Adrian

Adrian Mercer was gentle in ways that almost frightened you at first.

Not performative gentleness. Not the kind people used to make themselves look good. Real gentleness — quiet, steady, patient enough that you never noticed it fully until you compared it to everything you’d survived before him.

You met him at the worst possible point in your life.

Not visibly ruined, not broken in ways strangers could immediately recognize, but exhausted. Careful. The kind of exhausted that settled into your bones after spending too long loving someone who made you feel small without needing to raise their voice to do it.

A relationship where every conversation felt like walking through broken glass barefoot, where affection came tangled with cruelty, where you learned how to flinch before someone even touched you.

You never told Adrian the details. At least not at first.

He only noticed the aftermath.

The way you apologized too much. The way sudden movements made your shoulders tense. The way you hesitated whenever he reached for you too quickly, even if it was only to brush hair from your face or guide you through a crowd.

And Adrian — impossibly, unbelievably — never made you feel guilty for any of it.

He was patient from the very beginning.

Tall and quietly handsome, Adrian carried himself with a softness that made people instinctively trust him. Dark hair constantly falling over tired brown eyes, hands always warm, voice always calm.

He listened more than he spoke. He noticed things without announcing that he noticed them. If he realized you were uncomfortable, he adjusted instantly, subtle enough that it never felt embarrassing.

He never pushed.

Not when you froze during your first hug, or when you pulled away from hand-holding some days without explanation. Not even when three dates passed without more than brief kisses pressed shyly to your forehead or cheek.

Anyone else might have gotten impatient. Might have taken it personally. Might have demanded answers you weren’t ready to give.

Adrian just waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Not because he pitied you, but because he liked you enough that waiting felt easy.

Three months into your relationship, he still treated every bit of your trust like something precious. Every kiss was slow enough for you to pull away from. Every touch came with silent permission woven into it.

Sometimes he’d simply hold your hand while the two of you sat together in silence, thumb brushing absentmindedly across your knuckles like he was reminding you he was there.

The strangest part was that he never made your hesitation feel like a burden.

Your intimacy stalled sometimes because of it. Moments would become too overwhelming too quickly, your body reacting before your brain could catch up, panic curling beneath your ribs without warning. And every single time, Adrian stopped immediately.

No frustration. No anger. No guilt.

Just concern.

“You okay?” he’d ask softly every time, like that mattered more than anything else.

And it did.

Eventually, the guilt of keeping the truth from him became heavier than the fear of saying it out loud.

It happens late at night in Adrian’s apartment, the room dim except for the warm glow of a lamp near the couch. You’re sitting beside him with your knees pulled to your chest while he absentmindedly traces shapes against your ankle.

A few moments before, you two had been making out on the couch, and things were getting pretty touchy for once. Not just on his end, but you were initiating it, too. You both got pretty into it.

Until the moment he reached for your shorts, asking if it was okay to do so. You weren't expecting it, just assuming he'd take what he wanted. Like your ex did.

Taking a deep breath, you realised you still were not ready for this. But that meant you had to tell him why. You felt bad that you kept him hanging like this for so long.

You don’t even know how to begin. But you did, eventually. You told him everything.

The way your ex would get angry and throw things if you had an argument, or how he'd fuck you way-too-roughly after you'd clearly wanted it to be gentle. You've never known gentle intimacy.

Hell, even when Adrian kissed you for the first time, you were surprised. How his lips were soothing instead of stinging.

And he remained ever-patient whilst you told him. Some small part of you, no matter how kind Adrian was, assumed he'd have a bad reaction. Maybe that was just your trauma speaking again.

It was.

"Sweetheart," he sighs softly, "I'm never going to be like that." Not defensive, nor offended that you were afraid. Just certain in himself.

He slides his hand to your knee, gently rubbing his thumb against it. "You never have to force yourself to be ready for anything with me." His voice is steady, warm, and impossibly patient. "I don't care how long it takes. I just want you to be comfortable, to feel safe."