The soft, steady purr of the motorcycle beneath them had woven itself into the rhythm of Vanessa's nerves by now—comforting and thrilling all at once. Each turn Ethan made through the winding German streets sent a jolt of adrenaline through her, not quite enough to erase her irritation, but definitely enough to blur its edges. She wasn't sure if it was the way the old-world charm of the city clashed so beautifully with its sleek modernity, or if it was simply being this close to him—feeling the rise and fall of his chest with every breath, her arms wrapped around his waist, pressed tight to his back as if she belonged there.
But she was still annoyed. Maybe even more than annoyed.
Her fingers clenched around the sides of her jacket as the wind whipped past, carrying with it the phantom echo of his earlier teasing. Ethan always knew how to get under her skin—he practically lived there now, rent-free. And he knew it, too. The smug bastard.
And yet… damn it all, the ride was exhilarating. Like flying. Like letting go.
By the time he pulled into a quiet side street, the moment already felt suspended in something delicate and dreamlike. He slowed the bike to a gentle halt in front of a little café nestled between weathered stone buildings. It looked like it had been plucked straight from a postcard—ivy-covered walls, chipped bricks worn smooth with time, and wooden tables settled under a faded striped awning that whispered stories of countless afternoons gone by.
Vanessa swung her leg over the bike, wobbled slightly—her legs still trembling from the ride—and muttered, "You could've warned me before taking that last turn." She shoved her helmet into his hands and glared at him.
Ethan, utterly unbothered, pulled off his own helmet with a single, infuriatingly smooth motion. His hair tumbled free, tousled and damp with sweat, catching the golden afternoon light in a way that made her stomach twist. Damn him.
"Where's the fun in that?" he replied with that maddening smirk of his.
She rolled her eyes hard enough to hurt, but couldn't stop the slight tug at the corner of her lips. This was how it always was with him—he pushed, and she pushed back harder. Except sometimes, she wasn't sure if she was pushing to keep him at arm's length… or to keep herself from falling.
They stepped into the café and were immediately enveloped by the scent of something warm and sweet—pastries, sugar-dusted and fresh from the oven, mingled with the deep, rich smell of roasted coffee beans. It smelled like comfort. Like something sacred and old. Vanessa took a slow breath, letting it fill her chest.
And then her attention snapped to the man behind the counter.
Older. Solid. With the kind of face that looked like it had seen generations grow up and move on, but hadn't aged in spirit. His eyes were sharp and assessing, but the moment they landed on Ethan, something inside them softened. Melted.
"Ah, mein Junge!" The man's voice rolled across the café, deep and full of unfiltered affection. He came out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on a rag, already reaching for Ethan.
Vanessa stood there, momentarily forgotten, as Ethan switched into fluent German without missing a beat. The sound of it—low and confident—wrapped around her like silk. It was like watching a hidden door open, revealing a whole other side of him she hadn't even realized she wanted to see. And now that she had, she couldn't unsee it.
A pang of something raw and confusing bloomed in her chest. She hated being on the outside of a conversation, but more than that, she hated how much she wanted in.
She caught fragments—soft consonants and vowels that blurred together, a word or two that tugged at the edges of her faded high school German—but then something hit.
Her name.
Not once. Twice. Three times.
She stiffened.
Her gaze locked onto Ethan, who hadn't even flinched. He nodded at something the man said, grinning like this was all perfectly normal. And then—oh, no. That smirk again. That smug, infuriating, I-know-something-you-don't smirk. He agreed to something.
Her spine straightened, irritation boiling to the surface like lava beneath thin glass. What the hell are you agreeing to?!
"Okay," she said sharply, folding her arms across her chest. "What exactly are you two talking about?"
Ethan turned to her, close—closer than she expected—and leaned in with maddening ease. His breath brushed the shell of her ear, warm and soft, and something primal in her flinched at the intimacy of it.
"He was just asking if you're the Vanessa they've heard so much about," he murmured, voice dipped in amusement and something else she couldn't name.
A shiver skated down her spine.
She hated how easy it was for him to affect her. Hated how that one low sentence had her heart stumbling, cheeks flushing in sudden heat.
They'd heard about her?
Her eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "And what exactly have you been saying about me, Ethan?" she hissed, trying—failing—not to focus on the way his lips had nearly brushed her ear.
He leaned back just enough to meet her glare, still utterly relaxed, the glint in his eye betraying how much he was enjoying this.
"Only good things."
Liar.
She didn't believe him for a single, goddamn second.
Before she could start drilling him, Ethan's uncle—because that had to be who he was—clapped his hands together and switched into English with a practiced fluency.
"Come on, sit! Lunch is on the house."
Vanessa arched a brow but followed them to a table by the window, the light filtering in soft and warm. She dropped into the chair with as much grace as she could muster, shooting Ethan a look that promised one very long interrogation later. Possibly with wine. Definitely with leverage.
She watched him slide into the seat across from her, his grin not fading for a second. The bastard was enjoying this far too much.
Still, something inside her stirred—a curiosity, sharp and sudden. Who was this version of Ethan, so at ease in another country, with family who spoke a language she barely understood? What pieces of him hadn't he shown her yet? And more importantly… how many of them was she willing to unravel?
One thing was clear: he had answers.
And she wasn't leaving without them.
Vanessa had just taken a bite of what was, unquestionably, the best sandwich she'd ever had—layers of warm, crusty bread holding together melted cheese, spiced meats, and something tangy that hit the back of her throat with just the right kick—when the kitchen door swung open and another figure stepped into the room.
A woman.
Mid-forties, maybe a little older, though it was hard to tell—her posture held that kind of timeless, ageless poise that some women just had. She moved with quiet confidence, each step deliberate but graceful, as if this café were both a home and a stage she ruled with effortless precision. Her clothes were simple but expensive-looking. No makeup that Vanessa could see. She didn't need it. Her presence was enough.
And the moment her eyes found Ethan, they softened—immediately, instinctively. A warmth bloomed there, as if no time had passed at all.
Vanessa's breath caught in her throat.
Damn.
The resemblance was undeniable. It wasn't just in the shape of the woman's eyes or the arch of her cheekbones. It was in the entire feel of her—her quiet confidence, her intelligence, the weight of memory she carried in her glance. Vanessa had seen that face before. Not only in the handful of family photos Ethan had shown her offhandedly, but also—more hauntingly—in pictures at her own house. Old ones. The kind that were tucked into dusty boxes and pulled out during holidays, with names written in faded ink on the back.
This wasn't just any relative. This was his mother's sister.
Vanessa blinked, her fingers frozen around her fork, halfway to her mouth again.
She shouldn't feel nervous, but there it was—that strange, pressurized sensation blooming in her chest. Like she'd just stepped into a conversation that had been happening long before she arrived, and now every breath she took was somehow a test. Of what, she didn't quite know. But she felt it. Deep in her bones.
Ethan greeted the woman in German, his voice warm—warm, in a way she rarely heard. Not teasing. Not smug. Just... open. Familiar. Like he'd been waiting to say it.
The woman's response was just as easy. Gentle. Unhurried. She touched his arm lightly as she smiled, and Vanessa felt something in her twist—an emotion she couldn't quite pin down. It wasn't jealousy. It was... longing? Recognition? Maybe both.
Family. Real, rooted, multi-generational family. That strange, messy, beautiful thing she'd spent her whole life watching from the sidelines, never quite belonging.
But before Vanessa could even begin to process the emotion tightening around her ribs, the woman turned toward her.
Her eyes sharpened—not cruelly, but certainly not softly either. She studied Vanessa with the kind of precision that made her spine straighten instinctively. Measured. Calculated. The same way someone might study a chessboard before moving their queen.
Then, suddenly, she shifted her gaze back to Ethan.
"So this is Vanessa, right?" the woman asked in perfect, unaccented English. "The one you said would be coming with you a month ago?"
Vanessa's fork stopped midair.
Wait.
Her brain stalled.
Did she hear that right?
Her head snapped toward Ethan—and oh, oh, there it was.
For the first time since she had met him, since their chaotic, chemistry-laced whirlwind of flirtations and challenges began, Ethan blushed.
Not a faint, artful flush either. No, this was a full-body betrayal. It started at his ears, crept down the sides of his neck, and stained his face a shade of red she'd never thought possible for a man so composed. So maddeningly unreadable.
Even more telling? He shifted in his seat. A subtle fidget. As if he'd been caught doing something he hadn't prepared for her to see.
"Y—yeah," he stammered.
Oh, my God.
Vanessa felt a slow, wicked smile start to curl across her lips.
This was gold.
Because if her memory was correct—and it was, always—Ethan had only invited her to Germany two weeks ago. That dinner, with her parents. The one where he'd leaned back in his chair, totally relaxed, and dropped the idea like a casual suggestion, like it had just occurred to him in the moment.
Which meant—he knew.
A month ago.
Before she said yes. Before he asked. Before he even hinted at it.
He knew she'd be coming.
