I arrive at Ethan's house at 7 PM Friday night, my heart hammering against my ribs with each step up his front walkway. The porch light casts a warm glow across the welcome mat, and I can hear soft music playing somewhere inside.
He answers the door in jeans and a sweater. Casual. Domestic. The kind of outfit that makes him look less like Professor Hayes and more like just Ethan, a man inviting someone over for dinner.
"You came," he says, and there's relief in his voice that makes my chest tighten.
"You asked."
"Come in. I made pasta. Hope that's okay."
"Perfect."
Inside, his house smells like garlic and tomatoes, the scent wrapping around me like a warm blanket. Wine breathing on the counter catches my eye, its deep red color almost black in the dim lighting. Two place settings wait at his small dining table, cloth napkins folded neatly beside each plate. Someone put thought into this.
