The days blurred together.
Late-night phone calls with Ethan had become her lifeline—equal parts comfort and chaos. She'd lie in the dark, whispering to each other like kids at a sleepover, pretending the rest of the world didn't exist. Sometimes they talked about nothing, sometimes about everything. And sometimes, the silence said more than either of them could.
Her mother teased her endlessly for it.
Vanessa would try to sneak off, hiding under the covers with her phone pressed to her cheek, whispering like she was twelve again. And inevitably, her mother would call out from somewhere in the house, "Tell Ethan I said goodnight, lovebird!" loud enough for the whole block to hear.
The mortification was endless. So was the grin she couldn't suppress.
There were stolen moments too—the ones that existed between training sessions and lingering goodbyes. The kind of moments that left her breathless, flushed, and not always from sparring. Ethan had this maddening ability to dismantle her guard with one sly smirk or a well-placed comment. Verbal teasing had become another kind of battle—one she always almost won, but never quite. His voice still lingered in her ears after he left, like phantom fingers tracing the curve of her spine.
But even that delicious haze of intimacy began to thin when reality came knocking.
College application season had arrived. And with it, an inevitable sense of dread.
Vanessa had never been the type to dream about universities. Ivy Leagues, dorm parties, high-end internships—that was someone else's movie, not hers. She wasn't a prodigy like Ethan. Hell, she wasn't even an honor student. She was lucky if she could string together a semester without wanting to punch at least one textbook.
Her transcript was… fine. Just fine. Not a disaster anymore, thanks to some much-needed hard work, late-night studying, and the occasional help from Ethan that usually started with, "You're smarter than you let yourself believe, now get started on this question" and ended with her threatening to kick him if he didn't stop being so annoyingly right.
So when college acceptance emails started rolling in for her classmates, Vanessa stayed quiet. She didn't hover by her inbox. Didn't refresh the college portal every five minutes like some of her friends were doing. She prepared herself for the worst—expecting rejection, indifference, maybe a polite no wrapped in bureaucratic fluff.
And then it came.
Not a rejection. Not a maybe.
She got in.
Community college.
She stared at the screen for a long time. The words felt surreal. Not just an acceptance—but a scholarship. Fifty percent.
Vanessa blinked, rubbed her eyes, and read it again. And then again. Just to be sure.
She wasn't imagining it.
Her GPA had scraped itself together just enough. Her year-long grind had paid off. And her state-level karate championship—something she'd fought tooth and nail for—had tipped the scale. Her efforts hadn't been wasted. Her parents wouldn't have to drown in debt. She wouldn't have to watch their faces fall with that particular brand of parental disappointment.
She had done it.
She was enough.
When she told them, her mother's face crumpled almost instantly—eyes glassing over before Vanessa could even get the full sentence out.
Then came the hug. That hug.
Her mother pulled her in so tightly it felt like she was trying to press their hearts together. Vanessa could barely breathe, but she didn't care. She didn't want to. That embrace was oxygen.
Her father, ever the stoic type, just ruffled her hair with a gruff grunt of approval that somehow meant everything. It wasn't just acceptance. It was pride. His pride in her.
She tucked it away like a treasure, held it tight where no one else could reach.
No, it wasn't a flashy school. No, there wouldn't be ivy on the buildings or secret societies. But it was hers. She had earned it. And for once, Vanessa let herself feel proud—not in comparison to anyone else, just for her.
Then came the news about Ethan.
It shouldn't have shaken her. She knew he would get in. He was… Ethan. Quietly brilliant, maddeningly focused, and just too good at everything he touched. He didn't gloat, never made a big show of his intelligence, but Vanessa had seen it in the way teachers spoke to him. In the way he always seemed five steps ahead—like his brain worked in angles and variables that the rest of them couldn't quite see.
So yeah. She'd known.
But when the text came—just one simple line, "Caltech."—her world slowed.
She was sitting on the couch, legs folded under her, phone still in hand, when the gravity hit her.
Caltech.
Not just any school.
The school. The top tier. Elite of the elite.
Her heart pounded. Not out of jealousy or insecurity—but something harder to name. Something deeper.
It's here. Close by. He Won't have to go far.
Vanessa's fingers slackened around the phone, but she didn't drop it. She just stared, unblinking, as a slow, ridiculous smile crept across her lips.
He wasn't going anywhere.
He'd be here. Within reach. Within her reach.
They weren't going to be torn apart by some cruel twist of fate. She wouldn't have to stand at a airport terminal and wave him away. Wouldn't have to pretend she was okay watching him disappear into a future she didn't get to be part of.
He was staying.
Her heart swelled so fast it hurt a little.
And that's when she heard it—"Alright, what's got you smiling like that?"
Her mother's voice shattered the bubble. Vanessa flinched, eyes wide, guilty grin still stuck to her face like a stubborn sticker. She turned too slowly, already caught.
Her mom leaned against the counter, arms folded, that familiar oh, honey look plastered across her features. "That's the look of a girl who just heard from her boyfriend."
Vanessa rolled her eyes, trying to salvage some shred of cool. "Ethan got into Caltech."
Her mother's eyebrow arched. "That's great. And that has you grinning like you just won the lottery?"
She needed to get better at hiding her reactions.
Vanessa slumped against the counter, feigning nonchalance. "It just means he'll still be around, that's all."
But even she didn't buy that line.
Her mother smirked wider. "Oh, sweetheart, you really don't hear yourself, do you?"
Vanessa groaned and reached for her water bottle like it could save her, taking a long, unnecessary sip just to hide her burning ears.
But her mother wasn't done.
"Are you sure that's all it means? Because if I didn't know any better, I'd say you're practically glowing."
Vanessa choked mid-sip, coughing as water went down the wrong pipe. Her mother laughed—a full, delighted, utterly merciless laugh that echoed through the kitchen.
Vanessa slammed the bottle down. "I'm not glowing."
"Sweetie, you're sparkling."
Vanessa buried her face in her hands. "I hate everything."
Her mother just chuckled and turned back to the stove, humming like she hadn't just upended Vanessa's internal stability.
But the moment her back was turned, the smile returned.
