No Reason to Breathe

I slammed my fist against room 136's door, the thud echoing down the hall and rattling the picture frames on the walls. Adrian needed to answer. Now. I wasn't leaving until he did. Skipping out on his brother's rehearsal dinner to hide out in some cheap hotel? Unforgivable. Adrian could hate me all he wanted, but I wasn't letting him wreck my wedding.

"Adrian! Open the damn door!" I shouted. The dull sting in my hand barely registered as I pounded again. I could practically hear Marc's voice in my head--

Leave it alone, Rory

. But since when had I ever been good at that? Someone had to knock some sense into Adrian, and apparently, that someone was me.

"Adrian, if you don't open this door, I swear I'm going to--"

The door swung open, and my breath caught as I came face-to-face with a bare chest.

A massive bare chest.

Adrian's

bare chest.

"What?" His voice was low, flat.

My gaze drifted upward, past broad shoulders and a neck corded with muscle, until I finally reached his frown--a full foot and a half above my own. The Trovani brothers had always been known for their ridiculous height. But where Marc was tall in that lean, runner's build kind of way, Adrian...wasn't. And with nothing but a pair of sweatpants hanging low on his hips, there was no ignoring just how solid he was.

The light from the hallway threw shadows over his body, exaggerating every ridge and plane of his torso, glinting off the metal dog tags hanging from his neck. This kind of body didn't belong to real people. It belonged on statues.

For a second, all I could do was stare at him. What happened to the lanky, floppy-haired boy I'd grown up with? The man standing before me was someone else entirely. But his expression--closed off and unreadable--was all too familiar. It was all he gave me nowadays.

He braced an arm against the doorframe, his knuckles blanching with his grip. "Did you need something?" he prompted, irritation sharpening his tone. He wasn't even looking at me.

Heat flared in my cheeks, and my fury surged back. "Excuse me?" I'd expected an apology. An excuse, maybe. But definitely not this brooding, nonchalant attitude that made

me

the bad guy.

"Rory, I'm not in the mood. What do you want?"

My fists balled at my sides, anger fizzing under my skin. "You missed the rehearsal dinner," I hissed through my teeth.

He sighed, and the faintest scent of whiskey lingered on his breath. It wasn't unpleasant--not harsh or bitter--just present enough to let me know it'd been his companion for hours. His eyes flicked over me briefly, then back to the hallway as if already dismissing me. "Yeah."

My brows shot up. "

Yeah?

That's all you've got to say for yourself? You're his

best man

, Adrian. Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

His jaw ticked. "You came all this way just to yell at me? Fantastic. Mission accomplished. There's the exit." His arm swept out, gesturing toward the glowing sign at the end of the hall. He started to close the door on me, but I stuck my foot out.

"You ass!" The word burst out of me, and before I could stop myself, I shoved him, my palms smacking against his bare chest.

His body didn't budge--and the contact startled me more than him. His skin was warm and soft, sending a jolt through me that I didn't want to analyze. My hands jerked back, fingers flexing as if to rid themselves of the sensation.

Adrian looked down at me, his brow furrowing as if trying to piece together what I was after. Then, with a heavy sigh, he stepped aside, opening the door wider. I shoved past him, and he followed me in.

"You could have just called," he said, the words clipped and defensive as he latched the door behind us.

I wheeled to face him. "I did call. So did Marc. So did your entire damn

family!

" I launched myself at him, my fists pounding his chest. His muscles flexed, but he made no move to stop me, absorbing each blow with an almost indifferent expression.

"Say something!" I snarled as I hit him again--one last smack that echoed around the room.

But he remained infuriatingly silent, the only movement the slow rise and fall of his chest--controlled and even, like he was forcing himself not to react. His rich, russet eyes locked on me, but there was no warmth left in them now--no trace of the boy who'd been my best friend--just the man who'd left me behind. The war had taken so much from me.

"Why?" I demanded, out of breath. "You promised me, Adrian. You promised me you'd be there!"

Adrian sighed, his hand jumping to his scalp before falling to his side. My heart panged as I recognized the gesture, one I hadn't seen in years--his fingers used to tangle through the messy strands whenever he was frustrated. Now, there wasn't much to grab, though it wasn't as short as the last time I'd seen it. The buzzed edges had softened, the hair just long enough to fall slightly out of place.

I loved that he was growing it out again.

