Jasmine: Trigger Theory

Adam hates these functions.

Publishers, writers, pretend poets with rich parents, it’s all noise to him. Every year, the city’s wealthiest philanthropists, publishers, editors, and wannabe “literary geniuses” gather to congratulate themselves for donating scraps to a children’s literacy charity. And every year, Adam reminds himself that he needs this job.

Tonight is no different. The ballroom is huge. Crystal chandeliers, velvet drapes, a silent auction table filled with things no normal person could afford. People hover around cocktail tables, laughing too loudly, bragging about book deals no one asked them about, sipping drinks just weak enough to drown a goldfish.

Adam sticks to the edges. His suit is cheap but sharp.These people can smell non-designer fabric from a mile away, but whatever. He’s not renting a thousand-dollar tux for a two-hour schmooze-fest with people he despises.

He’s only here because Mr. Khan wanted at least one representative from this small publishing company present and Adam wants that promotion. Promotion means salary. Salary means survival.

He slides up onto a stool at the bar again.

“Gin and tonic.”

The bartender gives a sympathetic look.

“They told me to keep the pour light. Liability.”

“Of course they did,” Adam mutters. Rich people wear money but water down the alcohol—classic.

Drink in hand, he turns back toward the room just in time for someone to crash straight into him—no, onto him. A woman folds over his lap, a glass dropping from her hand and shattering on the floor.

“Watch it—” he snaps, but the words die the moment he sees her face.

Jasmine Rose.

His rival. His competition. The woman who makes him grind his teeth at work.

But right now she doesn’t look sharp or smug or infuriating.

No, something is… wrong.

Her eyelids are heavy. Her body a bit shaky. Her bronze skin looks strangely pale under the warm chandelier glow.

“Jasmine?” Adam gently grips her shoulders, steadying her before she can stumble away. He lifts her chin. Her pupils don’t track him. He glances at the broken glass at their feet.

This isn’t drunk.

This is not drunk.

“Hey—Jasmine. Hey. What happened? Did someone

“Some..thing…my drink,” she slurs, her hands weakly gripping his forearms.

Her eyes widen in terror at something over his shoulder.

Adam turns.

A tall Korean man—expensive suit, enraged expression—is storming toward them.

“You! Get away from—”

Something in Adam’s mind stutters before it snaps—an instinctive, violent, immediate surge rising in his chest. In that half second, a dozen thoughts collide—fear, recognition of danger, the memory of someone else, some place else, some time else. Then it’s gone. Rage takes over.

His fist connects with the man’s face before logic catches up.

Gasps ripple through the room.

The man staggers, clutching his face.

“What the hell—?!”

Adam grabs him by the collar and slams him against a marble column. “You drugged her, didn’t you? You sick fuck!”

“What the hell are you—” the man starts, but cuts himself off.

His eyes flick past Adam’s shoulder, landing on Jasmine, now trying to support herself by holding onto the bar.

Something shifts in his face—confusion, or maybe just surprise—but Adam only sees it as an act. A pathetic attempt to look innocent.

“Don’t you dare pretend you don’t know,” Adam snarls. “You come near her again and I’ll break more than your fucking nose.”

People are watching now—phones out, whispers spreading.

The man glances at the crowd then back over Adam’s shoulder at Jasmine, a flicker of something unreadable in his expression.

“Fine. If that is how you want it,” he mutters more to himself, or Jasmine, than the man directly in his face.

Adam releases him, and after a moment of watching Adam turn back to attend to Jasmine, who is trying—and failing—to make it to the exit, he disappears back into the now gossiping crowd.

“Hey, hey,” Adam speaks in an almost soothing tone now as he guides her to a chair, “take it easy.”

Jasmine leans forward, her fingers clumsily fumbling with the small buckle on her shoe.

“I need them…off,” she mumbles.

Adam kneels in front of her. “Alright. Let me.”

He unclasps them gently, sliding her heels off. Her feet touch the floor and she sighs, relieved, in a heavy, sleepy way.

“Better?” he asks, trying to gauge her condition, but Jasmine is looking through her purse. “What are you looking for?”

