My chest felt too full. Too tight. Like something was trying to break free that I’d kept buried for too long.
“Alex.”
I turned.
Ethan was standing near the equipment room. Film camera bag over his shoulder.
We looked at each other.
My stomach dropped.
The last time we’d been this close, I’d been drunk in his room. I’d kissed him after he said no. I’d pushed him down on his bed when he tried to pull away. I’d violated his trust, his boundaries, his safety.
“Hey,” I managed. My voice came out rough.
Ethan didn’t respond. Just stood there, expression flat and closed off in a way I’d never seen before.The silence stretched. Painful. Heavy with everything I’d destroyed.
“I need your help with something.” His voice was cold. Professional. Like he was talking to a stranger.
“Okay.” I couldn’t look at him directly. “What do you need?”
“The joint crew fundraiser. The one we’re planning with Riverside.” He shifted his camera bag. “I’m supposed to be organizing it.”
“Okay.”
“I have a film festival submission due in two weeks.” His tone was completely flat. No warmth. No trace of the friend who used to tease me, who used to make me laugh. “Student showcase at the indie theater downtown. If I get in, it could mean actual industry connections.”
I nodded, still not quite meeting his eyes.
“I can’t finish editing in time and pull off this mixer. I’m out of options.” He paused. “I need someone to handle the logistics. Venue coordination, sponsor outreach, team coordination.”
“You want me to—”
“I need a body.” His voice cut through. Sharp. “That’s it. I just need someone who knows both teams and can handle the administrative shit so I can focus on my actual work.”
The words hit like stones.
“I’ll do it,” I said.
“Don’t mistake this for me trusting you.” Ethan’s eyes were hard when I finally forced myself to look at him. “I don’t. But you owe me more than you can ever repay, and this is a start.”
My throat felt tight. “I know.”
I thought about what I did to him, my best friend. Shame burned through me. Hot and sick.
“I’m sorry—”
“Don’t.” He held up a hand. “I don’t want to hear it again. I’ve heard it. You texted it. I read it. It doesn’t change what you did.”
I nodded. Couldn’t speak.
“I’ll send you the details. We don’t have to interact beyond what’s necessary for coordination. You do the work. That’s it.”
“Okay.”
“And Alex?” He took a step closer. His voice dropped lower. “If you ever—and I mean ever—do something like that to anyone else, I’ll make sure everyone knows exactly what kind of person you are. Understand?”
“I understand.”