And I hated myself for noticing.

He turned away. Without his towering presence, the room felt vast and empty, the cold air biting at my skin. A shiver ran through me, and I wrapped my arms around my middle, silently cursing myself for not bringing a jacket.

Adrian's eyes flicked toward me, sweeping briefly down my dress before settling back on my face. "You're cold." It wasn't a question.

"I'm fine," I lied, refusing to let him see the tremors in my fingers or the goosebumps rising on my arms.

He didn't argue. Instead, he stepped closer, his arm brushing mine as he reached for the temperature gauge on the wall behind me. A second later, warm air began to spill from the vents above. But I barely noticed. His chest hovered inches from my face, radiating a heat that eclipsed the vent's feeble warmth.

I stood my ground, unwilling to move back. He didn't need to know how much he affected me--how his nearness left my pulse stumbling. Not now. Not ever.

When he pulled away, he leaned his shoulder against the wall, crossing his arms over his massive chest. The movement made the muscles in his forearms flex, and I tried--and failed--not to notice the way his skin pulled taut over the veins snaking beneath.

"You look nice," he said finally, but the sneer twisting his mouth turned the compliment into something ugly.

I glanced down at my emerald cocktail dress. It was fitted at the waist with an A-line skirt that fell just above my knees--elegant but simple. My one wedding stipulation. I hadn't cared much about the wedding dress itself--Marc's sisters had commandeered that decision, picking out a laced-sleeved, beaded-bodice monstrosity heavy enough to double as armor. But the rehearsal dress? That had been my call.

Still, his tone made me regret every inch of it. "Thanks," I said, the bite of sarcasm undercutting the word.

His brow furrowed, and for a moment, something softened in his expression, making me wonder if he recognized the similarities. If he knew why I'd chosen this dress out of everything I could have gotten.

It was a near replica of the one I'd worn to our senior prom. Back when things had been easier between us. We'd lasted all of ten minutes in that gymnasium before he'd taken my hand and pulled me out the back door to share a flask of stolen whiskey. He'd tried to teach me how to waltz in the parking lot, spinning me so hard I'd tripped. And when he'd attempted to catch me, we'd both ended up on the asphalt, laughing until tears blurred the stars.

"I mean it, Rory," he said quietly, his eyes lingering on my body in a way that made my skin prickle. "You look... You look beautiful."

The heat that rushed through me wasn't anger this time. My gaze dropped, my stomach twisting as I fought the sudden ache his words stirred.

Adrian pushed away from the wall after another minute, his steps slower than usual, heavier. My eyes trailed after him, taking in the state of the hotel room--rumpled sheets on the bed, clothes spilling out of a half-open suitcase on the floor, and bottles scattered everywhere. Jack Daniels, Crown Royal, and even an empty Johnnie Walker Blue Label perched precariously on the nightstand.

"You're drunk," I said softly. I didn't need him to confirm it; the faint sweetness of whiskey on his breath had already told me as much, but the bottles threw the night into a different light.

Adrian drank--he always had--but he didn't get drunk. Not like this. Not unless something was seriously wrong.

"Are you okay?" I padded after him, following him into the sitting area.

I didn't expect an answer. If there was a reason he was drowning his sorrows, he wasn't likely to tell me. He didn't tell me anything anymore.

He sank onto the loveseat beneath the window, the frame groaning and sagging under his weight. He reached for a bottle near his feet, lifting it lazily and holding it out to me without a word.

I shook my head. "I don't drink. Not since..." I fell silent and looked away.

He didn't know. How could he? The day he'd left had been the worst night of my life. And all the alcohol in the world hadn't been enough to drown out his absence.

I closed my eyes, but the memory of his headlights spilling across the front lawn was burned into my retinas. I'd stood in the driveway, wind whipping my hair around my face as he'd tossed his duffel into the cab. He'd gripped the truck's door like it was the only thing keeping him upright. And then he'd rushed back, his arms wrapping around me, crushing me to his chest.

He'd pulled me tighter, tighter, tighter--and then he'd let me go.

I'd snuck into his room after he'd left, climbed into his bed and pulled the covers over my head until his scent was all around me--cinnamon and oak and the clean smell of laundry detergent. I'd sobbed into his pillow, pretending for one fleeting second that he hadn't left me behind. And when that didn't work, I'd drained the bottle of vodka he'd had stashed under his bed.

