“He protected you,” Ethan said.
I nodded. The word protected warmed my chest.
“And then?”
“And then nothing. He looked at me like I was nothing. Went back to the fight like I didn’t exist.”
My chest tightened. I could still see it—the flash in Liam’s eyes, kindness—then ice.
I was nothing to him.
“Alex.” Ethan’s voice was gentle now. “Look at me.”
I didn’t want to but I did anyway.
He was watching me with those dark eyes, and something in his expression made my throat close up.
“You’re not here because of the fight,” he said.
It wasn’t a question.
I tried to hold his gaze, but I couldn’t. My eyes dropped to the floor—vintage rug, probably thrifted, geometric patterns in faded colors. Everything in this room was chosen, intentional, his. Not curated for parents or legacy or image. Just Ethan being Ethan.
God, what would that feel like?
“I can’t—“ I started, but the words caught. My hands were shaking. I pressed them against my thighs, tried to steady them. “I don’t know what to do.”
“About what?”
About everything. About the race. About my father. About the video. About the way Liam looked at me on the water, the way he destroyed me, the way he saved me tonight just to dismiss me. About the fact that I can’t breathe around him. About the fact that I’m sitting here in your room because you’re gay and safe and maybe if I—
I cut the thought off. Took another drink of water.
“I’m tired,” I said finally. “I’m so fucking tired of all of it.”
Ethan was quiet for a long moment. Then he stood, grabbed a first aid kit from his closet. Sat down beside me on the bed.
“Let me see your hand.”
I held it out. He took my wrist gently, turning my hand over to examine my knuckles. His fingers were warm. Careful. He dabbed at the dried blood with an alcohol wipe.
“This is going to sting,” he said.
It did. But I barely felt it.
I was too aware of his proximity. The warmth of his bare shoulder inches from mine. The way his hair fell forward as he bent over my hand. The faint scent of his body lotion—coconut and something else, something clean.
My chest tightened for a different reason.
No. Don’t.
But I couldn’t help it. My eyes traced the line of his collarbone, the slope of his shoulder. Smooth skin, lean muscle, a small tattoo on his ribs I’d never noticed before: a film camera, tiny and delicate.
He was beautiful. That wasn’t new information. Ethan had always been beautiful—confident and open in a way I’d never be.But right now, in the soft light of his room, with his hands gentle on mine—
Stop it.
“There,” Ethan said, applying a band-aid. “Not too bad. You’ll live.”
