11:18 a.m. – Downtown CoLab, Workspace E3, Brooklyn
Ethan's fingers hovered above his keyboard, unmoving. The screen glowed with graphs and pitch decks, but his mind wasn't on ROI projections or equity splits.
It was still on the way Sienna had looked at him before leaving that morning.
(Like she was almost okay.
But not quite.
What are you expecting from her?
Nothing.
Then why did her silence feel like a door closing gently in your face?)
He closed the laptop and exhaled through his nose. The weight wasn't loud. It was subtle—like the pressure of a storm still forming.
---
12:40 p.m. – Sienna's Boutique
She sorted fabric swatches in rhythmic patterns—burnt ochre, navy silk, mist-gray. Her hands moved automatically, but her head was anything but clear.
Blake had messaged that morning.
No words. Just a song link from a band they used to play during road trips. One of those "I'm thinking of you" moves men send when they can't say what they mean.
She hadn't replied.
But she hadn't deleted it either.
And that made her stomach churn.
(Sienna: Ethan hadn't asked about it. He hadn't needed to.
But his quiet this morning? It had said enough.
He doesn't want to control you. Which is why it's so easy to hurt him without realizing it.)
That thought stuck like glass in her throat.
---
4:15 p.m. – Ethan's Apartment
She showed up unannounced.
Just knocked once, then let herself in with the keycard he'd given her. The gesture had meant something at the time—freedom. Trust.
Now it felt heavier.
Ethan was at the sink, rinsing vegetables.
He turned without surprise. "Hey."
She stepped inside, pulled her jacket off, didn't smile.
"I didn't answer his message."
Ethan nodded slowly. "I figured."
"I almost did. Just to be polite."
His jaw twitched slightly. "And?"
"I didn't."
A pause stretched between them like elastic.
Sienna leaned against the counter. "I keep thinking… I'm not ready for this. That maybe I'm broken. Too much time , I haven't closed yet."
Ethan dried his hands on a towel. "We're all unfinished."
She looked up, voice cracking. "But what if I keep hurting you with pieces I don't even realize are sharp?"
He stepped closer.
"You will."
Her breath caught.
"And you'll make me question myself," he continued. "And I'll mess up too. Pull away when I should lean in. Say the right thing at the wrong time."
She blinked, tears threatening. "Then why stay?"
"Because choosing you is more important than waiting for perfect."
The room held its breath.
Then—
"I hate how right you are sometimes," she whispered, eyes shimmering.
"I hate that it scares you," he replied.
She didn't move right away.
Then, like a current too strong to resist, she stepped into his arms.
Not a kiss.
Not passion.
Just gravity.
Her head pressed against his chest, listening to the rhythm of someone who wasn't leaving.
His hand rested at the small of her back. No pressure. Just warmth.
"I'm still scared," she murmured.
"Me too," he admitted.
They stayed there for minutes, not speaking.
And in that stillness, something stronger than certainty began to form.
Commitment.
Not flashy. Not clean. But real.