Her smirk widened as she slowly set her fork down and turned her full attention to him, every move deliberate, eyes gleaming with satisfaction.
"So, Ethan," she said sweetly, drawing the words out like honey over glass, "you knew I'd be coming with you all along?"
He didn't answer immediately. No quip. No grin. Just a sip of water—stalling. Vanessa watched the glass tremble ever so slightly in his hand.
Gotcha.
"I had a feeling you'd say yes," he replied, eyes steady now, recovering—but not quickly enough.
"A feeling, huh?" Vanessa leaned in, resting her chin in her palm. Her voice dropped an octave, silk over steel. "So was this before or after you got permission from my parents?"
She saw it—the twitch in his hand. The slight flinch in his jaw.
Bingo.
Ethan's aunt—who had taken a seat across from them—leaned back in her chair and grinned. "Oh, this is good," she said under her breath, clearly enjoying the show.
Vanessa didn't look away. She didn't need to.
She was savoring this. The rare, intoxicating pleasure of having Ethan on the back foot. Of watching him squirm, even just a little, under her gaze.
"Tell me," she said, voice dipping into something low and velvety, "was this another one of your little plans?"
He exhaled slowly, almost soundlessly, before tilting his head and letting his gaze roam over her—slowly, deliberately. From the curve of her mouth to the slope of her neck, pausing just long enough to make her blood spark under her skin.
Her stomach flipped.
Shit.
She knew that look. That quiet, dominant calculation. It was the same look he wore whenever he was seconds away from dismantling her carefully crafted walls. And despite herself, despite everything—her breath caught.
He set the glass down. Leaned in.
"Would you have said no?"
The words weren't loud, but they hit like a pressure point pressed with expert fingers.
Vanessa stilled.
Her heart stuttered behind her ribs. Because damn it—he was right. Of course he was right. She would've said yes. She had always been going to say yes, even before he asked. Even before he finished the sentence.
And he knew that.
He knew.
His aunt let out a low, delighted laugh. "I like her," she said, gesturing toward Vanessa with her drink. "Keep her."
Ethan didn't miss a beat. His smirk returned—lazy, confident, impossibly dangerous.
"Oh," he said softly, the heat in his voice coiled just beneath the surface, "I intend to."
Vanessa's stomach dropped—and not in a bad way.
In a very bad way.
Because she was supposed to be winning. She'd had him cornered, flustered, momentarily off-balance. And now, just like that, he'd slithered right back into control. With one sentence. One look. She hated him for it.
And she wanted to kiss him for it.
Not just a light, teasing brush of lips. No—Vanessa wanted to lean across the table, grab him by that damn collar, and silence that smug, knowing smirk with a kiss that would leave them both breathless. She wanted to feel his composure crack beneath her hands, to watch that careful, cocky mask of his crumble just a little more. To taste the warmth behind that maddening smirk.
But instead, she took another bite of her meal—though the food, for all its flavor and richness, had faded into the background. The sandwich that had once earned her full attention was now just a placeholder, a distraction from the real heat simmering between them.
She was aware of every shift in the air between them. Every accidental brush of his sleeve against hers, every low murmur of his voice in German, every glance that lingered a beat too long.
Ethan's aunt came and went throughout the lunch, moving with the quiet ease of someone who belonged completely in her space. Sometimes she paused to speak with Ethan, their German exchanged in soft tones that flowed too quickly for Vanessa to follow. Other times, she offered Vanessa a passing comment in English—compliments on her taste, questions about the trip, little things that added up to something far more significant.
It was… casual.
Too casual.
As if she were already a part of the family.
And maybe—just maybe—she was.
The thought landed hard in Vanessa's chest, heavier than expected. She hadn't seen it coming. Hadn't planned for it. She prided herself on being observant, on keeping her emotions tucked tight beneath layers of sarcasm and steel. But she hadn't prepared for this. For the way Ethan's aunt smiled at her with something warmer than politeness. For the way his uncle had looked at her with a kind of quiet approval, like he'd been watching and waiting to see if she would fit.
And apparently… she did.
The realization echoed inside her like a bell toll. Loud. Startling. Resonant.
She wasn't used to this kind of acceptance. Not in this way. Not so immediately. Not so effortlessly.
Her own family, though loving, had always felt a little... segmented. Conditional. She loved them, but she knew how many ways they measured and weighed. There were rules. Appearances to keep. Expectations to manage.
This was different.
This was simple.
She saw it in the way Ethan's aunt affectionately touched his shoulder when passing by, in the unthinking brush of fingers through his hair from his uncle, like he was still a boy in some ways. These were not grand gestures. They were small, unconscious habits—habits born from years of knowing, of loving, of staying.
And God, did it make something ache inside her.
Because Vanessa knew how to read people. She always had. And Ethan? She'd spent months peeling him apart, layer by guarded layer. But here—here—he was different. Still himself, yes. Still quick with a quip, still infuriatingly unreadable most of the time. But there was something looser in his posture. Something gentler in the curve of his mouth when he smiled at his aunt. Something that told her: this is home.
And suddenly, she wanted to know everything about this version of him.
She wanted to know what he looked like laughing in this kitchen as a teenager. Wanted to hear the stories that made him roll his eyes and groan. Wanted to know what kind of trouble he used to get into here. What memories still lived in the walls of this tiny, ivy-wrapped café.
She wanted to know what Ethan looked like when he wasn't holding the world at arm's length.
Her gaze drifted toward him, unbidden, just as he picked up his drink. His movements were fluid, unhurried. Comfortable in a way she rarely saw. His mouth curved into a quiet half-smile at something his aunt said in passing, and Vanessa's chest tightened all over again.
Was this what he looked like when he wasn't carrying the weight of everything he never said?
The thought made her throat tighten. She swallowed hard, pressing the bite of food in her mouth against her tongue, grounding herself.
And then—like he could feel her watching—Ethan turned to her.
His eyes flicked across her face, sharp and discerning. "What?" he asked, one brow arched, voice low.
Vanessa blinked and quickly dropped her gaze, stuffing another bite into her mouth as if that would help swallow down the thoughts racing through her.
"Nothing," she said, too quickly.
He didn't believe her.
She saw it in the subtle twitch at the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes lingered just a moment longer than they needed to. But, mercifully, he didn't push. Instead, he hummed and sipped from his glass again, letting the silence settle.
His aunt returned just then, placing down dessert—something golden and delicate, probably handmade. It smelled like vanilla and almond and sugar. Comfort in edible form.
"You two are staying for a while, right?" she asked as she wiped her hands on a dish towel. "There's so much you haven't seen yet."
Ethan shrugged, noncommittal. "We'll see."
His aunt rolled her eyes with an affectionate scoff before turning her gaze to Vanessa. "And you? What do you think of Germany so far?"
Vanessa took a breath, choosing her words carefully. "It's... different," she admitted. "But I like it."
"Good," the woman said with a satisfied nod. Then, with a glance that was far too knowing, she added, "I hope you're keeping him out of trouble."
Vanessa felt a wicked grin bloom across her lips, slow and sharp.
"Oh," she purred, catching the shift in Ethan's posture out of the corner of her eye, "I try my best."
Ethan exhaled sharply, barely a sigh, but enough to tell her she'd struck a nerve.
"Vanessa," he warned, voice low.
She turned toward him with wide, mock-innocent eyes. "Yes?"
His jaw flexed slightly, and his gaze darkened—hot and quiet and just this side of dangerous.
Oh, he hated when she got the upper hand. Which, of course, only made her want to press harder.
But before she could, his aunt laughed, cutting the tension like a blade through velvet.
"You two are dangerous together," she said with a shake of her head before reaching out to pat Ethan's cheek. "But I like her. Don't mess this up."
And then she vanished again, back into the kitchen, leaving behind silence and a pulse that suddenly felt too loud in Vanessa's ears.
She turned back to Ethan, her smile slow and sharp.
"Don't mess this up?" she echoed, tilting her head like she was still considering the words. "Huh. It's almost like you should be the one making sure I don't leave, not the other way around."
Ethan didn't flinch.
He didn't even blink.
Instead, he leaned forward, elbows on the table, eyes locked on hers. When he spoke, his voice dropped into something so low, so intimate, it brushed along the edge of her skin like a whisper she could feel rather than hear.
"Who said I wasn't?"
Time stopped.
For one long, silent second, Vanessa forgot to breathe.
Because that tone?
That tone.
It was lethal.
It wasn't playful. It wasn't teasing.
It was real.
And it was intentional.
It crawled down her spine like warm fingertips. It sent heat flaring in her chest, coiling tight and low in her belly. She hated how easily he could do that—turn the entire game on its head with just one sentence. One look.
And he knew it.
She shoved another bite into her mouth—not because she was hungry, but because she needed something to ground her. To keep from launching across the table and dragging him down to her level.
Ethan leaned back again, smug as ever, his smirk returning as if to say, checkmate.
Vanessa chewed slowly. Deliberately. Refused to let her eyes leave his.
Because this wasn't over.