Quieter. Gentler. Not something she was performing for anyone else.
She thought about him.
About how much had changed since he had dodged her punches. About how many nights they'd talked until the sun rose. About how he never looked at her like she had to prove herself. About how safe she felt wrapped in his arms, how alive she felt when he pushed her—physically, mentally, emotionally. How he never backed down. Never let her shrink.
And now they were both staying.
Different schools. Different schedules. But the same city.
And yet…
A chill crept in, one she didn't expect.
What happens after high school?
What happens when the safety net of structure and routine and shared hallways disappears?
Would Ethan still carve out space for her in that high-stakes, hypercompetitive world he was heading into?
Would she still feel like enough?
She wasn't scared he'd leave her. Not exactly.
She was scared that life would.
That they'd drift, not out of desire, but out of inevitability. That the spaces between them would widen, not because they chose to walk away—but because sometimes, the world just… pulls.
She pressed a palm to her chest, grounding herself.
They weren't there yet.
But the future had stopped being an idea and started becoming a presence. Real. Inescapable. And coming faster than either of them could stop.
Ethan had been invited to dinner at Vanessa's house to celebrate his acceptance into Caltech.
It should have been a simple evening. A celebration. A moment of normalcy before the chaos of graduation and goodbyes. Vanessa had even felt a little excited. Nervous, maybe—but in the kind of way that made her dress with more care, linger a second longer in the mirror. Her mother had cooked Ethan's favorite—chicken cacciatore, with garlic bread and that rice dish he always pretended not to like but devoured anyway.
It was supposed to be a good night.
And it was.
Right up until Ethan opened his damn mouth and detonated a bomb over her entire existence.
"Oh, that's convenient," he said, so casually, so offhand, as if the words didn't carry a thousand consequences. He took a sip of his drink and added, "The community college Vanessa's going to? It's just a five-minute walk from my house."
Silence.
Not a pause. Not a beat.
Silence.
The kind that instantly empties the air from a room, collapsing conversation in on itself like a black hole. Vanessa's stomach plunged so violently she actually felt dizzy. Her fork froze halfway to her mouth. Her brain glitched—completely stalled—stuck looping over a single, bone-deep realization:
He didn't.
Slowly—too slowly—she turned to look at him. Like a character in a horror film inching toward the creaking door she knows she shouldn't open. Her breath caught in her throat as she took him in: Ethan, calm as you please, continuing to eat like he hadn't just said the one thing that could upend her entire carefully-balanced reality.
But he had.
And her parents had heard it.
Her mother's fork clinked softly against her plate. Her father leaned back in his chair, arms folding across his chest, the quiet click of bone on bone impossibly loud in the silence. The expression on his face was unreadable—but deeply, terrifyingly interested.
Vanessa wanted to die. Or vanish. Or teleport to literally any other timeline where this wasn't happening.
Her gaze snapped back to Ethan. Surely—surely—he hadn't realized what he'd just said. Surely this was just another one of his genius-boy blind spots where he was so busy being smart that he forgot how people worked.
But then he looked up.
His eyes flicked to her parents. Then to her.
And smirked.
That bastard knew.
He knew exactly what he had done. And he was enjoying it.
Vanessa's jaw clenched as heat flared across her chest, her neck, her cheeks. Her face burned so hot it was a miracle the tablecloth didn't catch fire.
Her mother cleared her throat delicately—too delicately—and said, "Five minutes, huh?"
Ethan nodded, all wide-eyed innocence. "Yeah. Super convenient."
Vanessa's foot shot out under the table and connected hard with his shin.
He didn't even flinch.
Didn't so much as blink.
If anything, the smirk on his face deepened—like he liked it.
Her mother brightened, clasping her hands together as if he'd just offered to carry her groceries for the next ten years. "Oh, that's wonderful! That means if Vanessa ever needs help, you'll be right there."
Her father hummed in agreement, slow and thoughtful. "Yes. Right there."
Vanessa ground her teeth together. "Can we not do this?"
Her mother batted her eyes in mock confusion. "Do what, sweetheart?"
Oh, she knew. She knew exactly what. And she was loving every second of it. Watching her daughter squirm was apparently the highlight of her year.
Vanessa dared another glance at Ethan.
He was basking in it.
Absolutely radiant with amusement, eyes twinkling with some private joke that he had no intention of explaining. She could already feel it: the endless teasing texts, the smug looks, the way he'd hold this over her forever like a trophy.
And then, because he was the absolute worst human being alive, Ethan leaned back in his chair, stretched lazily, and said, with that low, velvet-smooth voice that always made her spine tingle at the worst possible times:
"Well, if she ever gets tired of walking, she can always stay over."
Vanessa inhaled sharply and immediately choked.
Her throat locked. Her eyes watered. Her lungs screamed for air. And through it all, her mother coughed into her hand to hide what were very clearly giggles. Shoulders shaking with glee.
Her father?
Stone-faced.
Unmoving.
Unamused.
Fuck.
She was going to murder Ethan. She was going to bury his body under the koi pond in the park and pretend she'd never met him. She was going to—
"So," her mother began, voice sugary-sweet, eyes practically glowing with devilish delight. "Are you two planning to move in together anytime soon?"
Vanessa choked again. Harder.
This time, there was no recovering quickly. Her whole body tensed like a pulled wire. Her hands clenched around her fork as her mind short-circuited.
Ethan?
The man had the gall—the unholy gall—to just take another bite of his food. Calmly. As if this entire exchange wasn't throwing Vanessa into a psychological tailspin.
She turned to him, slowly, fork still in hand, barely resisting the primal urge to lunge across the table and throttle him. Her heart pounded, blood whooshing through her ears like a tidal wave.
Then Ethan, still maddeningly serene, added, "If she moved in with me, she wouldn't even need to drive."
Vanessa almost stabbed him.
Her fork twitched. Her hand moved.
Her mother gasped, one hand to her mouth, eyes now wide with sudden inspiration.
"Oh my God," she breathed, like she'd just stumbled onto the secret of the universe. "That's actually a great idea!"
Vanessa dropped her head to the table with a thud.
No.
