Adrian pulls out a chair for her, the gesture automatic and oddly gentlemanly given the circumstances. “How are you feeling?” he asks, his usual clinical precision softened by genuine concern.
She sinks into the seat with a small sigh. “Better. Much better. Thank you all for everything.”
The simple gratitude hangs in the air, weighted with meaning beyond the words themselves. We all hover around her, unsure of the protocol for this unprecedented situation.
Is this the part where we pretend it never happened? Where we acknowledge it but agree to never speak of it again? Where we try to define whatever the hell has formed between the four of us?
Miles breaks the moment by setting a glass of water in front of her. “Hydration,” he says simply. “Important after heat.”
Elle laughs, the sound light and genuine. “Always practical, Miles.” She takes a sip, then glances between us. “You all look like you’re waiting for me to collapse or run screaming from the room. I’m fine, really. Better than fine.”
“We just want to make sure you’re comfortable,” Adrian says, taking the seat beside her. “Last night was intense.”
“It was,” she agrees, meeting his gaze directly. “And exactly what I needed. What I wanted.”
The blunt honesty is so Elle—direct, unapologetic, cutting through potential awkwardness with precision. I find myself grinning as I place a stack of pancakes in the center of the table.
“Well, I for one am starving,” I announce, breaking the last of the tension. “Heat support is hungry work.”
Elle’s laugh joins mine, and even Adrian cracks a smile. Miles shakes his head but pulls out a chair, completing our circle around the table. We fall into an easy rhythm—passing plates, pouring coffee, sharing maple syrup—that feels shockingly natural given our complicated history.
“The resort manager called while you were showering,” Adrian tells Elle as we eat. “The storm has officially passed. Roads should be clear by this afternoon.”
“And the summit?” she asks, instantly alert, the professional assistant resurfacing.
“Back on schedule for tomorrow morning,” he confirms. “We’ll need to leave by five to make the opening session.”
The reminder of our professional obligations—of the corporate world waiting outside this villa—feels like a splash of cold water.
Tomorrow, we return to being rivals. Competitors. Representatives of companies with conflicting interests. The thought sits uneasily in my stomach.
“Your presentation on the Meridian project is still scheduled for the second day,” Elle says to me, slipping seamlessly back into her efficient mode. “You’ll have time to review your notes tonight.”
“What about you?” I ask, studying her face for signs of lingering heat symptoms. “Are you going to be up for the summit?”
Her expression softens slightly. “I’ll be fine. My heats are usually intense but short-lived. By tomorrow, I’ll be back to normal.”
Normal. The word echoes strangely in my head. What is normal now? How do we navigate professional spaces after sharing something so intimate? How do I sit across from her in a conference room without remembering the taste of her on my tongue, the sound of her pleasure, the feel of her body against mine?
“We should discuss expectations,” Adrian says, reading my thoughts with unnerving accuracy. “For when we return to professional contexts.”
Elle sets down her fork, meeting each of our gazes in turn. “I don’t regret what happened,” she says firmly. “But I also recognize the complexities it creates. I think discretion would be best, for all our sakes.”
“Agreed,” Miles says immediately.
“Professional boundaries in public,” Adrian adds with a nod.
I find myself strangely reluctant to agree, though I know it’s the only sensible approach. Part of me wants to stake a claim, to let the world know that Elle Park isn’t just Adrian Cole’s perfect assistant—she’s something more complex, more fascinating, more intimately connected to all three of us than anyone could guess.
But that’s not my decision to make. It’s hers. And looking at her now—composed, clear-eyed, making choices from a place of strength rather than biological necessity—I know I’ll respect whatever boundaries she sets.
“Whatever you want, Elle,” I say finally. “We’ll follow your lead.”
Her smile is small but warm, gratitude flickering in her dark eyes. “Thank you. All of you. For everything.”
The conversation shifts to practical matters—transportation arrangements, presentation schedules, professional obligations that can no longer be ignored. But underneath the discussion of logistics runs a current of something deeper, something changed. We’re not the same four people who arrived at this villadays ago. The storm and Elle’s heat have transformed us, both individually and collectively.
As I clear the plates, watching Elle laugh at something Adrian said, seeing Miles’s quiet attention to her comfort, I’m struck by a realization that should terrify me but somehow doesn’t: I don’t mind sharing her with them.