Not by a long shot.
Soon they ended lunch and despite Ethan's please his uncle refused to tale the money he was offering for the lunch and after a warm goodbye they both left for the market.
Vanessa could still feel the aftermath of the ride humming through her bones as she swung her leg off Ethan's bike. The pavement felt unsteady beneath her, like the world hadn't quite stopped spinning. Her legs wobbled, a traitorous tremble that had little to do with the adrenaline of speed and everything to do with the solid, unrelenting pressure of his body behind hers during the ride. Every subtle shift of her hips, every curve of the road—they'd ridden like a single entity, her back to his chest, her hands gripping the sides of his jacket, fingers twitching with each rumble of the engine.
She shouldn't still feel it.
But she did.
The heat of him. The awareness.
The way he'd been a fortress behind her, unshakable and warm and there.
Vanessa cleared her throat, pushing the thought aside, though her fingers ached to reach back for him again.
Not now.
Instead, she took the safer path—slipping her arm through his as they stepped into the vibrant glow of the evening market. The steady warmth of his body beside hers, the quiet strength in his stride, grounded her. She held on.
And still, the electric edge of the ride clung to her skin.
The market was alive.
Lanterns hung overhead like floating stars, casting golden halos onto the cobblestone below. Every corner of the space buzzed with life. Vendors shouted over each other in a rhythmic mix of German and accented English, trying to entice passersby with promises of handmade trinkets and fresh baked goods. The scents in the air were intoxicating—warm bread, cinnamon-roasted almonds, the burn of mulled wine, something sharp and citrusy lingering beneath it all.
It felt like stepping into another world—one rich with memory and story, one that had existed long before her and would continue long after.
Vanessa let herself relax, just a little.
They strolled slowly, weaving through the crowd, the sound of laughter and music washing over them. Her eyes were drawn to everything—the delicate porcelain figurines, the intricate embroidery on handwoven scarves, the smooth curve of leather belts that smelled like earth and oil. It was beautiful, in the way old places often were: unpolished, authentic, full of things that had been touched and loved by time.
Then she paused at a chocolate stand, drawn in by the ornate wrappings and precise arrangements. Her gaze settled on a small box—gold foil, tied with a ribbon so perfectly curled it almost felt wrong to undo it.
Maybe for Mom and Dad?
A peace offering, maybe. Something to say: I'm okay. I'm still me. I haven't lost myself in him.
Ethan followed her gaze. "Want it?"
Vanessa narrowed her eyes, her tone dry. "Are you just going to buy everything I look at now?"
His smirk was slow and easy. "Maybe."
She rolled her eyes, but the smile tugging at her lips was real. Warm. Damn him.
She was about to throw back a quip, something flirty and irreverent—when he stopped.
Just like that.
Vanessa's arm slipped from his as his entire body went still.
She turned, brows pulling together.
"Ethan?"
He didn't answer.
Didn't even look at her.
His eyes were fixed on a nearby jewelry stall.
Vanessa followed his gaze, frowning—until she saw what he was staring at.
A single necklace.
It was nestled between a tangled mess of silver chains and gemstone pendants, barely highlighted by the dim yellow lantern above it. But there was something about it—simple, elegant, distinct. A delicate chain with a narrow, oval-shaped pendant etched with the softest floral design.
Ethan's face had drained of all color.
She barely had time to process before he stepped forward—abrupt, urgent—and began speaking rapidly to the vendor in German. His voice was low but fast, too fast for her to follow, clipped with a sharpness she hadn't heard ever.
It was that same edge now.
Not anger.
Not exactly.
Something colder. Deeper.
Pain.
He asked where it came from. How much. The words she did catch were strained, almost guttural.
The vendor looked startled but nodded quickly, gesturing to a bin of older pieces. Ethan didn't hesitate. He pulled out his wallet, counted out the full price, and handed it over without a word of negotiation.
The necklace was placed in his hand.
And he gripped it like it was the only thing keeping him standing.
Vanessa stepped closer, heart thudding harder now. She hadn't seen him like this—not even once. Not even in their worst moments. He looked like he wasn't breathing. Like he was somewhere else entirely. Lost.
"Ethan," she murmured, touching his arm gently.
No response.
His fingers were tight around the necklace, his knuckles pale. Slowly, as if the weight of it burned, he loosened his grip—and the pendant slipped through his fingers just enough for her to see it clearly.
Her breath caught.
She knew that necklace.
Not from a store. Not from any display case or magazine.
But from a photograph.
One of the few Ethan had shown her—quietly, almost accidentally. A single image, slightly grainy, old enough to have softened at the edges. His mother. Young, smiling, radiant in a way that had made Vanessa's chest ache. And around her neck—
This.
This necklace.
Vanessa's throat went dry. Her chest tightened, raw and aching.
She looked back up at Ethan.
He was still staring at it. Still not blinking.
"…Ethan?" she whispered, barely audible now.
For a long moment, there was only silence.
Then he spoke.
"It was hers."
Three words.
Soft.
So quiet they nearly disappeared into the air.
But they hit like a punch.
Vanessa's heart clenched so hard it almost hurt. She didn't know what to say. Nothing seemed enough. Nothing was enough. Not for this.
Instead, she stepped closer. Reached out.
Her fingers brushed over the back of his hand, slow and deliberate.
He didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Just stood there—silent, still, broken open in a way she had never seen before.
The Ethan she knew was all control. Precision. Calculated responses and walls so high even she struggled to scale them. But here, holding this tiny, delicate thing—a ghost of his past, a fragment of a life stolen too soon—he looked… unguarded.
He looked like a boy who had lost his mother.
She squeezed his hand.
Just slightly. Just enough.
His breath shuddered out of him.
And finally—finally—he exhaled.
Vanessa didn't move.
She let her hand stay, fingers curled lightly against his, grounding him in the present, even as the past hung heavy in the air around them.
People bustled past, the world continuing without pause. The music played on, the vendors still laughing and shouting and haggling. But for her—for them—it had all gone quiet.
The necklace gleamed faintly in the lantern light, cradled in Ethan's hand like a heartbeat.
And still, he didn't speak.
Vanessa didn't ask. She didn't need to.
Because some grief didn't require explanation.
Some pain was old enough that words only ever made it worse.
Ethan didn't rush.
That wasn't who he was.
He was the embodiment of control—his calm, calculated manner was something she'd grown used to, maybe even leaned on. So when he suddenly gripped her hand with a grip that bordered on rough, and strode down the cobbled path without a word, her heart skipped in startled response.
He didn't ask.
He just moved, with a kind of sharp, focused intent that left no room for hesitation. Vanessa had to scramble slightly to keep up, their steps falling out of sync before she adjusted to his pace. His fingers were tight around hers—not painful, but solid, possessive, as if letting go wasn't even an option.
The way he clutched the necklace, tucked inside his closed fist like a secret too precious to breathe on, had her mind spinning. It wasn't just important to him.
It was him.
Some vital, buried piece of his soul had just been unearthed—and now he was holding it like it might vanish if he blinked.
The jewelry store they stepped into was warm, its lighting soft and golden, designed to reflect off every glass case and crystal. It was a world apart from the chaotic hum of the street—a cocoon of quiet elegance.
Ethan didn't even glance around.
He moved directly to the counter, speaking in rapid, perfect German that seemed to catch the jeweler slightly off-guard. Vanessa stayed close, a few steps behind, her eyes fixed on the way his jaw tensed as he laid the necklace down on a velvet pad.
His voice was low, but there was urgency in it. No hesitation. Only intent.
The jeweler handled the piece with reverence, slipping on white gloves and examining the delicate pendant beneath the glare of a bright inspection lamp. Vanessa watched the man's careful fingers, the way he tilted the chain, the expression of growing recognition on his face.
Beside her, Ethan was a statue.
Still. Tense.
But under that calm exterior was a storm.
Vanessa could feel it—thrumming beneath his skin, vibrating in the air between them. This wasn't about value. Not in the way the store meant it. This was about truth. About something real being acknowledged.
Minutes passed in taut silence. Every tick of the wall clock stretched.
Then, at last, the jeweler spoke. Calm. Assured.
It was real.
Genuine gold. Handcrafted. Dated to the era Ethan would've known his mother to wear it.
And just like that, Ethan exhaled.
Not a sigh of relief. Not quite.
It was more like the slow release of breath after being underwater for too long.
His shoulders lowered slightly, some tight coil inside him loosening—but not completely. The tension remained, subtle now, woven into his posture like a scar.
Vanessa felt a swell of something she couldn't name. It sat heavy in her chest, somewhere between pride and sorrow. This mattered to him. Deeply. In a way that reached beyond words or logic. And she hadn't realized—until now—just how much of him he'd kept hidden from her.
Before she could speak—before she could even reach for his hand—he turned to her.
And the look in his eyes silenced her.
There was something unreadable in his gaze. Not cold, not guarded. But focused. Like he was seeing her and some decision had already been made in his mind.
"Turn around," he said.