Not because of her mother. She expected this from her mother. The woman had been practically planning her wedding since she had gotten to know about Ethan and her. If Vanessa even so much as looked at Ethan for too long, her mother would start asking about colors and venues.
No. Her father.
He was the problem.
Vanessa's heart slammed against her ribs as she lifted her head, bracing herself for the storm. Would he be furious? Disapproving? Would he turn to Ethan and finally deliver the protective-dad speech she'd always dreaded?
Stay away from my daughter.
She's too young.
You've crossed a line.
Get out.
But when she looked…
He was smiling.
Smiling.
Not a sarcastic smirk. Not a cruel twitch of amusement.
An actual, warm, fatherly smile.
And then, as if Ethan hadn't just flung a grenade into their dining room, her father asked—calmly, like they were discussing weather—"Well, do you want to go and live with Ethan while you attend college?"
Vanessa blinked.
Her entire brain seized.
She opened her mouth to answer. Nothing came out. Tried again. Still nothing.
There weren't even thoughts anymore.
Just static.
White-hot, blank static.
Across the table, Ethan watched her with a relaxed tilt of his head, his eyes half-lidded, curious and deeply, deeply amused.
Like he was watching a deer freeze in the middle of the road just before impact.
She was going to murder him.
She was going to wrap her black belt around his neck and—
Except…
Except her heart wasn't pounding from anger anymore.
There was something else under the surface now. Thicker. Warmer. Messier.
It wasn't just panic.
It was the part of her—the traitorous, stupid, hopeless part—that liked the idea.
That wanted it.
She saw it—just for a second—in her mind. Waking up next to him. Eating breakfast in his kitchen. Dropping her bag on the floor and walking barefoot to his couch. Kissing him goodnight without having to say goodbye. Falling asleep to the sound of his breathing.
And not having to miss him anymore.
Not having to ration time. Not having to feel like every moment was ticking closer to goodbye.
She wanted it so badly it hurt.
Which made her angry.
Because now he knew that, too.
Ethan must have seen it—must have read it on her face—because his smirk softened, just a fraction. Something sincere flickered in his eyes. Something tender. As if behind all the teasing, he meant it.
As if he'd thought about it, too.
As if he wanted it just as badly.
And that, more than anything, terrified her.
Because this wasn't a joke anymore. This wasn't just dinner or innuendo or her mother's matchmaking fantasies.
This was real.
This was a future.
And it was close.
Too close.
She couldn't breathe.
The conversation continued around her, voices muffled like she was underwater.
She heard her name. She heard Ethan's. A few words from her mother. A chuckle. Her father's voice—low, thoughtful. All of it blurred into white noise.
None of it made sense.
Because her father—the man she had braced herself for, the man she had imagined at least throwing a fit, if not bodily ejecting Ethan from their home—was just... fine with it?
Fine with her moving in with Ethan?
Like it was no more significant than choosing a new shampoo?
And Ethan. Ethan, the walking chaos generator, the emotionally reckless bombshell disguised as a charming genius, had just tossed that suggestion out like it was nothing. Like it wasn't a nuclear event. Like he hadn't just detonated her entire life at the dinner table.
What the hell was she supposed to say to that?
Her fingers curled tightly in her lap, gripping the fabric of her jeans so hard her knuckles whitened. Her throat was locked shut, frozen with something that felt dangerously close to panic—but messier. Heavier. Some ugly cocktail of embarrassment, fury, attraction, and sheer, stomach-twisting disbelief.
She couldn't breathe.
And then—
A light touch.
Barely there.
Warmth. Against her thigh. The ghost of a presence, soft but intentional.
Ethan.
His fingers.
A slow, deliberate tap—once, twice—then still. Not grabbing. Not squeezing. Just there. Just enough to reach through the spiraling chaos in her head and ground her.
Her body reacted before her brain could catch up.
Her head snapped toward him, eyes wide, breath still stuck halfway in her lungs.
He didn't look at her. Not directly. Just a flick of his lashes. Just that maddening calm on his face. Like he hadn't just sent her careening into a tailspin. Like this was all nothing. Like the world hadn't tilted under her feet.
But the smirk—that infuriating smirk—was still there. Subtle. Barely a twitch of his lips.
But there.
He was enjoying this.
The bastard was enjoying this.
Her stomach flipped so violently she thought she might be sick—or worse, say something reckless. Something honest.
She dug her fingers into her thigh, nails biting through denim. Her jaw tensed as she forced air into her lungs.
"…I—" Her voice cracked, high and strained. She swallowed it down, tried again. "I mean, yeah… I could stay at Ethan's, but only if it's good with you, Dad."
There.
It was out.
The words hung in the air, and for the first time in her life, she was terrified of her father's answer. Not just nervous. Not just wary.
Terrified.
Because somehow, in the span of five goddamn minutes, her future had morphed into this absurd, surreal scenario where moving in with Ethan was on the table, and everyone else was treating it like a perfectly reasonable thing.
Except her.
She turned toward her father, every muscle in her body coiled tight, bracing for the storm.
But he just… smiled.
Smiled.
Not that blank, unreadable smile he gave when he was annoyed but trying to hide it. Not the tight-lipped one he used when making polite conversation.
A real one.
Warm. Surprised. Almost… pleased?
Vanessa stared.
That was it?
That was his condition?
All he wanted was for her to visit twice a week?
She had spent the past minute mentally preparing for war. For lectures. For rules and conditions and furious objections. For some variation of you're still my little girl or he better keep his hands off you or not under my roof.
Instead, she got twice a week?
Ethan didn't even let her process it.
He spoke again—this time in that rare, infuriatingly sincere tone that always got under her skin.
"You don't need to worry about that," he said easily, like this was all just a casual errand. "You can come by anytime you want to see Vanessa. My doors are always open for you."
Vanessa's head whipped around so fast her neck cracked.
Traitor.
Ethan looked so fucking proud of himself. Smug and smooth and utterly untouchable.
Her father laughed. Laughed.
Her mother beamed like Ethan had just offered to build her a second house.
Her father leaned back in his chair, giving Ethan a look that was half teasing, half the kind of warning fathers give boys dating their daughters. "I'll definitely take you up on that. Though not as much as her mother will."
