"You asked me to."
"You didn't have to listen."
I stand, crossing to him. "How's your patient?"
"Better. It was touch and go for a while, but she's stable now."
"That's good."
He nods, then seems to notice the wine glass in my hand. "You found the wine."
"And the pasta. Thank you."
"You're welcome." He moves past me into the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water. "Have you eaten today? Besides the pasta, I mean."
"I had a salad for lunch."
"That's not enough."
"Ethan—"
"Humor me." He opens the fridge, pulling out ingredients. "I'm going to make us something quick. You can tell me about your day."
I should protest. Tell him he's tired, that he should rest.
Instead, I climb onto one of the bar stools and watch him work.
There's something mesmerizing about the way he moves in the kitchen. Confident but unhurried. Like he finds peace in the routine of it. I’ve heard of people who find comfort in making meals. Those people, like runners, confuse me. I find enjoyment in neither activity. If you ever find me running, make sure you catch up, because something scary is chasing me.
"The necklace is coming along beautifully," I tell him. "The jeweler sent photos. Your mom is going to cry."
"She cries at everything," Ethan says with a smile. "But I hope so."
"The book is confirmed. Marcus got Lydia Hartley to sign her newest release. Claire is going to lose her mind."
"You're amazing."
The compliment settles over me like sunshine.
"I'm just doing my job."
"You're doing more than that." He sets a plate of bruschetta in front of me. Fresh tomatoes, basil, garlic on toasted bread with a drizzle of balsamic vinegar. "You're making magic happen."
I bite into the bruschetta and nearly moan. "How are you this good at everything?"
"Years of practice mixed with focus and caring about the outcome." His eyes meet mine. "The sam way you approach your work."
"I don't think I'm anywhere near your level."
"You're wrong." He comes around the counter, standing close enough that I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. "You're talented, Lily. Just in the few days I’ve known you, I’ve seen how hardworking and creative you are. You pay a lot of attention to detail and put pride into your work. Don't sell yourself short."
My throat feels tight. "Why do you care so much? You barely know me."
His hand lifts, fingers brushing a strand of hair away from my face. The touch is gentle. Deliberate. "Because you deserve to be seen."
I can't breathe.
Can't think.
