting gibberish and waving my arms like a cursed interpretive dancer.
His grip was firm, warm, and utterly unyielding. I could feel the solidness of his chest against mine, the beat of his heart ──or was that mine?── beneath my palm.
The faint scent of his cologne, usually so comforting, now seed to mock , mingling with the fabric on and the lingering "ghostly" soundtrack still whispering from my pocket like a vengeful spirit with stage fright.
He didn’t say anything right away. Just looked at for a beat longer than strictly necessary, his expression unreadable as always... except for the barest twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Why was he so calm?
Why wasn’t he screaming?
Why was I not vaporizing into mist?
"Are you..." His voice was low, warm against my ear. "...possessed?"
I made a strangled noise. "Temporarily?"
Behind him, I could feel the stunned silence. Aria, sowhere off to the side, whispering a panicked prayer under her breath. Caron blinking like he couldn’t believe the show was real.
Adrien shifted slightly, pulling back just enough to free one arm and reach behind .
The chair I’d nearly face-planted into scraped softly as he pulled it out. Then, with surprising gentleness, he guided down onto it. My veil, which had slipped from my face during the disaster of an entrance, now hung loosely at my shoulders. My face was on full display. Wonderful.
"I hate everything," I mumbled under my breath as I practically collapsed into it, still tangled in fabric, my cheeks burning.
He didn’t let go right away. His hand lingered on my wrist, warm and steady, like he wasn’t entirely convinced I wouldn’t tip out of the chair too. Or maybe I was imagining that part.
Then he released , pulled up his own chair, and sat down beside .
Composed. Cold. Regal.
anwhile, I was still internally screaming.
He crossed one leg over the other, adjusted the cuff of his jacket, then looked at the table like a principal about to question two very chaotic students.
Then, smoothly:
"Would either of you like to explain what the hell this is?"
As if on cue, the Bluetooth speaker in my pocket, as if offended it hadn’t been asked to perform again, let out a faint, ghostly whisper:
"The veil grows thin... the spirits are restless..."
I wanted to die.
"I ant to turn that off," I said.
"Of course."
I reached into my pocket and violently fumbled for the off switch. The speaker let out a whine like a dying phantom and cut off with a sad little pop.
"Now," he said, his voice the definition of executive calm, "Would soone like to explain the dramatics?"
Aria tugged off her own veil like she was erging from battle. "We were trying to scare off my blind date," she said unapologetically.
Caron looked deeply offended. "You tried to curse ."
"I didn’t know it was you," she snapped. "It was supposed to be a ’he runs screaming, I eat dessert alone’ kind of evening."
Adrien arched a brow. "And the ghost?"
Aria pointed at like a dramatic lawyer in court. "She was my backup."
"Oh, thank you," I muttered under my breath.
Aria’s eyes narrowed, turning to Caron. "Wait. Why did you bring him?" She pointed at Adrien. "Why is Adrien on your blind date?"
"I brought him to scare off my blind date too," Caron replied, unfazed. "Figured no man alive would hit on with him sitting across the table."
"WE WERE BOTH TRYING TO SABOTAGE EACH OTHER’S DATES?" Aria yelped, pointing at Caron like this was a betrayal of Shakespearean proportions.
"I thought you were a cultist in a mourning gown!" Caron protested, pointing at her outfit. "You literally scread spells at !"
"They weren’t spells," Aria hissed. "They were incantations!"
My head hit the table with a groan. "This is a disaster."
"Enough," Adrien said.
He stood up with smooth precision. The room stilled again.
And then—before I could blink—he bent down, scooped into his arms like a rogue prince returning his cursed bride to the underworld, and straightened without effort.
"What are you—? Adrien!" I squird, shocked. "Put down!"
He didn’t even flinch.
"To be clear," he said calmly to the room, "you two no longer need us."
"What are you doing!?" I hissed, flailing softly. "You can’t just—carry out like a cryptid toddler—"
"Stop moving."
"Then put down!" I hissed, wriggling.
"No."
"Adrien."
He looked at , calm and maddening. "You entered barefoot, moaning about talismans. You lost the right to protest."
"Because I didn’t know you were here!"
"And now you do."
Then he turned.
And started walking.
Past the chairs, past Aria’s open mouth, past Caron’s dumbfounded blinking. The restaurant was silent except for the faint swish of chiffon and the sha dragging behind like a second train.
Aria recovered first.
"Text when you’re alive again!" she called. "And if you see any spirits, tell them I want my deposit back!"
"I am the spirit!" I shouted over Adrien’s shoulder.
Adrien didn’t even blink. "You certainly are."
As he carried out of the dining room and into the dim hallway, the lights from the chandelier caught the shimr of my cape and the muddy spots on the bottom of my gown from where I’d stepped in sothing awful near the curtain I was hiding.
"I look like a drowned banshee," I groaned. "Please don’t look at ."
He didn’t stop walking. "Too late."
"You’re going to break up with ," I muttered.
"Probably."
I smacked his arm. He didn’t flinch.
He reached the door. Nudged it open with one shoulder and stepped out into the cool night air.
Then he looked down at , that infuriatingly calm, beautiful face finally softening just a little around the eyes.
"You looked ridiculous."
"I know."
He tilted his head.
"But also terrifyingly gorgeous."
I blinked up at him.
"What?"
His expression didn’t change.
"You were barefoot and chanting about cursed tea leaves," he said. "And you still looked like sothing out of a dream."
"...You’re not mad?" I asked.
"Oh, I’m furious," he said. "But mostly impressed."
The valet, a young man with wide eyes, looked from (a dishevelled, barefoot cryptid in Adrien’s arms) to Adrien (looking like he’d just stepped out of a magazine) and back again. He fumbled with the keys. "Sir."
Adrien gave a curt nod. He maneuvered us to the passenger side, opened the door with an unnerving lack of effort, and then, with the sa gentleness he’d used with the chair, placed onto the buttery leather seat.
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