She blinked. "What? Why?"
He arched a brow, his tone deceptively casual. "Just do it."
Vanessa frowned, narrowing her eyes. His voice was too even. Too neutral.
That was never a good sign.
Still, her body responded before her mind could catch up, turning slowly, casting a sidelong glance over her shoulder. "If you tie my shoelaces together, I swear to God—"
Then she felt it.
His touch.
Not even the necklace—him.
Ethan's fingers brushed her neck, sweeping her hair aside in one deliberate motion. She went still, her body reacting before her thoughts did. A shiver danced down her spine, breath catching in her throat.
There was something almost reverent in the way he touched her—light, careful, as if her skin might bruise from too much pressure.
Then, the whisper of cool metal.
She felt the chain ghost against her skin before it settled, feather-light and chilling in contrast to the warmth of his fingertips. The clasp clicked shut, and with it came the slow, impossible realization of what he'd just done.
He was putting it on her.
Her mind went blank.
"…Ethan," she breathed. She didn't mean to say his name. It just escaped.
His hands lingered for half a second longer—then dropped.
Vanessa turned, her fingers instinctively rising to the pendant that now sat against her cleavage. She knew what it was before she even looked.
It wasn't just a necklace.
It was hers now.
Her gaze snapped to Ethan, wide with something she couldn't fully process—shock, awe, confusion… and something warmer. Something terrifying.
"This—" Her voice cracked. "This was your mother's."
He met her gaze. Steady. Certain.
"Now it's yours."
Four words. Quiet. Unequivocal.
Vanessa didn't know what to do with them.
The weight of the necklace was nothing compared to the weight of what it meant. Ethan—who barely talked about his past, who changed the subject when she asked too much, who carried his pain like armor—had just given her this.
His mother's necklace.
Something irreplaceable.
Something sacred.
Her chest constricted, breath shallow.
He'd handed her a piece of himself.
And she… she didn't even know how to hold it properly.
This wasn't playful.
This wasn't a flirtation or a tease or part of their usual sparring.
This was Ethan.
Opening a door he never let anyone through. And she was standing in the threshold, stunned and reeling.
He'd planned for her to be here.
She saw it now. In the way he watched her. In the way he'd walked straight into this shop without hesitation.
He'd wanted this.
Wanted her here, wearing this.
Wanted her close.
Vanessa felt something inside her shift—something deep and irreversible.
She didn't think.
She just moved.
Her fingers fisted in the front of his shirt, yanking him toward her with a roughness she didn't know she had in her. She rose on her toes and kissed him.
Hard.
No hesitations. No filters. Just need.
Ethan froze for a fraction of a second, the surprise rippling through him—
Then he was kissing her back.
God, kissing her back.
His hands found her waist instantly, gripping her tight, pulling her flush against him. His mouth was slow, deep, commanding—like he had no intention of letting her go until he'd mapped every part of her lips with his own.
It wasn't careful.
It wasn't soft.
It was claiming.
Vanessa melted into it, her body arching, her pulse slamming in her throat. She kissed him like she was drowning. Like he was the air.
All the emotion from earlier, all the tangled threads of want and fear and hope—it poured into the kiss.
Everything she couldn't say.
Everything she felt.
A soft throat-clearing shattered the moment.
Vanessa barely registered it.
Not until Ethan let out a low chuckle against her lips—deep, rich, and maddeningly smug.
She pulled back with a start, blinking as reality came rushing back in.
The jeweler was watching them with a long-suffering expression.
And a tourist had stopped mid-step outside the window, openly staring.
Her cheeks went up in flames.
Ethan?
He looked positively delighted.
"Couldn't wait until we got outside, huh?" he murmured, voice laced with something warm and dark that curled around her spine.
Vanessa glared. "Shut up."
He tilted his head innocently. "You're the one who kissed me."
Oh, he was enjoying this.
She was going to strangle him. Later.
Before she could craft an appropriately scathing comeback, he leaned in again—closer this time—and brushed his lips against the shell of her ear.
"Didn't say I didn't like it," he whispered.
Her knees nearly buckled.
How did he do that? How could one whisper short-circuit her entire nervous system?
But two could play.
She lifted her chin, letting a slow, wicked smile curl her lips.
"Good," she purred, voice low. "Because that was just a thank-you."
Ethan stilled. Just slightly.
Her smile grew.
She leaned in until her mouth nearly touched his, her breath warm against his skin.
"Imagine what the real reward will be."
Then she turned and walked out—slow, deliberate steps, hips swaying with every ounce of confidence she had.
She didn't need to look back.
She knew he was watching.
She could feel it—his eyes on her as if tethered by something invisible yet inescapably strong. The pendant he had placed around her neck earlier, Ethan's mother's necklace, lay cool and heavy against bosom, a weight that felt far more intimate than its size suggested. Each time Vanessa's fingers brushed over it, she remembered the precise touch of his hands at her nape, the steady warmth of his breath, the reverent way he'd fastened it like a ritual more than a gesture.
And now, here they were—arm-in-arm, strolling through the golden hum of the night market.
The world bustled around them. The aroma of spiced meats curled through the air like smoke, weaving through the sweeter notes of sugared almonds and roasted chestnuts. Laughter drifted from every corner, the sound of foreign music echoing from tucked-away corners, a rhythmic hum against the cobblestone beneath their feet. Lanterns hung low on crisscrossing wires overhead, throwing shadows in hues of amber and gold, swaying slightly in the night breeze.
Vanessa should have been relaxed. She should have been grinning at the silly cat keychain she'd just bought for Hannah—grumpy and adorable and a perfect caricature of her best friend's usual pre-coffee expression. Her other hand still held a small bag with a sleek leather wallet for her father and rare teas her mother would swoon over.
But all that faded the moment she appeared.
Vanessa didn't even catch her name at first. Just saw the shift.
The way Ethan's posture altered—not stiff, exactly. Just... measured. Guarded. Like he'd braced for something.
Vanessa's instincts screamed. Something about the pause in his steps. The flicker of his eyes. The way his fingers subtly shifted on her arm—not withdrawing, but definitely... changing.
And then the girl smiled.
That kind of smile—the kind that cracked open something Vanessa didn't want touched. The kind that said I knew you before she did. The kind that carried the ghosts of shared history, of old conversations, late-night confessions, things Vanessa had never been a part of.
The girl was stunning, of course. Tall, with copper-red hair swept into an effortless bun, features both soft and striking, the kind of bone structure that suggested royalty or heartbreak—or both. And her eyes—black and too knowing—landed on Ethan like he was familiar terrain.
The pit in Vanessa's stomach grew cold.
"This is Anna," Ethan said, his voice deliberately neutral. "Short for Anastasia."
Anna.
A harmless name. Sweet. Delicate.
Vanessa hated it instantly.
She clung tighter to Ethan's arm, subtle but deliberate, her touch gliding up his sleeve like silk over tension. She could almost feel the smile tug at his mouth—just barely—but his gaze stayed on Anna.
"This is Vanessa," he added, his tone darker now. Sharper. "My girlfriend."
Girlfriend. The word landed between them like a drawn sword.
Vanessa's chest squeezed in something dangerously close to satisfaction. That word wasn't just for Anna's benefit. It was for hers. It wasn't a deflection. It was a line drawn in ink.
Still, Anna's face barely twitched. Her composure was infuriating. A flicker of something—recognition? Disappointment? Bitterness?—passed through her expression like a cloud shadowing the sun, and then vanished.
"So," Anna said, her voice calm and casual, "you finally brought someone home."
Finally.
The word rang like a warning bell in Vanessa's head.
It was spoken lightly, wrapped in faux politeness, but it struck with precision. That single word told her everything—Anna had waited. Anna had been here. Anna had watched him leave, and she had expected—what? That he'd never bring someone back? That when he did, it would be her?
Vanessa's jaw clenched, her entire body tensing with it. Her grip on Ethan's arm grew tighter, enough to imprint her frustration onto the fabric of his sleeve.
He laughed, lightly, his voice lacking its usual edge. "Yeah," he said. "Thought it was about time."
You thought it was about time?
She wanted to elbow him. Or kiss him. Or maybe both.
Instead, she focused on Anna, sizing her up with a single glance. Everything about the girl screamed effortless elegance—from the tailored jacket she wore, to the boots that likely cost more than Vanessa's salary. And worst of all was the ease with which she stood there, like she had history written into the soil of this place, like she belonged.
Vanessa had always been sharp around the edges. But this? This kind of passive-aggressive civility? It made her blood boil.
She smiled sweetly, venom coating the sugar.
"You never mentioned Anna before."
There was a bite in her voice now. She wasn't even trying to hide it.
Ethan shifted beside her, barely a twitch, but she caught it. He knew. Oh, he knew the storm was coming.
Anna laughed again—polite, practiced. "Oh, we go way back."
Vanessa tilted her head. "Do you?"
Ethan sighed.
That sigh—God, that infuriating sigh—meant don't start, Nessa. But she didn't care. Not now.