Vanessa's stomach plummeted.
Her mother.
Oh no.
That woman was going to show up unannounced. She was going to rearrange furniture. She was going to "just drop by" to bring muffins and ask deeply inappropriate questions.
A slow, creeping sense of doom settled into Vanessa's bones.
She glared at Ethan. This is your fault.
And he just smiled wider.
And then—
Then he made it worse.
"Oh don't worry," Ethan said looking straight at her, far too casually, far too smoothly now looking at her parents. "I'll install a light outside my room. That way, if it's on, you'll know not to walk in on something no parent should ever see."
Silence.
A different kind this time.
Ominous.
Heavy.
Deadly.
Vanessa's fork slipped from her fingers and clattered against her plate.
Her mother blinked once.
Her father's jaw twitched.
Ethan?
Took a sip of his drink like he hadn't just invited death into their home.
Vanessa wanted to die. Or commit murder. Or both.
Her eyes snapped to him, her voice low and shaking with barely-contained rage. "You. Shut. Up."
He turned back to her, utterly unfazed.
His smirk was now full-blown smug delight.
"Oh, come on," he murmured, voice pitched just for her. "Would you rather they walk in?"
She kicked him again. Harder this time.
He didn't even flinch.
His smirk deepened.
Her father exhaled slowly. His hand tightened around his fork like he was considering stabbing someone. Preferably Ethan.
But her mother—oh God, her mother—had recovered too quickly. And she was looking at Ethan with something horrifyingly close to approval.
"I think that's very… thoughtful," her mother said, voice dancing with amusement.
Vanessa's head snapped toward her. What?!
Her mother took a long, unhurried sip of wine. "It's good to have boundaries, after all."
Vanessa's mouth fell open. No. No. There was no universe—no dimension—where her mother sided with Ethan on this.
Her father was still glaring at Ethan, unimpressed and very likely contemplating legal ways to bury a body.
He folded his arms, voice like ice. "And why, exactly, would my daughter need an 'indicator light' in your room?"
Vanessa felt her soul leave her body.
Ethan paused. Took a breath. Dragged it out just long enough to make it worse.
Then he tilted his head, thoughtful.
"Well," he said, like he was answering a pop quiz. "Sometimes we study together. Or watch movies. Or, you know…"
He trailed off.
On purpose.
The air changed.
It felt like the whole world stopped spinning for a second. Like gravity had paused to listen.
Vanessa saw everything—her future, her funeral, her mugshot—flash before her eyes.
Her father's fingers twitched.
Her mother looked like she was having the time of her life.
And that was it.
She'd had it.
"Ethan," she hissed, her tone the verbal equivalent of a dagger, "if you want to live, I suggest you stop talking."
He leaned in, eyes glittering, his voice a delicious sin against her skin.
"But you love it when I talk."
Her whole body ignited.
The heat in her chest exploded. Not just embarrassment now. Not just fury. But something worse. Something hotter. More dangerous.
Because he was right.
God, he was right.
And he knew it.
Vanessa lunged—but before she could commit homicide, her mother burst into laughter.
"Oh, enough," she said, waving a hand like this was all just adorable foreplay. "Ethan, thank you for being considerate. It's good to know you're thinking about… privacy."
Vanessa groaned and let her head fall to the table with a thunk.
Her father pinched the bridge of his nose. "I need another drink."
He stood, looked at her mother. "You talk to her. I'm going to pretend I never heard that."
And just like that, he walked out.
Vanessa barely had time to breathe before her mother—dear, evil, smug mother—sighed with theatric flair and turned a direct, laser-focused gaze on Ethan like this was some kind of sitcom and not her actual life unraveling.
"You really don't have a filter, do you, Ethan?"
The words were laced with mock disapproval, but the tone—God, the tone—held more affection than chastisement. And Ethan? That unbothered, impossible man just shrugged, his smirk deepening as if this entire situation was unfolding exactly as he planned.
"I thought it was a reasonable precaution," he said smoothly, that maddening calm in every syllable.
Vanessa barely stopped herself from audibly growling.
"Oh, it absolutely is," her mother said, far too quickly. She even leaned forward, resting her chin delicately on her hand like she was settling in for entertainment. Her eyes glittered with suppressed laughter. "But Vanessa, sweetie, if you two are going to be… busy, at least keep yourselves hydrated. And stretch properly. You don't want to cramp up."
Silence.
Not from everyone—Vanessa fell silent.
Because in that moment, her brain shut down.
Just—complete shutdown. No thoughts. No processing. No reaction other than the static roar of shock.
Her mother.
Her mother.
Had just said that.
About her. About Ethan. With a straight face and a wine glass in hand.
She could feel the blood draining from her face, but somehow boiling in her chest at the same time. Mortified fury tangled with something darker. Something shamefully electric under her skin that had no business reacting to that line—not like that. Not with Ethan sitting so damn close. Not with his smirk growing.
Something inside her snapped.
With a sound halfway between a choked gasp and a snarl, Vanessa bolted upright from her chair, grabbing Ethan's wrist in a grip that was far more desperate than she wanted it to be.
"We're leaving."
No hesitation.
No room for debate.
And definitely no room for her mother's delighted, laughing voice behind them.
Ethan stood with the kind of deliberate slowness that said he was having the time of his life. He let her yank him up, didn't resist—probably because he knew he didn't have to. That infuriating confidence was practically radiating off of him.
"Aw, already?" he drawled, clearly amused. "I was having fun."
Vanessa didn't respond. Couldn't. She was already halfway to combustion.
She didn't just lead him out of the room—she dragged him. Past her snickering mother. Past her retreating father, who had wisely disappeared into the kitchen. Past every last ounce of dignity she'd managed to cobble together before this dinner turned into her personal apocalypse.
And the second they stepped outside—into the night air, cool and sharp against her burning cheeks—she snapped.
Her fist connected with his chest in one solid, satisfying thud.
Ethan didn't so much as stumble, but she knew he felt it. She made sure he felt it.
"You absolute menace," she spat, eyes wild, hands trembling from adrenaline and rage and something far more dangerous she didn't dare name yet. "What the hell was that?"
