“How do you know how I take my coffee?” I ask, suspicious and grateful all at once.
He shrugs, calm, unhurried.“Saw you make it like that for yourself more than once at the shop. Figured that’s how you like it.”
“You memorized that?”
He smiles, devastatingly slow.“I remember everything when it comes to you.”
The air shifts. His eyes hold mine, steady, unguarded, and something inside me trembles. It’s too much, too warm, too intimate. I drop my gaze to the coffee, tracing the rim of the mug like it will anchor me.
“Oh,” I whisper. It’s all I can manage.
“Mia was happy to go to school in her princess car seat today,” he says after a moment, voice gentle.
I blink, guilt rising again.“I’m sorry you and your mom had to take care of her. I should’ve never had that much to drink.”
He shakes his head.“You’re allowed to have fun, Summer. And bringing that sweet girl to school was fun. Mama danced into her room to wake her up, and we sang the whole way there. She’s happy.” His smile softens.“You got to let loose a little.”
Then he reaches across the table and takes my hand. His skin is rough, warm, steady. My pulse stutters, tripping over itself.
“Everything’s okay,” he murmurs, searching my eyes.
I want to believe him. I want to live in that calm he carries. But I can’t. Not yet.
“I need to get to the coffee shop,” I say quickly, pulling my hand back.“I’m already late.”
The loss of his touch is immediate and sharp.
“Mom made some pies and cookies for you to sell,” he says, standing.“So you don’t have to worry about that.” He pulls out five big boxes, each tied neatly with twine. The smell of sugar and cinnamon fills the air.
“This is too much,” I protest.“She shouldn’t have gone through all that trouble.”
“She loved doing it,” he says, stepping closer. His voice lowers.“You know she can’t help herself when it comes to baking.”
He’s close now. I feel him before I see him, his heat, his scent, the faint rasp of his breathing. My pulse races.
Then his fingers tilt my chin, lifting my face until I meet his eyes.
“It’s okay to let people help you,” he whispers.“To let someone take care of you for a change.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back to my eyes. My breath hitches. The air between us hums with something electric, unspoken.
“Summer…” His thumb brushes over my lower lip, slow, deliberate. The world narrows to that single touch.
“No.” The word slips out, fragile and trembling. I step back, then another, the space between us sharp as a blade.“Ethan, no.”
He looks like I’ve just taken the ground out from under him.
“Why not, Summer? You know I’m crazy about you. And I’m crazy about Mia.” He rakes a hand through his hair, frustrated, helpless. A part of me melts, soft, desperate, aching to believe, but another part, the part stitched together with fear and old wounds, fights harder. It grips me by the throat, making every safe instinct scream.
I let fear command my voice, the way it has for years. Safer to wound first than risk being broken.
“I can’t,” I whisper.
“Why?” His gaze pins me in place.“Tell me why.”
If I tell him the truth, that I’m terrified he could shatter me with his kindness, I’ll fall apart right here. Because he’s everything I stopped believing I deserved.
So I let fear do the talking.