"We were childhood friends," Anna said smoothly, her eyes flicking to Ethan for just a moment too long before turning back to Vanessa.
Vanessa's stomach twisted.
Childhood friends. The kind of friendship that grew up in silence and summers and long looks and secrets too intimate for outsiders to know. The kind that turned into something—or threatened to—without anyone saying it aloud.
Had Anna ever seen Ethan when he wasn't being the polished, composed version of himself?
Had she watched him fall apart?
Or worse—had she been the one to put him back together?
Vanessa had bullied Ethan for years. Tormented him. Poked and prodded until she'd discovered all the places he flinched. But she had also been there—when no one else had. She had seen him, in ways others hadn't. And now? This girl dared to appear like some ghost from his past, like she had equal claim?
Not happening.
Vanessa took a step forward, so close now that her chest brushed Ethan's side. Her hands slid up the front of his shirt, deliberate, possessive. She traced the hard lines beneath the fabric, letting her nails ghost over the spot where his heart beat.
She felt the muscle beneath her fingers tighten.
Ethan looked down at her, unreadable—but she caught it. That flicker. That low simmer of amusement beneath the cool exterior. He knew exactly what she was doing.
Good.
Vanessa tilted her head, letting her lips part just slightly, letting her voice dip into something low and suggestive. "You know, babe," she murmured, dragging out the word just to savor the way Anna's jaw tightened, "I think we should get going."
She turned just enough to let her voice carry, but kept her body flush against Ethan's.
"Didn't you promise me a more… private tour of the city?"
The effect was instantaneous.
Ethan's hand dropped low on her back, fingers splaying across her hip. His touch grounded her, but it was also a challenge—keep going, it said. Push me.
Anna cleared her throat, her mask cracking for just a moment.
Vanessa smiled. Beamed, really.
Let her stare. Let her feel it—the loss, the shift, the moment she realized that whatever she had once meant to Ethan was now obsolete.
Vanessa had fought hard for her place here. She wasn't about to let a ghost from his past rattle her.
Still, something beneath her smugness trembled. A quiet part of her that whispered: You didn't know about her. What else don't you know?
But she buried it. That fear. That ugly little voice.
Instead, she arched her back slightly, brushing up against Ethan as she turned. "Come on, love," she said over her shoulder, her tone light, almost singsong. "Let's not keep your promises waiting."
And with that, she walked away, hips swaying, chin high, daring either of them to say something more.
She didn't have to look back to know Ethan was following.
She felt him behind her.
Felt the shift in the air.
Felt the way his silence wrapped around her like a second skin.
When he finally caught up, it was in one smooth motion—his hand finding hers, fingers lacing through hers like they always had, like they belonged there.
Vanessa didn't say anything. Neither did he.
But her heart was pounding. Not with jealousy anymore. Not even with anger.
With something far more dangerous.
Something that whispered, What the hell are we doing to each other?
ANNA'S POV
The moment she saw him, her heart lurched—too fast, too familiar—and she hated that her body betrayed her before her mind could catch up.
Ethan.
It had been years. Enough time for scars to fade, for people to change. But he still looked exactly the same. Maybe a little taller, a little leaner in the jaw, but that calm, quietly dangerous presence remained untouched. Like the world moved around him, not the other way around. His eyes were just as intense, his mouth still curved with that faint smirk—the one that always looked like he knew more than he should, like he carried secrets no one else would ever be clever enough to pry from him.
And for a single, unguarded second, Anna forgot everything else.
Her feet moved on instinct. Her pulse quickened. Hope surged into her chest so swiftly that it shocked her. She wasn't ready for it. She hadn't planned for it. But there it was—unfiltered, stupid hope.
She thought: Maybe...
But then she saw her.
The girl on his arm.
Vanessa.
The name came later, but the impact of her presence hit Anna instantly. There was no mistaking the intimacy of their posture, the way Vanessa pressed herself into Ethan's side like she was molded from his shadow. No mistaking the way her hand toyed with a pendant that gleamed delicately on her chest—his pendant. No mistaking the effortless dominance in the way she moved, like the space around Ethan was hers, like she owned the very air he breathed.
And Anna's heart… fractured.
Because the joy that had bloomed in her chest withered in an instant. Her steps slowed. Her face betrayed her, just for a moment, just enough to betray her disappointment.
Of course he had someone.
Of course he did.
And of course she was beautiful.
No—more than that. She was stunning. The kind of beautiful that made people pause. But it wasn't just her looks—it was her presence. It was the sharpness in her gaze, the confidence in her posture, the way she radiated control. This wasn't some wide-eyed girlfriend still fumbling her way through Ethan's complexities.
This was a woman who knew him.
Intimately.
And the moment their eyes met, Anna felt the shift.
She tried to smile, keep things light, keep herself from unraveling. But the words that spilled out of her mouth betrayed her, slicing through the moment with more weight than she meant to reveal.
"So, you finally brought someone home."
The second she said it, she regretted it.
But it was too late.
Vanessa's eyes sharpened, her posture stiffening ever so slightly, and Anna felt the sting of the tension ripple between them like a crackle of static electricity.
Territorial. That was the word. Vanessa hadn't just heard the words—she'd felt them. Felt the threat buried beneath the calm. And she responded in kind.
Her grip on Ethan's arm shifted. Not dramatically. Just enough to say something. Enough to answer Anna's unspoken challenge with one of her own.
Anna didn't miss it.
And Ethan—oh, Ethan—stood in the middle like the eye of the storm, calm and maddeningly relaxed. If he felt the energy pulsing between the two women, he didn't show it. Or maybe he was enjoying it.
That thought made Anna's stomach twist.
"Yeah," he said, raking a hand through his hair—an old, familiar gesture that made Anna ache in a place she thought had long gone numb. "Thought it was about time."
Vanessa shot him a sideways glance, sharp enough to cut.
Anna nearly smiled.
This was tense. This was layered. And it was messy.
She wanted to hate it.
She didn't.
Instead, she chuckled softly, letting her gaze linger on Ethan for half a breath too long before shifting it back to Vanessa. She smiled—sweet, harmless. But calculated.
"We were childhood friends," she said.
Vanessa's response wasn't verbal. But her expression said enough.
Eyes narrowing, shoulders tensing.
Jealous.
It was such a small thing, but Anna caught it. And the knowledge hit her with a jolt she didn't expect.
This woman—this goddess of steel and fire—was threatened.
By her.
That one realization sent a thrill through Anna's chest. Not out of spite. Not because she wanted to win. But because, for a fleeting moment, she hadn't been invisible. She hadn't been irrelevant.
And in the strange, twisted web that bound the three of them together in that tiny marketplace shop, that mattered.
For a heartbeat, Anna considered pushing it further. Testing the water. Seeing just how far Vanessa would go to defend her territory.
But before she could even breathe another word, Vanessa moved.
Slowly. Purposefully.
She turned into Ethan like it was the most natural thing in the world, her hands gliding up his chest, fingers dancing across his shirt as if she were playing a private melody only he could hear. She touched him like she knew him—every edge, every reaction, every secret spot that made him pause.
Ethan didn't flinch.
Didn't pull away.
But Anna saw it—the tension in his jaw, the flicker in his eyes. Amusement. And heat.
This wasn't just a display.
This was real.
And just like that, Anna understood.
Whatever she had once shared with Ethan—whatever history, whatever soft memories of childhood whispers and late-night bonfires—it couldn't hold a candle to this wildfire that had taken root in him.
Because Ethan wasn't a boy anymore.
And this woman—Vanessa—she didn't just date him.
She claimed him.
"You know, babe," Vanessa purred, voice honey-laced and razor-sharp, "I really think we should get going. Didn't you promise me a more... private tour of the city?"
And Ethan's lips curved, not in surprise, but in appreciation. His eyes dipped in that dark, slow way Anna remembered. The one that always came before trouble.
Anna felt her breath catch.
And that's when it hit her.
She had lost.
Not in some dramatic, catastrophic way.
But quietly. Utterly.
Before she'd even stepped into the shop.
Because this thing between Ethan and Vanessa—it wasn't shallow. It wasn't new.
It was messy and raw and dangerous and deep.
And Anna could see now—they were each other's storm.
She was never going to compete with that.
Vanessa turned, graceful and victorious, walking out with a sway in her hips that was deliberate in the cruelest way. Ethan lingered just long enough to look back—his expression softer now, almost apologetic.
"Sorry, Anna," he said, shrugging. "She gets that way. See you around."
There wasn't malice in his voice.
There wasn't pity either.
Just resignation.
And that made it worse.
She wanted him to stay. To say more. To mean more.
But instead, he followed her.
Without looking back.
Anna stood in the quiet that followed, the lingering scent of sweet spices and aged wood clinging to the air around her. Her heart thudded softly beneath her ribs, not broken, but bruised.
Not from Vanessa's posturing.
Not even from Ethan's silence.