Marc had found me there, curled on the floor in a puddle of my own vomit. He didn't yell. Didn't scold. Didn't even tell his parents. Just scooped me up, cleaned me off, and sat by my side until the sun rose.

"You look like you could use a drink," Adrian's voice pulled me back. When I didn't answer, he shrugged, raising the bottle to his mouth. The liquid sloshed as it spilled past his lips, a single drop dribbling down his chin.

"So...what?" I bit out, trying to shake off the lingering despair. "You decided the rehearsal wasn't mandatory and that you'd rather stay in and drink?"

Adrian's fingers clenched and unclenched around the bottle's neck. "Why are you here, Rory?" When he lifted his face, and his eyes met mine, the anger I'd been clinging to shattered, leaving me exposed.

I scrambled to rally, to latch onto the excuse I'd been repeating since I'd walked in. "You missed the dinner, and I--"

"Why. Are you. Here?" His expression didn't shift, but his eyes pinned me in place.

"Look, I don't know what your problem is. I get that you hate me, but--"

"Jesus, Rory..." he cut me off with a humorless laugh, scrubbing a hand down his face. "I don't hate you."

"You were my best friend, Adrian," I said. "And now you can barely stand to look at me. What happened to us?"

He leaned an arm across the back of the couch, too casually, but the tension in his jaw betrayed the ease he tried to project. "Things change."

I scoffed. "Yeah, I've noticed."

His tongue twisted between his teeth as his eyes dragged down my body and back up again, his gaze tight but also almost...soft.

"Fuck, I can't do this..." He looked away.

I ground my teeth together, resisting the urge to slap the words out of him. Why couldn't he just say what he meant and be done with it? "Can't do

what

, exactly?"

"I've tried, Rory." He shook his head. "Fuck, I've tried. But I'm not a martyr. And I'm done pretending."

"Pretending

what

? Adrian, what the hell are you talking about?"

He shifted forward, the bottle dangling loose between his spread knees. His mouth opened and closed, almost like he was debating whether to drop the charade and tell me the truth. "I don't know how to be your friend anymore, Rory."

My stomach plummeted. The words hit harder than any blow ever could. I knew it. I fucking

knew it

.

I'd told myself it wasn't true, that Marc was right when he said Adrian didn't hate me. But it was written all over his face. It'd been there that night at his parents' place, too--when Marc had slipped the ring onto my finger and made the announcement. Adrian had been the only one not smiling. His eyes had locked on mine, and when the congratulations started, he'd offered Marc a handshake but had swept past me like I wasn't even there.

I'd tried not to let it bother me, the fact that his had been the only hug I hadn't received--the only one I truly wanted--but I couldn't help it. And when he'd stood before dessert, kissing his mom's cheek and making some excuse, it hurt more than I'd ever admit.

He'd made it perfectly clear. I wasn't good enough for his brother. I wasn't good enough to be a part of his family. And now, I wasn't even good enough to be his friend.

"I thought..." I lifted my chin, swallowing hard. "You said you were okay...with me and Marc."

Adrian's jaw clenched, his lips pressing into a thin line before he finally spoke. "Yeah, well... Maybe that was before I knew you two were serious. I never thought you'd actually get married." His mouth curled around the word as if it left a bitter taste behind.

"So--what--it was fine while we were just dating?" My temper boiled again, burning hot in my gut. "Because as long as it wasn't serious, you could cling to the hope that he'd come to his senses and kick me to the curb?"

His nostrils flared, but he didn't look away. "He's my brother--"

"And I'm your best friend!" I shot back, my voice cracking. "At least...I used to be."

God, he was right--I needed a drink. Something to drown out this shitshow of a night.

I stomped toward him, snatched the bottle from his hand, and raised it to my lips. The whiskey's sting hit the back of my throat, and I winced, the warmth spreading through my chest and settling in my gut.

I sighed, the fight draining out of me, leaving me completely exhausted--mentally, physically, emotionally.

"If you didn't want us together, you should have said something a long time ago," I said, flopping onto the seat beside him.

"Hard to say anything when you're halfway around the world."

"Yeah, and whose fault is that?" Leaning back, I draped a forearm over my eyes. For a long while, neither of us spoke. The only sounds were the whir of the heater and the soft tick of his wristwatch.

I spun my engagement ring around and around my finger. "You promised to walk me down the aisle," I said quietly.

