Not with my pulse still stuttering like something is hunting me.
I breathe in.
Breathe out.
Almost steady.
Almost.
Ethan’s already turned toward me.
He’s standing by the railing overlooking the lake, mug in hand, steam drifting into the warm morning air. The blanket he wrapped around himself is now tied low on his hips like a makeshift kilt, and the sun pulls gold across his shoulders, making him look carved out of calm.
His eyes skim over me once—slow, assessing, landing on the cardigan, lingering on the tremble in my fingers even though I’m trying like hell to hide it.
“You alright?” he asks.
Two words.
Soft.
Measured.
But sharp enough to cut straight through me.
“Yeah,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Fine.”
I force a shrug. Casual. Unbothered. Like I didn’t just go pale at a phone call that detonated my whole morning. Like I didn’t just crawl back into my clothes because my skin suddenly feels too exposed, too open, too easy to reach.
He doesn’t believe me.
I can see it.
But he doesn’t push.
Instead, he holds out a mug.
“Coffee.”
My hand shakes as I take the mug—just a little, just enough for the surface to ripple—but I bring it to my lips anyway, hoping the heat will ground me, hoping he doesn’t notice. He notices, of course, he does. Ethan sees everything. But instead of pushing, he chooses stillness. He stands close enough that I feel his warmth, but not so close that I feel cornered, holding that respectful, protective distance he seems to instinctively maintain.
His voice stays low and neutral. He doesn’t ask who called, or why I’m suddenly dressed like someone bracing for an earthquake. He watches me, jaw tight and expression unreadable, like he’s calculating a threat he hasn’t fully identified yet. The mug is the only thing keeping my hands from coming apart, its heat an anchor I cling to.
Around us, the lake glitters and birds chatter in the trees. It’s a perfect morning—clear, quiet, gentle. And inside my chest, everything is collapsing.
“Lucky.” His voice rumbles, gentle but anchoring. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
I swallow hard.
Coffee burns down my throat.
The cardigan suddenly feels too small, even when wrapped tight around me.
“I said I’m fine,” I whisper.
He doesn’t push.
But the silence between us shifts—heavy, aware, bracing—like he’s already preparing to catch whatever’s coming.