“Phone..taxi..,” her voice a bit breathier now, like she is forcing out the words.

Adam’s expression hardens.

“You’re not going anywhere alone like this,” Adam shakes his head, still stabilizing her on the chair. “You can barely stand on your own two feet. I’ll take you home.”

Her lashes flutter rapidly as her gaze seems to sweep the room. “You? You don’t…oh..,” her eyelids drop suddenly and she slumps forward into Adam’s arms.

“Shit.” He catches her before managing to grab her shoes, then scoops her up in his arms, her head falling against his shoulder. He powers through the crowd, ignoring the stares, whispers, and phone cameras.

The night air outside is crisp as he makes his way to his car. He loads her into his passenger seat, buckles her in, and starts driving, pulse still hammering.

Every few minutes he reaches over, checking her breathing. He hates this. Hates this whole night. Hates that he lost his temper.

Hates that it’s her that he lost it for.

*****

When Adam finally pulls into his driveway and kills the engine, he places her things in her lap and carries her inside. His house is small and dim—old furniture, secondhand shelves lined with home improvement and self-help books.

He lowers her onto the couch gently, propping a pillow under her head.

The sight of Jasmine lying there — still, peaceful, entirely unarmoured — hits him harder than it should. He’s seen her focused, politely smiling, indifferent, irritated, sarcastic, defensive…but never this. Never soft.

He reaches out before he can stop himself, just to brush a curl from her cheek. His fingers hover, tremble once, then he freezes.

“What the hell am I doing…” he mutters, pulling back like he’s touched a live wire.

Adam steps away from the couch. Runs a hand through his hair. Then both hands. His body feels too small for the feeling lodged under his ribs — a sudden, startling pull toward her that makes no sense.

Her. Of all people.

He paces.

He sits.

He stands again.

He checks her breathing for the fiftieth time, each rise and fall of her chest tightening something in him he wishes he didn’t feel.

Every time she shifts, his chest twists like he’s bracing for impact.

Eventually he gives up on pretending he can leave her alone and sinks onto the floor beside the couch, his back resting against it. Too wired to sleep. Too wrung out to stand.

Adam’s thoughts churn restlessly.

He can’t believe he’s actually sitting here watching over her — Jasmine Rose, the most frustrating woman at his office, the one who makes him grit his teeth in meetings, the one who seems so self-contained and untouchable. Now lying unconscious in his living room like some kind of twisted dream he didn’t ask for.

He shakes his head, trying to push back the feeling clawing at him. But he looks at her again — he can’t help it. Her face unguarded by sleep, features soft and feminine in a way he’s somehow never registered before.

He watches the gentle rise and fall of her breathing. The way her eyelashes rest like dark fans against her cheekbones. The slight part of her full lips.

He closes his eyes for a moment, almost pained by the realization:

He has never noticed how…beautiful she is.

He banishes the thought instantly, almost angrily, as though the idea itself is offensive

He refuses to acknowledge whatever is stirring in him. It feels too raw, too close to something that could break him open if he lets it.

He shifts on the floor, trying to get comfortable, failing. His eyes drift to the clock — past midnight.

Great. No sleep tonight.

Figures.

He leans back, closes his eyes, tries to clear his mind. But it keeps circling back to Jasmine.

To the weight of her soft body in his arms.

To her curls brushing his throat as he carried her.

To the warmth of her skin when he steadied her.

To the way her breath stuttered against his shoulder…

He snaps upright, bringing the thoughts to a halt.

“Don’t,” he mutters sharply at himself.

He is not doing this.

Not with her.

Not ever.

But something has settled deep in his chest, gnawing and familiar, and no amount of self-scolding pushes it out.

The hours crawl.

*****

Around 3 a.m., she makes a tiny, sleep-heavy sound — a soft exhale — and his head jerks up like he’s been yanked awake.

He watches her shift, slow and subtle, the blanket rising with her breathing.

“You’re losing it, man,” he whispers to himself, rubbing his face.

But he doesn’t move away.