But from the realization that she had waited too long. That whatever window had once existed between them—it was shut now. Sealed with fire and friction and need.
And she was not part of it.
So she smiled.
Small. Soft. The kind of smile you gave someone on their wedding day when you knew you'd once loved them but now only wished them happiness.
She raised her hand in a gentle wave, voice light and calm as she whispered, "Goodbye, Ethan."
He didn't hear her.
He was already gone.
BACK TO 3RD PERSON
The second they stepped out of the shop, Vanessa turned on him like a storm breaking loose—quiet, swift, and all-consuming.
Her fist landed squarely on Ethan's shoulder.
Not hard enough to hurt—but enough to say something. Enough to drive a point home like a gavel slamming down in a courtroom full of lies.
Ethan barely reacted. Of course he didn't.
Unshaken. Unmoved.
His calm in the face of her spiraling fury only added fuel to the fire already blazing in her chest.
"Would you please stop surprising me every ten damn minutes?" she hissed, glaring up at him. Her voice was sharp—high with tension and too many tangled emotions to name.
His eyes sparkled in the lamplight, all infuriating amusement and patience, like she was cute for losing her mind.
Vanessa's jaw clenched. "First, you speak German fluently—without even mentioning it. Like that's some casual side fact I wasn't supposed to know."
Ethan said nothing.
She forged ahead, breath quickening. "Then I find out you somehow already knew I'd come to Germany with you—weeks before I even said yes. You didn't even blink when I agreed, like it was already written in the damn stars or something!"
He raised a brow, but she barely noticed. Her hand shot up to the necklace resting against her chest—the one he had so carelessly, intimately placed on her earlier like it was nothing. Like it didn't carry meaning heavier than she could hold.
"And now there's Anna?" Her voice cracked, more from frustration than insecurity, but still—damn it, she hated that. "Really, Ethan?"
Vanessa stepped in closer, arms folded tight across her chest, her breath hitching slightly from the adrenaline still coursing through her veins. Her heart wouldn't slow down. Couldn't.
Her chin lifted, her posture daring him to lie. "Is there anything else I should be bracing for? Maybe a secret twin brother? A secret fiancée? Should I just schedule daily panic attacks at this point?"
Ethan didn't flinch.
Didn't defend.
Just looked at her like he always did—like he knew something she didn't. Like her outbursts were just weather systems passing through his landscape.
That smirk tugged at the edge of his lips—slow, deliberate. Lazy and lethal.
He tilted his head, voice smooth enough to send chills skittering down her spine.
"You forgot the part where I also managed to get you jealous in record time."
Vanessa's nostrils flared.
Oh, he did not.
He was baiting her. Deliberately, deliciously, insufferably baiting her. And she hated how easily she fell for it. How her blood heated and her thoughts turned to smoke with just a few stupid words from his stupid, perfect mouth.
Fine.
She took another step forward, entering his space without hesitation. Her fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer—until his chest brushed hers and her breath caught between them.
Her voice dropped, low and thick with challenge. "Jealous?" she echoed, eyes narrowing. "Is that what you think this is?"
Ethan didn't back away. His hands found her hips with maddening ease, thumbs stroking the fabric of her dress like he was memorizing the shape of her. His gaze burned into hers—equal parts knowing and hungry.
"I think," he murmured, voice brushing against her like a kiss, "that I've never seen you get quite so... possessive before."
Vanessa smiled slowly, her smirk dripping with syrup and steel.
"Oh, babe," she purred, standing on tiptoe until her lips hovered a breath from his, "I've always been possessive. You're just mine now—so I don't have to hide it anymore."
The amusement in his eyes darkened—softening into something heavier. Something dangerous.
Something real.
She felt the shift—like the ground tipping beneath them. His hands flexed just slightly, the muscle in his jaw twitching as he tried to keep it together.
And in that moment, she knew she had him. Again.
Not just physically. Not just emotionally.
But entirely.
And she wasn't ashamed of how much she loved it.
The ride back to his grandparents' house was exactly what she'd expected: a nightmare disguised as romance.
She held onto him like her life depended on it—because, quite frankly, it did.
Her arms were wrapped so tightly around his torso she was sure she left imprints. Every curve of his back, every line of his body, was seared into her palms from sheer survival instinct. He weaved through the streets like traffic laws were merely suggestions, and each sharp turn sent her heart plummeting into her stomach.
"Slow down," she shouted at one point—but the wind swallowed her words and Ethan didn't slow at all.
Every time he accelerated, she swore the world blurred around her.
By the time they finally pulled into the driveway, her legs felt like jelly. She slid off the bike in a daze, every muscle in her body aching from the tension she'd been clinging to like a lifeline.
She smoothed her jacket and leggings, trying to disguise the trembling in her limbs. It didn't help. Her hair was a wind-tangled mess, her nerves were wrecked, and her pride had probably bounced off the pavement a few blocks back.
"That's it," she huffed, fixing him with a glare as he casually removed his helmet like they hadn't just flirted with death for twenty minutes. "Choosing the bike was the worst decision of my life."
Ethan chuckled, setting the helmets aside like he hadn't just shaved five years off her lifespan. "Oh? But I thought you liked holding on to me?"
Her eyes narrowed to dangerous slits. "There's a difference between wanting to hold you," she snapped, "and clinging to you so I don't end up as a tragic smear on the side of the pavement."
His smirk was wicked.
"Either way," he said smoothly, "you held on."
Vanessa groaned, throwing her head back like the sky could save her from this infuriating man.
"I hate you."
Ethan didn't even blink. Just leaned in close, that familiar heat curling around his words.
"No, you don't," he said, voice lower now. "If anything... I think you like it when I make your heart race."
Vanessa spun on her heel with a dramatic huff and stormed inside, pretending her cheeks weren't burning and her knees weren't still weak.
She hated him.
God, she hated how right he was.
But more than anything...
She hated how deeply she was falling—and how damn good it felt to fall.
And yet, it wasn't the falling that scared her.
It was how easy it felt. How natural. Like gravity wasn't dragging her under so much as Ethan was pulling her in—with every glance, every smirk, every maddening brush of his fingertips. There was something addictive in the way he looked at her like he already owned her soul, and something far worse in the way she started to believe he might.
It made her feel out of control—and Vanessa hated that.
After freshening up, the ride back to composure—or what little of it she could gather—was quiet. Unspoken tension still crackled between them like static, clinging to her skin as she ran a brush through her hair, applied the faintest touch of gloss to lips he hadn't quite kissed again, and stared at herself in the mirror longer than she meant to.
By the time they headed to dinner, Vanessa had built up a fragile wall of composure, though her pulse had not settled. Not with Ethan walking beside her, his hand grazing the small of her back with that maddening casualness. Not with the necklace still resting against her collarbone—delicate, weighted, intimate. And certainly not when they stepped into the dining room and she met the sharp, perceptive eyes of a woman who missed nothing.
Ethan's grandmother.
She had the same smirk as him.
Vanessa had noticed it the moment the older woman looked up from pouring tea and pinned her with a glance that felt like being x-rayed.
There it was. That knowing smile. That amused arch of a brow. Oh god, she thought, half-horrified, half-impressed. That's where he gets it from.
"So," the woman began without preamble, her voice rich with mirth, "have you gotten used to his reckless driving yet?"
Vanessa nearly choked on her first sip of tea. She coughed once, setting the cup down with exaggerated delicacy and slumping dramatically in her chair.
"Not even remotely," she said, with the weariness of someone who had barely survived.
Ethan, seated beside her with maddening calm, raised an eyebrow. "Reckless? Please. I'm a perfectly safe driver."
Vanessa turned toward him like he'd just claimed the Earth was flat. "Safe?!" Her voice pitched higher than she meant. "I thought I was going to die at least three times on the way home!"
His grandmother chuckled, clearly enjoying herself. "Oh, I believe it. His grandfather used to drive the same way when he was younger. Nearly gave me a heart attack every time I rode with him."
Vanessa clapped her hands together triumphantly. "See? It runs in the family. Your poor grandmother had to suffer through this too."
Ethan leaned back in his chair, unbothered as he poked at his food. "Suffer is a strong word. I think you just liked the excuse to hold onto me."
She kicked him under the table.
He didn't even flinch.
Of course not. His control was maddeningly consistent. That calm mask, that subtle smirk—unshakeable, untouchable. But under the table, his fingers brushed against her knee in retaliation—so light, so slow, she almost doubted it was deliberate.
Almost.
Dinner passed in a blur of teasing and laughter. To her surprise, Ethan's grandmother turned out to be a sharp ally, siding with Vanessa every time she lobbed another verbal jab at him. It felt good—easy, even—to be part of something that felt vaguely like family. But no amount of playful banter or mock indignation could stop the real battle brewing between them.
Because while Ethan deflected her teasing with his usual smug charm, something else simmered beneath it.
Smirks turned into smolder.
Gentle grazes turned into lingering touches beneath the table.
