“Right. Breathing. Good plan.”
“You okay?”
“Yep. Totally fine. Just... processing.” I gesture helplessly.
Across the shop, Paige laughs at something Brody says, the sound carrying perfectly to our table. Definitely deliberate.
“We could go somewhere else,” I offer. “If you want to?—”
“Nah.” He stretches, and his shirt stretches thin over his abs. “I’m not giving her the satisfaction of running me out of my favorite coffee spot. Plus, the light’s good for sketching.”
“Right. The light.” I fidget with my pen. “Very practical reason to stay.”
“I’m a practical guy.” But his usual easy confidence is still missing, replaced by something brittle.
We try to go back to work, but the atmosphere is different now. Ethan keeps glancing toward their table, and I keep pretending not to notice. His sketch turns darker, more violent—the armor becoming prison bars, the landscape becoming ruins.
“She called you a handful,” I blurt out, immediately regretting it.
He looks up, surprised. “What?”
“That comment about finding someone patient enough. Like you’re some kind of a burden.” The words come faster now, fueled by indignation I don’t fully understand. “Which is bullshit, by the way. You’re actually a really good student. Annoying sometimes, sure, but not a handful.”
Something in his expression shifts, softens. “Thanks, Pip.”
“I’m just saying. If anyone’s a handful, it’s her with that whole ‘I’m so cool any guy would want me’ thing she’s got going on.”
“You got all that from a two-minute interaction?”
“I’mveryperceptive. Also, she’s still watching us, so she clearly hasn’t evolved past keeping tabs on her ex.”
He glances over, catches Paige quickly looking away. A real smile finally breaks through.
“You’re right. Sheiswatching.”
“Want to make her really uncomfortable?” The question pops out before I can stop it.
“What did you have in mind?”
“I could laugh at something you say. Make it look like you’rehilarious.”
“I am hilarious.”
“Debatable, but I’m willing to pretend for the cause.”
He grins, and there he is—the real Ethan peeking through the armor. “You’d do that?”
“I mean, you’re helping me pass Creative Writing. Least I can do is help you win a breakup.”
“Is that what we’re doing?”
“Isn’t it?”
He considers this, then leans forward conspiratorially. “Okay, but you have to really sell it. Like, full body laugh. Maybe touch my arm.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Worth a shot.” He winks, and my stomach does that thing again.