He exhaled like he'd just stepped out of a sauna—relaxed, content, utterly untouched by the firestorm he'd just caused. If anything, he looked even more pleased with himself.
"What part?" he asked lazily, brushing a hand across the spot she'd punched like she was nothing more than a mildly annoying breeze. "The part where I installed a very practical and considerate boundary, or—"
Thud.
She hit him again, harder this time. And this time, he grunted, grabbing her wrist before she could go for a third strike.
His hand closed around hers—not rough, but firm. And far, far too steady. The warmth of his palm radiated through her skin, anchoring her in place with infuriating ease.
Her breath hitched.
The contact was intimate. Immediate. And somehow more dangerous than anything he'd said at the dinner table.
She yanked her arm, but he didn't let go—not right away. His grip tightened just enough to remind her how easily he could hold her there if he chose.
"Feisty tonight, aren't we?" he murmured, voice lower now. Rougher. Edged with heat.
Oh, she was going to kill him.
"You need a filter," she hissed, glaring up at him even though her pulse betrayed her, pounding wild against her ribcage. "Or guidelines. At the very least. Especially when talking to my parents."
Ethan tilted his head, pretending to consider it like it was a real question. Then—God help her—his fingers moved. Just a little. A subtle shift against her wrist that sent a shiver all the way down her spine.
"And if I don't?" he asked, his voice dropping even lower. A challenge wrapped in silk.
Vanessa narrowed her eyes, ignoring the treacherous flutter in her stomach.
"Then I'll break your ribs," she snapped.
He laughed.
HE LAUGHED.
Not a bark, not a chuckle. A slow, warm rumble that slid under her skin and settled in her belly like the beginning of a storm.
"See, that's where I have the advantage," he murmured.
He let go.
But not before dragging his fingers along the inside of her wrist. Slow. Lingering. Intentional.
It was a touch that said I know. I know what this does to you. I know you won't stop me. I know you're burning.
She inhaled sharply, her lips parting against her will. She hated him.
She hated how her body reacted. How his touch turned every nerve inside out. How her brain shut down and her focus narrowed to the exact place his skin had brushed hers.
"And what exactly is that?" she managed, stepping back. Needing space like she needed oxygen.
Ethan stepped forward.
Her breath caught.
His expression didn't change—but his eyes did. Darker now. Focused. Like a predator that didn't need to chase because he knew you'd come to him eventually.
"You won't actually hurt me," he said quietly.
It wasn't cocky.
It was confident. Certain. Like he wasn't guessing. Like he'd measured her already and found her edge.
Her stomach flipped, heat pooling low and dangerously steady.
She crossed her arms, trying to hide the tremble in her fingers.
"You sure about that?"
His smirk returned—slower this time, more deliberate.
"Very."
She wanted to scream. Or throw something. Or kiss him just to shut him the hell up.
Instead, she shoved him. Hard.
He let her, stumbling back a step, still laughing softly under his breath.
"Get in the damn car before I change my mind," she snapped.
He raised his hands like she'd just arrested him.
"Coming to my house already, sweetheart."
Vanessa growled, yanking open the passenger side and climbing in before she did something stupid—like kiss him, or slap him, or beg him to never touch her like that again.
Ethan slid into the driver's seat with maddening ease, and for a few seconds, silence filled the car.
Blessed, needed silence.
Then he turned toward her.
"Oh, by the way," he said, like he hadn't just derailed her entire reality. "Your mom liked the idea."
Vanessa's head snapped toward him so fast her neck cracked.
"You are not allowed to talk to my mother," she hissed. "Or my father. Or anyone in my family. Ever again."
She was still fuming.
Not the kind of surface-level irritation that faded with a distraction or a deep breath—no. This was the deep burn, the kind of anger that simmered low in her gut and curled around her spine, coiling tighter every time she replayed the scene in her mind.
It had taken an hour.
Hour of pushing, repeating, reframing. Of shoving past Ethan's maddening walls of humor and lazy shrugs. A whole hour of dragging each syllable from her throat with clarity and force, hammering home what he'd done—what he'd implied—and how her parents had received every unfiltered word.
She'd had to spell it out for him. Like he was a child.
She could still hear herself, voice sharp and controlled in that awful, surgical way:
"My father's eye twitched, Ethan. Do you have any idea what that means? That's his kill signal. That's the look he gives before delivering a passive-aggressive monologue that ends with someone mysteriously losing sleep, appetite, and the will to live for a week."
And Ethan—smug, aggravating Ethan—had laughed. LAUGHED.
Until she kept going. Until she drove it home in clinical, excruciating detail. The tone. The implications. The horrifically graphic innuendos her mother had decided to roll with rather than shut down.
Until the moment it clicked.
She saw it happen.
He froze mid-laugh. Just stopped, his face slackening, eyes shifting—not with fear, but with realization.
Then he moved.
No fanfare. No words.
He smacked a palm to his forehead, muttered something she couldn't catch—though she was pretty sure it included the word "shit"—and then he was moving. Fast. Focused. Intent.
He grabbed his bike keys.
And walked toward the door.
And Vanessa, already standing from the couch, narrowed her eyes.
"Where are you going?" she demanded, a sharp spike of anxiety rising like bile in her throat.
Ethan paused mid-step, hand on the doorknob, and glanced over his shoulder. The look on his face was… jarring.
Almost sheepish.
"To fix my mistake," he said, and then—
Gone.
No room for questions. No chance to follow. No assurance he wasn't about to walk into an emotional landmine.
The door clicked shut behind him, and Vanessa was left standing in the quiet echo of his departure, her heartbeat pounding in her ears, her mouth hanging open in disbelief.
What the hell just happened?
She blinked. Once. Twice. Then slowly lowered herself back onto the couch like her legs no longer trusted the floor.
She stared at the door like it had personally offended her.
Her brain was racing, flipping through every possible scenario, and none of them were good. In fact, most of them ended with Ethan injured. Or worse—worse than injured—humiliated. Verbally eviscerated. Psychologically shaken. No one came out of a one-on-one with parents unscathed. Not unless they were prepared. And Ethan had never met the concept of preparation in this part of life however meticulous he may be in others.