Instead, he lets his head fall sideways until it rests on the couch cushion beside her hip — a position that feels both too close and not close enough.

His eyes drift shut, and for the first time in a while, his breathing finally starts to even out.

*****

The sun is barely rising when a small noise makes his eyes snap open.

Adam watches as her dark, almond-shaped eyes slowly open, blinking heavily in the early morning light.

“Hey,” he says softly. “You’re awake.”

Jasmine looks around the room, then to him on the floor.

She startles, and he quickly lifts his hands.

“Whoa, take it easy. Don’t sit up too fast—you might still be dizzy.”

She pushes herself upright anyway, too fast, and sways.

Adam jumps to his feet on instinct, bracing in case she collapses.

Her palm presses to her forehead.

“Adam? What… where am I?”

“You’re at my place,” he says. “You were… unwell. Do you remember what happened?”

“There was an argument. With my ex. I got a drink to calm down and then felt really dizzy…”

Adam nods slowly, hesitating before finishing for her.

“I think something was put into your drink.”

He pauses.

“You passed out. I didn’t know what else to do, so… I

brought you here.”

Jasmine clicks her tongue, disgust flickering through her expression.

“Gods…”

“You’re dehydrated.”

He moves to the kitchen and returns with tap water.

She accepts the glass and drinks half in one gulp.

“Thank you.”

He nods. “Headache? Nausea?”

“Both.” Her eyes scan the room. “My purse?”

He grabs it from behind the couch and hands it over before sitting in the armchair.

Jasmine opens a pill organizer and tips four different coloured pills into her palm.

Adam watches as she takes them with a sip of water, his brow creasing slightly.

“What are those?”

“Medication.”

Blunt. Closed. The Jasmine he knows.

“I have… health issues. I should’ve taken them last night.”

“Health issues,” Adam echoes.

“What health issues?”

“That’s not really your business, Adam.”

Her voice is tired but sharp as she stands.

“But thank you for… everything.”

“Hold on.” He rises too, stepping in front of her.

“You shouldn’t be walking around without something in your stomach.”

Jasmine picks up her purse and turns on her phone.

“I’m alright. Thank you.”

She moves around him toward the door, ordering a cab as she walks.

Adam frowns, following her, concern scraping under his ribs.

“You shouldn’t be out there alone. Not in your condition. You were drugged, for god’s sake.

She sighs, slipping on her shoes.

“It isn’t the first foolish thing Jacob has done. But it’ll be the last.”

Adam stops dead.

“Wait. What?”

Jasmine reaches for the door, but he grabs her arm.

“He’s done this before?”

“Adam, let go.”

His grip tightens unconsciously.

“No—not until you explain why you’re acting like this is normal.”

She glares.

“Because for women, it is. I dumped him. He got angry. He won’t get another chance.”

Adam stares at her—something silent and old and bruised opening in his chest.

He knows this.

He’s seen this.

Not her story, but the same shape of pain.

Something cold and electric crawls up his spine; his fingers go still on her arm.

“You can’t just… I mean, you shouldn’t have to…”

His voice cracks, barely audible.

“I can’t—”

He breathes hard, forces the words out.

“You deserve better.”

She blinks, taken aback by the sudden fracture in him.

Her expression softens—just a fraction, a flicker of recognition.

“Since when do you care what I deserve?” she asks quietly.

He doesn’t have an answer.

Heat climbs up his neck as he releases her.

“I just… never mind.”

They stand there in heavy silence before she finally opens the door.

“I’ll be fine. I’m just going home.”

Jasmine adds more gently, “I’ll have a friend drop by later.”

She heads for the cab waiting outside.

Adam stands in the doorway, waves of emotion tightening his throat.

“Well,” he calls out, trying to sound unaffected, “don’t expect me to be there every time you need rescuing.”

Jasmine pauses, then looks back over her shoulder.

Her expression shifts into something almost coy,

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The door shuts.

The cab drives off

Adam stands on the porch, hands twitching at his sides, watching the car until it turns the corner.

He goes inside, trying to clear his mind, trying to empty himself of everything he is feeling.

But deep down, he knows it is already too late.