My name sounds different when he says it. It always has.
"I'm coming in."
No.
I flush again to make sure and scramble backward, my back hitting the edge of the bathtub, but it's too late.
The door lock splinters with a sharp crack as Adrian forces his way in.
The door swings open, and he stands still, his dark eyes scanning the bathroom before landing on me.
I pull my knees up to my chest, bracing my muscles for the inevitable strike or the disgusted screaming.
He's going to hit me, yell even.
He's going to tell me I'm disgusting and weak.
But he doesn't do any of those things.
Instead, he moves to the sink, turns on the faucet, and runs a washcloth under cool water.
I watch him as he wrings it out, the water dripping into the sink, and then he turns to me, and instead of standing over me like Maxim used to, towering and threatening, Adrian lowers himself.
He sits directly on the cold, hard bathroom tiles right beside me and dabs the wash cloth on my mouth.
"I didn't think my cooking was that bad," he says softly with a slight smile.
I look up at him, searching his face for disgust, pity, or anger, and find none of it. He’s actually trying to joke with me.
"Do you remember when Romania was playing Turkey and they put the match on the big TVs in Pia?a Sfatului?"
He looks at me and then continues.
"Yeah, and I got so drunk because I thought it would be a good idea to try absinthe, and you and Matei held me up against the wall so I could throw up." He stops and laughs. "God, I was so hungover the next morning, and you told me that true love was getting vomit on your arm and not caring because the person you care about most in this world needed you."
He looks at me and gives me that look that I've only seen in my dreams over the last year and a half.
"So, do you need me to hold your hair back or what?" he asks.
I blink, and warm tears I didn't realize were there stream down my face.
This is all wrong. He's not looking at me like I'm broken or ruined.
He's just... looking at me like I'm still his Elena.
Another wave of nausea hits, and I lurch forward, my hand gripping the edge of the toilet as I heave again.
This time, I feel his hand gently gather my hair, pulling it back and holding it away from my face.
His touch is careful, his fingers light against my scalp, and he doesn't say anything.
He just sits there holding my hair.
When I'm done, I lean backward and sit on the floor, coughing.
Adrian grabs the washcloth again then gently presses it against the back of my neck.
The coolness feels like heaven against my burning skin, and I close my eyes, tears streaming down my cheeks.