And still… he went.
Vanessa buried her face in her hands, groaning into her palms. "He's going to die."
A soft huff against her leg made her lower her hands.
Nyx, Ethan's ever-apathetic German shepherd, had apparently sensed the depth of her despair and decided to offer a head on her thigh. Her eyes were half-lidded, her posture suggesting she was tired of Vanessa's drama already.
Fenrir lay upside down on the rug nearby, snoring.
Only Ares, the fierce one, stood tense at the front door, ears perked, body alert, as if he could sense that Ethan was walking straight into the lion's den.
Good boy. She nodded at him like they were sharing a war-room understanding.
Half an hour passed.
The longest damn thirty minutes of her life.
Each second dragged by like cold molasses, thick and slow and impossible to escape. She could feel the time stretching around her, her thoughts spiraling with it.
What if her father had launched into one of his steely, slow-burn speeches? The ones that never raised volume but always raised the stakes?
What if her mother—God help them all—went the other way and used that silence? The look? The passive-aggressive tea pouring and cryptic metaphors about "character being revealed under pressure"?
What if Ethan—doubled down?
She could see it. Him trying to explain himself. Maybe even cracking a joke. Her father's eyebrow lifting. Her mother's smile tightening.
She clutched a pillow to her chest and screamed into it.
And then—her phone rang.
She nearly jumped out of her own skin, heart thundering, fingers fumbling as she reached for it like it was a live grenade.
Dad.
The name on the screen froze her in place.
She stared at it, pulse roaring in her ears.
Okay. Okay, you can do this. Deep breath. He wouldn't call if there was a body to bury. Right?
She swallowed and forced herself to answer.
"…Hello?"
"Vanessa."
Her father's voice was calm.
Too calm.
That tone—measured, clipped—like he was about to deliver news that required a neutral emotional presentation. Like Ethan had, in fact, been found wanting and was now buried under the hydrangeas in the backyard.
Her grip tightened around the phone.
"Your boyfriend came over."
Her eyes shut. She pressed her fingers to the bridge of her nose. "I… know."
Silence.
A beat.
And then—her father sighed.
Not dramatically. Not exasperated. Just… tired.
"He apologized," he said. Then—surprise—amusement. "Said he realized what he'd done after you explained it to him and that he wanted to assure us he'll be careful and respectful about you in front of us and others."
Vanessa blinked at the wall.
Wait.
He what?
Her father continued as if he hadn't just short-circuited her entire understanding of the universe. "Your mother was impressed."
Vanessa's stomach dropped.
"…What?" she blurted.
"She said," her father replied, sounding suspiciously amused now, "and I quote, 'At least he's aware enough to correct himself. That's rare in young men these days.'"
Silence.
The kind of silence that only came when the mind was rebooting.
Vanessa sat perfectly still on the couch, phone held to her ear, staring into the middle distance like she'd been dropped into a simulation and the system was glitching.
Ethan.
Had walked into that house, looked her parents in the eye, and taken responsibility.
He hadn't deflected. He hadn't joked.
He'd owned it.
And somehow—somehow—not only had he survived…
He'd impressed her mother.
Her mother. The woman who had already adored Ethan was now even more impressed What the hell did he say that got her parents to forgive him?.
Vanessa released a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding.
"…Thanks for telling me, Dad," she muttered, still dazed. Still trying to piece it together.
Her father chuckled—a real one this time, warm and low. "Just make sure he keeps his word."
And with that, the call ended.
She sat there for a long moment, the silence in the house thick and echoing. Even the dogs seemed to sense the shift.
Ares finally stepped away from the door and curled up near her feet. Nyx yawned dramatically. Fenrir let out a contented snore.
Vanessa slowly leaned back against the couch, eyes unfocused, breath finally steadying.
Something had changed.
Not just in Ethan—though that was shocking enough. But in her. In them.
Ethan had taken a blow to his pride, and instead of deflecting or laughing it off… he'd acted. Maturely. Respectfully. Intentionally.
For her.
And that realization curled inside her chest like a soft flame. Slow, steady, terrifying.
What the hell was she supposed to do with that?
She stared at the ceiling.
The door swung open with the kind of casual weightlessness that should've meant nothing. But to Vanessa, it was thunder.
She didn't move at first.
Didn't breathe.
Because there he was.
Ethan stepped inside with that stupidly calm stride, like he hadn't just walked straight into her childhood home and offered himself up for judgment. Like he hadn't just faced down the most terrifying duo in her life—her parents—and lived to smirk about it.
He looked too pleased with himself. Smug. Relaxed. Barely winded by the emotional gauntlet he'd just run through. His shirt was a little rumpled, and his hair looked like he'd dragged a hand through it once or twice, but there was no visible damage.
No bruising.
No burn marks from her mother's razor-sharp sarcasm.
No wounds from her father's subtle intimidation tactics.
Nothing.
Vanessa sat on the edge of the couch, jaw clenched, heart caught somewhere between indignation and a wholly unwelcome swell of… something softer. Something vaguely resembling admiration, though she refused to name it.
She was still mad.
Still high on the leftover adrenaline of their argument, of his sudden disappearance, of the thirty hellish minutes she'd spent imagining him saying something catastrophic like "Don't worry, sir—I'll keep your daughter thoroughly satisfied."
But as he walked over to her—eyes gentling, shoulders losing some of that arrogant posture—something shifted.
He stopped in front of her, gaze sincere in a way that made her stomach do a stupid, traitorous flip.
"I get it now," he said, voice softer than she'd ever heard it. "And I'm sorry for putting you in that position."
For a second, Vanessa forgot how to breathe.
This wasn't sarcasm. It wasn't mockery wrapped in charm. It was real. Earnest. A truth delivered without flinching.
She blinked up at him.
Ethan. Apologizing. Seriously. Without a single joke or deflection.
She narrowed her eyes, suspicious. "Who are you, and what have you done with my boyfriend?"
He huffed a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. But he didn't break eye contact. If anything, his gaze burned hotter now—more focused. More grounded.