And with every brush of his fingers against her thigh, every meaningful glance across the wine glasses, every whisper-soft laugh shared between jabs, Vanessa could feel it—him—getting under her skin in ways she hadn't allowed anyone to in years.
By the time they said goodnight to his grandmother and returned to the quiet sanctuary of the guest room, Vanessa's nerves were frayed.
Not with anxiety.
With anticipation.
The tension between them hadn't snapped. It had stretched—tightened—coiled around them until her skin felt too hot, her thoughts too loud, and her body too aware of the space they were about to share.
Again.
She retreated to the bathroom first, needing a moment of silence to collect herself. She stood under the soft yellow light, staring at her reflection, heart pounding harder than it should. She touched the necklace—his necklace—with fingers that trembled more than she wanted to admit.
When she came out, the lights were dimmed, a soft amber glow from the bedside lamp casting long shadows against the walls. Ethan stood near the dresser, slipping off his watch with the kind of deliberate ease that felt... rehearsed.
Comfortable.
Like this—them—was something he'd known would happen all along.
She watched him, arms folded, heart thudding loud in her chest.
"Hey," she said, softly.
He glanced up, and even that simple shift of his gaze made her stomach flip.
"You never told me why this necklace means so much to you."
His hands stilled.
Just for a moment.
Then, without rushing, he turned to face her. That usual glint of mischief in his expression dulled—replaced by something slower, something quieter.
"It was my mother's."
His voice was low. Not sad—measured. Like he'd been carrying the words for years and still hadn't decided how much of them to share.
"My father gave it to her when they got engaged."
Vanessa's fingers stopped moving.
Her throat tightened, emotion creeping up with uninvited gentleness.
"Ethan—" she began, unsure what she was even trying to say.
He shook his head lightly, as if reading her thoughts, a small half-smile curving his lips—but not like before. This one was softer. Fainter. Real.
"I wanted you to have it."
Her heart clenched.
"You don't have to give me something this important," she whispered. "I'm not—"
"Don't I?" he cut in gently, taking a slow step forward. "Don't I want to?"
She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. Not with him closing the distance like that. Not with the air thickening around them again. Not with the scent of his cologne, fresh and clean and devastatingly him, wrapping around her like a second skin.
He reached for her—not in haste, not in hunger. Just… calm. Intimate.
His fingers lifted the chain gently, letting it slide through his grip until the pendant rested between them, right above her night shirt. His touch was feather-light, but it scorched her skin anyway.
"You wore it all evening," he murmured, his voice deeper now—velvet wrapped around steel. "You didn't take it off."
"Of course not," she managed, trying for nonchalance, though her pulse was deafening in her ears. "It's beautiful."
"So are you."
Simple. Quiet. Dangerous.
Vanessa sucked in a breath.
It wasn't just what he said—it was the way he said it. Like a confession. Like a truth he had never tried to hide but had waited for the perfect moment to speak aloud.
His fingers still lingered above the pendant, brushing the bare skin at her neck with maddening patience. Each graze sparked a new current of awareness that rippled through her, settling low in her belly.
His gaze flicked down—lips, collarbone, then back to her eyes. That smirk curled faintly, knowing. So knowing.
He wasn't touching her like a man trying to seduce.
He was touching her like a man who already had—and was letting her come to terms with it.
She hated him for that.
Hated how deeply she wanted to close the space. Hated that she could feel every inch of her restraint slipping, breath by breath.
"Ethan," she warned, her voice barely audible.
"Hm?" That simple sound wrapped around her like silk and heat.
He still hadn't moved. Not really. Just stood there, eyes locked to hers, fingers grazing like a whisper.
She could feel him waiting. Watching. Letting her simmer in her own hesitation.
And damn it, he was winning.
Her hands curled into fists at her sides. This was a game. It had to be. He was teasing her. Pushing her. Waiting for her to break.
And the worst part?
She wanted to. She wanted to lose this time.
She exhaled sharply, her patience snapping with the sound.
"Screw it," she muttered.
And then she grabbed him.
Her fingers curled in the front of his shirt, yanking him down, crushing her mouth to his with a force that surprised them both. It wasn't delicate. It wasn't graceful. It was heat and frustration and surrender and need—all crashing together in a kiss that stole the air from her lungs.
His hands came alive—one sliding down to her waist, the other threading into her hair as he pulled her closer. Their bodies collided, fit, melted.
This wasn't about proving something anymore.
This was relief.
Because the moment his lips moved with hers—hungry, claiming, home—she knew:
She'd already lost this fight.
And what a delicious defeat it was.
Vanessa wasn't sure who moved first anymore—if it was her hands fisting into the fabric of his shirt, or the low, rough sound he made in his throat that pushed everything over the edge—but the kiss that followed stole all sense of time. A sharp inhale vanished between their mouths as Ethan deepened it, his body pressing closer, heavier, harder. There was no more teasing, no more casual grazes or smug restraint.
His grip on her waist turned demanding. Claiming.
Fingers curled into her hips, thumbs sliding inward, dragging the hem of her shirt higher with aching slowness. His hands felt hot against her skin, like they'd been waiting all night—maybe longer—to touch her like this. And every inch he explored left her breathless, burning.
Vanessa gasped against his lips when his hands finally slipped beneath the fabric, fingertips skimming the bare skin just above her waistband. Every brush sent sparks up her spine. She arched into him instinctively, needing more contact, more pressure, more of him.
He kissed her like she was oxygen and he'd been holding his breath for hours—lips hungry, deliberate, and just this side of desperate. There was no finesse in it now. No games.
Only need.
She barely registered how they moved. Only that somehow, at some point, they were no longer standing. Her back met the edge of the mattress, knees buckling as they found the bed. Ethan caught her effortlessly, one arm curled around her lower back, guiding her down as if the idea of breaking their kiss—even for a moment—was unthinkable.
And it was.
She felt the press of him over her, the comforting weight, the heat of his body anchoring her to the mattress, and a shiver ran through her—not from nerves, but from sheer, dizzying anticipation.
His lips left hers just long enough to trail down her jaw, slow and reverent, before drifting lower. She sucked in a sharp breath as he found that sensitive spot just below her ear—how the hell did he know that already?—and bit down, just enough to make her hips jerk beneath him.
"God," she breathed, fingers threading into his hair as his mouth moved to her throat, suckling lightly before pulling away just enough to speak against her skin.
"I've wanted this all day."
The admission, spoken in a husky, wrecked tone, sent liquid heat straight to her core. Her thighs parted instinctively, just enough for him to fit between them. When he did—hips slotting perfectly against hers—she gasped, her back arching off the bed.
He wasn't rushing.
That was the part that undid her.
For all the urgency in his kiss, his hands moved like he had all the time in the world. His touch wasn't frantic—it was curated, savoring. He wanted to feel her come apart slowly, and she could feel the tension building in his body too, the careful restraint he wore like armor, cracking at the edges.
His hands moved with purpose now—dragging her shirt up and over her head in one slow, smooth motion, exposing her to the warm air and his heated gaze.
And he looked.
He didn't tear into her like she'd half expected. He paused. Stared. His eyes tracked over her skin, and it felt like being touched all over again.
"You're…" His voice caught, just a little. His hands skimmed from her ribs to her waist. "Perfect."
The weight of his body returned as he leaned down, reclaiming her lips while one hand slid to her thigh, coaxing it further around his hip. The friction—his jeans against her barely-clothed center—sent a wave of sensation through her so sharp she whimpered into his mouth.
She rolled her hips. Once. Twice.
He groaned.
She smiled against his lips.
The kiss never broke. It just changed—deepened, evolved. One hand tangled in his shirt, tugging insistently until he relented, breaking contact only to pull it over his head and toss it aside. The moment he was bare above her, she drank him in—the play of golden lamplight across his chest, the subtle lines of definition, the faint trace of freckles along his shoulders.
She pressed her hands to his chest, fingers spreading wide, feeling the heat of him, the steady rhythm of his breath—slightly erratic now. Good. She wanted him to feel just as wrecked as she did.
"Vanessa," he murmured, her name drawn out like a prayer.
And then his lips were back on hers.
They kissed like they were starving.
And through it all—the grind of their hips, the aching friction, the slow unraveling of clothes—they didn't stop. Mouths never fully parting, tongues tasting, teasing, pressing promises into each other's skin. Every brush of his lips to hers reminded her exactly how far she'd fallen.
And how she didn't want to get up.
His hands slid beneath her again—this time to unfasten her bra, to coax it away with the kind of careful attention that made her pulse pound. When it was gone, he paused. Not to gawk, but to breathe. To savor.
He didn't speak.
He kissed lower.
Down her neck. Across her collarbone. He pressed his lips just above the necklace still resting there—his mother's, now hers—and lingered. Then he kept going.
Each kiss lower made her breath catch, her fingers flexing in his hair. When his mouth closed around one aching peak, she cried out—soft, breathless, needful—and his low groan in response nearly undid her completely.
She was trembling beneath him now, her skin hypersensitive, her entire body arching toward his with every pass of his mouth, every drag of his hands along her thighs and hips and waist. He worshipped her like she was something rare, something breakable—something his.