Dad had been diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor a year after Adrian had left. I'd tried to be strong, to hold everything together as he'd unraveled piece by piece, but it'd been hard doing it alone. By the end, he hadn't even recognized me anymore. His own daughter.

He passed two years ago, and the pain still flared when I least expected it--especially when I'd realized Dad wouldn't be there to give me away at my wedding. That's why I'd turned to Adrian. Because there was no one else I could imagine by my side. He was the closest thing I had to family now.

But he was treating me like I was nothing. An inconvenience he couldn't even be bothered with.

"Rory--" Something in his expression shifted, the stoic mask slipping, giving me a glimpse of the boy who'd been my best friend. The boy who would have shouldered the world to keep me from hurting. The boy I'd loved more than anything in the world.

"Don't," I sniffed past the lump in my throat. "Please, just don't." I turned away, hugging my arms around myself, desperate to hold it together until I could reach the safety of my car where I could break down in peace. But it was too late.

"Come here," Adrian murmured. His arm came around me, pulling me against his chest. I squeezed my eyes shut as his hand slid up my back, resting between my shoulder blades, his warmth bleeding through the fabric of my dress.

"I'm...fine," I choked out, a shaky, unconvincing lie. He didn't answer. Just held me tighter.

The first tear slipped free, then another. Silent and hot, they spilled onto his bare chest. I tried to pull away, but he didn't let me go, muscles flexing beneath my fingers as I clung to him.

He'd held me like this before. When we were eight and none of the other kids had shown up to my birthday party. When I was fifteen and my dog got hit by a car. And worst of all, when we were eighteen and he'd told me he was shipping out.

"You don't have to hide," he said quietly, his lips brushing my hair. "Not from me."

And I broke, pressing my face into his skin, breathing him in, letting the tears fall as I clutched him tighter. He didn't shush me or tell me it would be okay like Marc did. He just sat with me, holding me, riding it out alongside me.

But I didn't want to cry. I didn't want to be comforted--I wanted to be angry. Angry at him. For skipping the rehearsal dinner. For leaving when I'd begged him to stay. For coming back after I'd spent years teaching myself how to live without him. For making me wonder if I was about to make the biggest mistake of my life.

When I hiccupped through a sob, his hand slid to the back of my head. Slowly, his fingers found the pins holding my hair in place, plucking them free one by one. The knot I'd meticulously twisted unraveled, the loose auburn strands falling down my back and spilling across his chest. His fingers sifted through the silky waves, and I shivered under the gentleness of it.

"I always loved your hair like this," he said, his thumb stroking along a strand that rested across his heart. "Down. Free."

The alcohol was working its way through me now, softening everything I was feeling. Warmth bloomed in my chest, curled in my limbs, quieted the noise in my head. I closed my eyes, letting the steady rise and fall of his chest and the soothing motion of his hands lull me into a peace I hadn't felt in years. Not since we were kids and his presence had been as constant as the sun rising.

I'd missed him. God, I'd missed him.

I felt like I was sixteen again, sneaking out after curfew to sit in the bed of his truck, watching the meteor shower with my head on his shoulder, his arm around me and the smell of cinnamon and oak making butterflies dance in my stomach.

"I'm sorry," he said, his voice rumbling through his chest. His hand lingered on my knee, his thumb brushing softly over my skin. He pressed his nose to my hair, inhaling deeply. And then he said it--the words I'd never thought I'd hear. "I never should have left."

I pulled away, and this time, he released me. My heart thudded against my ribs as I looked up at him.

"I'm sorry, Rory," he said again. "I should have listened when you asked me not to go. I should have never... Fuck."

He dropped his head into his hands. The tags clinked softly as they dangled from his neck, and I caught a flash of something else threaded through the chain--something silver that wasn't part of the standard-issue set.

I'd imagined this apology a thousand times. Dreamed of this confrontation I'd been too much of a coward to demand ever since he'd shown up at my apartment still dressed in his fatigues, his duffel slung over one shoulder as if he'd come straight to me after getting off the plane. The look of pure joy that had lit his face when I opened the door had melted my heart.

But then Marc had stepped behind me, his hand slipping to my lower back, and everything in Adrian's expression had crumbled. The warmth, the light--all of it had drained, leaving behind a cold mask of indifference. I hadn't seen him smile since.