We sit in silence on the steps of her porch. And the pull between us — the unspoken almost-kiss from earlier, the warmth, the tension — hums quietly beneath it all.
I glance at her. She’s looking back, that subtle mixture of curiosity and challenge in her eyes, like she’s daring me to let the walls down even further. And I think, for the first time in forever, I might just want to.
The quiet settles around us like a soft cloak. The drizzle has slowed to a mist, and the air smells of wet earth and pine, sharp and clean. I notice her breathing has evened out slightly, though her eyes are still bright with unsaid questions.
“You’ve never really… let anyone in, have you?” she asks, voice low, probing. Not teasing this time. Serious.
I pause, kicking at a stone absentmindedly. “No,” I admit, curtly, almost defensively. “Not since… her.”
Lucky’s gaze softens, and she doesn’t push. Just watches. That’s enough to make me shift, just a little, to open the cracks I keep buried.
“I—” I start, throat tight. “I don’t… I don’t know how. I’ve spent years… controlling everything, guarding everyone I care about. And sometimes I forget that letting someone in doesn’t mean losing them.”
She tilts her head. “You mean… losing you.”
I look at her, startled at how accurate that is. “Maybe. Losing me… or letting anyone see what’s really inside me. I’ve… I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”
She doesn’t flinch at my words, doesn’t judge. She’s steady. Alive. Dangerous in her calm, because she sees me. And I feel it — for the first time in years — someone really sees me.
“You’re… human,” she says softly, and I feel it like a pulse in my chest. “Broken and hurt and… still standing. And you don’t have to hide it from me.”
I swallow. The words I want to say choke in my throat, the ones I shouldn’t. She’s right here, sitting beside me, her hand brushing mine occasionally, cautious, like she’s testing the pull.
“I was supposed to protect her,” I mutter finally, voice low, rough. “Mara. I failed. And Lily… I’ve carried it. All of it. The guilt. The anger. The regret. Everything.”
She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t avert her gaze. Just lets me speak, lets me lay myself bare without comment or interruption. Her quiet acceptance is heavier than any reprimand, stronger than any shield I’ve built.
“You’re not just a soldier,” she says softly. “You’re a man who’s lost, who’s hurt, but who’s… still here. And you still fight. Even if it’s just to survive.”
I glance at her, something flickering behind my eyes that I usually hide. Appreciation, awe, a dangerous pull I don’t trust. “You… make it sound easier than it is.”
She smirks faintly. “Maybe I like making things harder for you,” she teases lightly, but her eyes soften again. “I don’t know why I care, but I do. About you.”
Something in my chest twists. I want to tell her to stop. To run. To stay away. But I don’t. Because I want to feel this, dangerous as it is.
For the first time, I let myself slow, let the wall between us thin. Her hand brushes mine again, a whisper of touch, and I don’t pull away. The tension hums between us, fragile and electric.
I look down at her, and I see it — the way she sees me. Not the soldier. Not the father. Not the controlled man who keeps it all together. But me. Just Ethan. Broken. Guarded. Alive.
And in that moment, sitting under the awning that protects us from the misty sky, I realize I don’t want to hide from her anymore.
Not entirely.
Not now.
I glance at her again, catching the faintest shiver in her smile, and I know the truth. She’s a slow burn I shouldn't touch.
“You make it… easier to breathe,” I admit softly, surprising even myself. “Even when I don’t deserve it.”
Her gaze lifts, soft and steady, and for a moment, everything else — the storm, the guilt, the world — falls away. There’s just her, just me, just the quiet intimacy that has nothing to do with touch and everything to do with seeing us, messy, impossible. But I want her. And maybe… maybe she wants me too.
She leans slightly closer, and I don’t pull away. I shouldn’t. I want to. My entire body hums with the possibility, with the danger, with the warmth of letting someone in after years of shutting everyone out.
But then she tilts her head, eyes meeting mine, and I see it — understanding, patience, challenge. The quiet acknowledgment that we’re standing on the edge of something neither of us has dared to name yet.
And I let myself stay there, on the porch steps, with her, in the damp night air, letting the tension, the pull, the intimacy, settle between us.
The night hums around us, the silence alive and full, and for the first time in years, I let myself stay here, so close, open, and seen, without retreating.