"I do have a favor to ask, though," he murmured, voice dropping a notch lower, threaded with something heavier.
Vanessa swallowed, pulse skittering like a loose livewire beneath her skin. "What?"
His mouth curved into a familiar shape, but his expression stayed serious—almost solemn. It wasn't the smirk that taunted. It was the one that preceded truth. Vulnerability.
"I need your help with something."
She tilted her head, arms crossing over her chest. Defensive. Curious.
"Oh?"
He nodded once, exhaling slowly like the words weighed more than he was used to carrying.
"Guidelines."
She blinked. "Guidelines?"
"For talking to your parents," he clarified, tone earnest. "So I don't accidentally… you know."
A pause.
Vanessa stared at him.
The man who had just announced to her parents that they have sex, was asking for guidelines.
She let out a breathless laugh. "Oh, now you want guidelines? After dropping the light statement in front of my father?"
Ethan grimaced slightly, like even he knew how bad that moment had been. "Better late than never?"
She rolled her eyes so hard it almost hurt. But something inside her cracked. The sharp edge of her anger softened just a little. Not gone. But melted around the corners. Because for all his swagger and unfiltered mouth, he was trying.
"Fine," she said, throwing her hands up. "Let's do this."
They moved to the dining table like it was some war planning session. Vanessa pulled out her phone and opened a notes app, rattling off Do's and Don't s like she was prepping him for a high-stakes hostage negotiation.
"No innuendos. No jokes about stamina. No weird metaphors involving swords or animals. For the love of God, don't wink at my mom. Ever again."
Ethan actually took notes. On paper. With a pen.
She couldn't believe it.
She kept watching him from the corner of her eye as she dictated rules with increasing intensity. He didn't argue. Didn't crack a joke. Didn't even roll his eyes. He listened. Nodded. Asked for clarification.
Every now and then, she'd catch a little half-smile tugging at his lips, but he kept it in check.
And somewhere between the fifth and sixth bullet point—"Never say 'I know where she gets it from' in response to anything my mom says"—Vanessa felt something tighten in her chest.
Because it wasn't just that he was taking this seriously.
It was why.
He cared. Maybe more than he even knew how to say.
"You know," she murmured, leaning back against the chair when they finally paused, "if you actually follow these rules, my parents might start liking you more than me."
Ethan didn't even glance up. Just kept writing something in the margins of the paper.
"They already do," he said smoothly.
Her pillow hit him square in the face.
He took it like a champ.
Later that night, Vanessa padded out of the bathroom, fresh-faced and still warm from her shower, wearing one of Ethan's oversized shirts that fell halfway to her knees. She expected to find him lounging on the bed, scrolling on his phone or waiting with a snarky comment.
But the bed was empty.
The room was quiet.
She peeked into the hallway, then followed the soft hum of electronics down to his office.
The light was on.
He was still in there.
She stepped softly toward the doorway, pausing when she saw him.
He was doing something on his PC and Vanessa wasn't going to be the one who was gong to drag him to bed if he needed to sleep he should be responsible enough to get to bed himself. So without saying anything she retreated to the bed and went t sleep.
The next morning she woke to find Ethan missing and his side of the bed cold. Getting out of the bed she went back to the office room and found Ethan.
Slumped forward on his desk. Dead asleep.
Face half-smashed against the keyboard, silver-white hair an unholy mess of static and gravity. His cheek was imprinted with little blocky letters, and his mouth was slightly open in the dumbest way imaginable.
Vanessa stared.
Then smirked.
This. This right here. Was karma.
Leaning against the doorframe, she crossed her arms and let her amusement slide into her tone. "Well, well, well. Look at you. The picture of responsibility."
Ethan stirred, his brow twitching, eyes fluttering open. He barely lifted his head, looking around in groggy confusion before realizing where—and how—he'd fallen asleep.
He groaned.
Then—because of course he did—he smirked.
"I was studying," he rasped, voice low and gravelly from sleep.
Vanessa arched a brow. "Oh? Studying what, exactly?"
His gaze lifted to hers slowly.
And just like that, everything changed.
There it was.
That shift. Subtle but impossible to ignore. The quiet stretch of heat that spilled into the space between them.
Ethan's eyes darkened, sliding over her with slow, deliberate attention. No grin. No teasing glint.
Just intention.
"Everything," he murmured, his voice dipping into something low and dangerous. Intimate. Familiar.
Vanessa had grown used to the rhythm of their days.
It was a strange, intoxicating cadence—equal parts chaos and comfort, teasing touches and unspoken rules, late-night confessions laced with heat, and mornings spent trying to pretend everything wasn't unraveling just a little bit more each day. Training. Teasing. The occasional truce. She had learned to ride the tide of Ethan's maddening calm, had come to expect the ever-present hum beneath his words, the quiet way he disrupted her equilibrium with a look or a touch that lingered longer than it should.
And now… that damn light.
The glow of it, always there. Subtle. Unassuming. But unmistakable.
She still hadn't quite forgiven him for how he'd introduced it—announcing it over dinner with her parents as if he were casually remarking on the weather. Like it wasn't a blazing symbol of everything they'd refused to label out loud. She'd felt it in the base of her spine, the warmth of humiliation and thrill colliding in a messy knot in her chest. And Ethan—Ethan had just leaned back in his chair, utterly unaffected, like he hadn't just confirmed every whispered suspicion her mother had ever entertained.
God, she hated how effective it was.
Not that she'd ever tell him that.
Not that she needed to.
He always knew.
And now, here they were again. Another dinner. Another opportunity for him to casually rip the rug out from beneath her feet while flashing that infuriating smirk. She didn't know why her parents kept inviting him—maybe they enjoyed watching her unravel. Maybe they were just entertained by the contrast. Or maybe, just maybe, they saw something in Ethan she wasn't ready to admit.
She watched him now from her side of the couch, her legs lazily draped over his lap, toes grazing his thigh. He sat with infuriating ease, book in hand, eyes scanning the pages as if the world didn't exist beyond the margins. And yet—his fingers moved, tracing idle circles on her calf in a rhythm that was anything but unconscious.
"You're not planning on dropping another bomb at dinner, are you?" she asked, voice laced with suspicion.
