Not with a psycho stalker, maybe already in the damn state.
This isn’t a lake house anymore.
It’s a luxury cage.
I wrap both hands around my mug, grounding myself.
Yesterday, Ethan stayed up wiring the entire house like a man possessed — even after he admitted how he feels about me. Even after what we did. Even after we tore each other apart and held each other together in the same breath.
And that should terrify me.
But it doesn’t.
I still feel the echo of last night on my skin — his hands, his mouth, the way he looked at me like I was something worth breaking his rules for.
No one’s ever… chosen me like that.
Not for fame.
Not for money.
Not for the machine.
Just… me.
A strange, warm ache blooms under my ribs. Hope. Or something like it.
I glance toward the stairs.
Ethan’s usually up at dawn doing something — chopping wood, fixing his deck, yelling at deer, I don’t know. Sunrise seems afraid to rise before he does.
But last night?
I wrecked him.
In the best way.
He was exhausted. He might sleep until noon. Rockstar hours by accident.
And me?
My fingers tap the counter.
Another melody flashes through my mind — soft, raw, nothing like Rebel June. Something about a woman trying to find herself again.
The ache in my chest sharpens.
Before the inspiration slips away, I grab my notebook again and reach for my guitar.
The words come easily.
And, silence doesn’t hurt.
For once… I feel like I might become someone new. Someone real.
Lucky Vale.
Not the product.