And when he finally—finally—pressed a hand between her thighs, cupping the heat of her through the thin barrier of her underwear, she was already gone.
The kiss—God, the kiss—never faltered. They broke apart only for breath, only to whisper her name, only to look. But they always came back to each other's mouths like magnets.
Her head spun with sensation. His touch. His breath. His weight. The way he moved against her like they were made to fit, like every motion had been practiced in some dream they were finally stepping into.
Her underwear disappeared. His jeans followed.
There was nothing frantic about it—no hurried fumbling or desperate clawing. Just a slow, fluid peeling away of barriers until nothing but skin met skin.
Vanessa's breath caught when he settled over her again, flesh against flesh, all teasing forgotten.
The moment was still.
Their foreheads touched.
Their breaths mingled.
And then, with a long, slow push of his hips, he entered her—and the world narrowed to nothing but this.
Him. Her. The unbearable perfection of it.
She clung to him, her nails digging into his back as he rocked into her, slow and deep, with an intensity that pulled broken gasps from her lips. The kiss—oh, the kiss—continued, soft and consuming, as if he needed to taste every sound she made.
She kissed him back like she'd fall apart without him.
Time blurred.
Movements turned fluid, rhythmic, like waves crashing gently over and over—each thrust slow and maddening, drawing her higher and higher, never fast enough, never enough. His hand slid beneath her thigh, hitching her leg up higher around his waist, and the change in angle dragged a sound from her throat that didn't sound like her.
His mouth found hers again.
They were a tangle of limbs, of sweat-slicked skin and whispered curses, of rising tension that shimmered just beneath the surface—tightening, coiling, until the pressure became unbearable.
And when she finally broke—shattering beneath him, gasping into his mouth as pleasure tore through her—he caught her.
Held her.
Kissed her through it.
Even as he followed, hips stuttering, voice a rasp of her name against her lips.
It was endless.
And perfect.
The room smelled like sweat and sex and skin still heated from friction.
Vanessa lay draped across Ethan's chest, their limbs tangled in lazy intimacy, the sheets a mess around their bodies. Her skin still held the imprint of his touch—faint, ghostly trails along her thighs, her waist, her breasts. Every inch of her felt sensitive, used, worshipped. And still wanting.
The golden lamplight beside the bed cast shadows across Ethan's chest, highlighting the subtle swell of muscle beneath smooth, warm skin. Her fingers drifted over him without thought, sketching idle patterns above his heart—slow, lazy spirals. He didn't stop her. His hand rested in her hair, fingertips sliding through her curls in a gentle, rhythmic drag that lulled her toward something like peace.
Or maybe something more dangerous.
It should have felt like a comedown, like post-high haze. But it didn't.
It felt like floating.
Like sinking into him in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with how safe she felt, how seen, how goddamn wanted.
She hated it.
And she hated how good it felt.
Ethan shifted slightly, and his lips pressed to her forehead—slow, warm, unbearably tender. The kiss should've been nothing. A casual brush. But her stomach flipped like he'd said something unforgivable.
"Stop doing that," she muttered, her voice hushed against the silence. Her heart hadn't caught up yet. Her body might have been sated, but her nerves were still thrumming, still stretched too tight from how thoroughly he'd dismantled her.
"Doing what?" he asked innocently, though there was nothing innocent in the way his fingers toyed at the base of her skull.
"That thing. The forehead kiss thing."
Ethan's chest rumbled beneath her ear with quiet amusement. "You're complaining?"
Vanessa scowled, delivering a light pinch to his side, hoping to provoke some kind of reaction—anything to ground herself.
"No," she admitted, begrudgingly. "But I know you. There's always a reason with you."
He didn't answer immediately, and that was reason enough to be suspicious.
So she lifted her head and looked at him.
His expression was relaxed—eyes half-lidded, mouth soft—but that smug little curve tugging at the corner of his lips? That was what gave him away. Smug bastard.
"Ethan," she warned, narrow-eyed.
He hummed, unbothered, and let his hand drift lower. Down the curve of her spine. Over the swell of her ass. Featherlight and maddening. Her body responded before her brain did—heat pooling low again, thighs instinctively pressing together.
"You're not exactly quiet, Vanessa."
Her breath caught.
What?
"Wait." She pulled back just enough to see his face fully. "What did you just say?"
Ethan didn't blink. "My grandparents have very sharp hearing."
Oh, hell no.
Her entire body went rigid as the full meaning of those words hit her like a freight train. Her skin flared hot, a mortified flush crawling up her throat, over her cheeks, burning straight to the roots of her hair.
"You mean to tell me—"
"That I had to make sure you stayed very…" He let the pause hang, drawing it out just to be a menace. Then his voice dipped, low and sinfully smug. "Preoccupied."
Vanessa let out an outraged gasp, her hands smacking his chest with absolutely no effect.
"Ethan!"
His laugh was infuriating. Deep and smooth and lazy, like he hadn't just upended her entire soul with a single sentence.
She buried her burning face against his chest, groaning into his skin. "I hate you."
"No, you don't." His arms wrapped around her, impossibly gentle, locking her in against him as his palm resumed its slow path across her back. "You're just flustered."
"I'm humiliated."
"You're also really, really loud." He nipped her earlobe. "It's kind of hot."
"Stop talking."
"Make me."
God, she could kill him. She should kill him. But then his hand found the small of her back again, and that same electric jolt shot through her spine like the first time he'd touched her that night. And suddenly, her whole body was remembering too much.
The way he'd kissed her. The way he'd taken his time. The way he'd coaxed every last sound from her throat like he was collecting them.
The memory made her thighs clench.
Ethan noticed.
He always noticed.
"Still sensitive?" he asked, brushing his knuckles just beneath the curve of her hip, where her skin still tingled with leftover heat.
Vanessa squirmed. "No."
"Liar." He leaned in, lips brushing the shell of her ear. "You're so responsive. It's beautiful."
She hated how that made her pulse jump. Hated how her hips tilted forward, ever so slightly, searching for pressure, friction—anything.
His hand slid lower.
Lazy. Curious.
Down the inside of her thigh. Then back up, fingertips skimming closer to where she ached again, his breath warm at her ear as he whispered, "You're not done, are you?"
Vanessa swallowed hard. Her body was already answering for her, hips rolling subtly into his hand as her skin flamed with anticipation.
And just like that, the tension spiked again—sharp, needy, alive.
His lips ghosted over her neck, trailing down to the spot beneath her jaw where her pulse thudded fast and frantic. "You want another kiss like that?" he murmured. "The kind you don't want to stop?"
God help her, she did.
She nodded, breath shallow.
His mouth caught hers instantly.
Not rushed. Not greedy. Just slow—intimate. Every press of his lips a conversation, every pass of his tongue a promise.
Vanessa moaned into his mouth, fingers sliding into his hair as he kissed her deeper, his body shifting to hover above hers again, weight balanced between his forearms.
He didn't break the kiss. Not once.
As his hand slipped between her legs again, easing them apart, teasing her with barely-there touches, she gasped against his lips.
His fingers slid lower, testing, tasting, learning her all over again.
And still—still—he kissed her.
She clung to him, overwhelmed all over again, her nerves stripped raw, her skin alive, her mind unable to hold a single coherent thought beyond more.
When he finally slid inside her again, it was slower this time.
More deliberate.
And the kiss never stopped.
They moved like they were made to fit, like they were rediscovering every edge and curve, every sweet spot and sharp gasp. Her body opened for him like a secret, eager and greedy and still too full of need.
She felt everything.
Every shift of his hips. Every low groan. Every pass of his lips over hers, drinking her in like he couldn't stand to be apart for even a second.
It was maddening.
And it was perfect.
And by the time the second wave crested—sweeping over her in slow, powerful pulses—she had no words left.
Only moans. And his name. And the soft, shattered gasp as he followed, mouth still pressed to hers.
They stayed like that long after, breathing each other in.
No words.
Just warmth.
Just skin.
Just them.
Eventually, Vanessa lay against him again, limbs heavy, heartbeat finally slowing, though her body still thrummed faintly from the aftershocks. Her head rested just below his collarbone, ear to his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart as she drew lazy shapes across his skin.
Ethan's hand found her back once more, tracing an invisible path along her spine with maddening gentleness.
And then he murmured it—so soft she almost missed it.
"I like you expressive."
She stilled.
He wasn't teasing now. Not really. His voice was quiet. Honest.
And that was somehow worse.
Because it meant he'd been paying attention.
To her. Her sounds. Her pleasure.
Her surrender.
She blushed hard, biting back the swell of emotion she didn't know what to do with. "I'm still going to kill you."
His smile was audible. "Sure."
But his arms tightened.
And she didn't move.
Because despite the embarrassment, despite everything she wanted to pretend didn't matter… she liked being here.
In his bed.
In his arms.
His.
Even if she wasn't ready to admit it.
~~~~~