He didn't look up.
"What bomb?"
Vanessa rolled her eyes, nudging his leg sharply with her heel. "You know exactly what I mean."
That earned her the barest twitch of his lips. A smirk—subtle, controlled, and absolutely devastating. He turned, finally meeting her gaze. Those green eyes were always too calm. Too knowing.
"Relax, Ness. I'll behave," he said smoothly, brushing a slow line up her leg. "You already trained me, remember?"
Trained. The word slithered into her chest, wrapping around her heart like a tether. She narrowed her eyes. "Barely. You still need a leash."
His smile sharpened. And for a moment, the world stilled.
The fingers at her calf paused… then began a deliberate, sinuous path up her shin. Each stroke was a promise, or maybe a threat. His voice dropped—low, suggestive, laced with dark amusement.
"Now that," he said, "sounds like a challenge."
She froze.
Heat surged, unbidden and infuriatingly welcome. Her throat tightened. She hated how easily he could undo her—how a single sentence could detonate under her skin like a lit fuse.
"I hate you," she muttered, shoving at his shoulder.
He chuckled, returning to his book as if he hadn't just turned her into a live wire.
And God, she was already dreading dinner.
To her absolute disbelief, Ethan was trying.
Really trying.
For the first half of dinner, he navigated conversation like a seasoned diplomat—skirting danger, offering mild observations, even complimenting her mother's cooking. Vanessa had braced herself for disaster, but he played the role almost too well. His signature sarcasm still threaded through his words, but he kept it measured, precise, like a scalpel instead of a hammer.
It was disorienting.
She kept waiting for the punchline. The moment he'd lose interest in the charade and light a match under the evening just to watch her squirm.
And of course, it came.
He waited until dessert, naturally.
"I'll be heading to Germany for a couple of weeks before Caltech," he said, casually lifting his glass.
Vanessa's fork halted mid-air. Ice flooded her veins.
What.
Her mother, ever the graceful hostess, dabbed at her lips with a napkin. "Oh? For how long?"
"About two weeks," Ethan replied smoothly. "Visiting my grandparents on my mother's side."
Vanessa's fingers clenched around her fork. Her eyes snapped to him, full of silent fire.
"When were you planning to tell me this, you absolute—"
He turned, met her gaze, and shrugged.
SHRUGGED.
Her mother leaned back, clearly entertained. "I guess Vanessa will be alone for two weeks, then."
Nope. Not a single break. Not even a second to breathe.
And then—
"If it's fine with both of you," Ethan said, cutting through her rising panic with maddening calm, "she can come with me, if she wants."
Vanessa choked on her water.
Her father, mid-sip of wine, raised a brow.
Her mother smiled. Smiled. "Oh? That's a lovely offer."
"Ethan," Vanessa managed, voice sharp.
He turned, all innocence. "Yeah?"
"You just dropped this information. In front of my parents."
Another blink. Another fucking shrug. "Didn't think it was a big deal."
Her jaw clenched so tightly she thought her teeth might crack. She sucked in a slow breath. She was not going to murder him in front of her parents. She was not going to make headlines for disemboweling her boyfriend with a dessert fork.
Instead, she leaned in, voice low and lethal. "We. Are. Talking. About. This. Later."
He smirked. "Looking forward to it."
She could feel her father biting back a laugh. "Well, it's not a bad idea. Vanessa's on break before college starts."
Her mother nodded, too pleased. "And she's never been to Germany!"
Vanessa wanted to slide under the table and disappear.
Ethan, taking their reactions as approval, leaned back in his chair like a king accepting tribute. "It's settled then."
She kicked him.
Hard.
He didn't even flinch.
"If that's a yes," he said with a grin, "just say it next time."
She glared. The promise in her eyes was clear: you're going to suffer for this.
Her mother lifted her glass, smiling. "Well, that light of yours won't be needed for a while, then."
Vanessa did choke this time.
Across the table, Ethan simply sipped his water.
The days that followed passed in a blur of overthinking.
She played it cool. Outwardly, she went about her business, shrugged when asked, told her friends it was no big deal. But internally? She was unraveling.
Germany.
His family.
His world.
They'd spent so much time dancing around the edges of each other—kissing in hidden corners, fighting like they were afraid of what silence would reveal, toeing the line between control and surrender. But this?
This felt different.
This wasn't about seduction. It wasn't even about sex.
This was… trust.
Intimacy of another kind.
And it terrified her.
She imagined meeting his grandparents. What would they think of her? What had they heard? Were they formal? Warm? Judgemental?
Would they see through her—see the way she fought for control because she didn't know who she was without it?
Would they see how deeply, dangerously Ethan had gotten under her skin?
She had no answers.
But the moment she walked into his house, and found him sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in hand, looking entirely unbothered, she knew.
She couldn't back down.
She crossed her arms. "I'll go."
Her tone was neutral. Almost bored. But the tension in her shoulders betrayed her. The anticipation, the anxiety, the subtle thrill coursing just beneath her skin—it all hummed through her, too loud to ignore.
Ethan looked up.
He didn't smile. Not exactly. But there was a shift. A subtle softening at the edges. His gaze lingered.
"I was hoping you would."
That was all he said.
But it was enough.
Vanessa's pulse fluttered. She hated how warm those words made her feel.
And then, of course, he ruined it.
He stepped forward, slow, measured. Not touching her—just close enough to breathe the same air.
"And since you're coming," he murmured, leaning in, breath ghosting over her ear, "I guess we'll have to figure out sleeping arrangements, won't we?"
Her breath caught.
Oh.
Suddenly the abstract trip became painfully concrete. His grandparents' house. Rooms. Beds. Expectations.
Were they supposed to sleep separately?
Would they be allowed to share a room?
And more terrifying—what if they were expected to?
Her heart thundered. Her thoughts spiraled.
He pressed the barest kiss to her temple, light as air, wickedly gentle.
"Relax, Ness," he whispered. "I'll make sure you're comfortable. However that ends up being."
She shoved him.
Weakly.
He chuckled.
She wanted to be angry.
But more than that, she wanted to know what would happen next.
~~~~~