The house felt different that night.
Not quieter.Not darker.
Closer.
I noticed it the moment I stepped inside — the way the air seemed heavier, charged with something that hadn't been there before. As if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Ethan was home.
I didn't see him right away, but my body knew. It reacted the way it had begun to — subtly, instinctively — my shoulders tightening before slowly relaxing, my steps slowing without permission.
I set my bag down and moved toward the kitchen, telling myself to act normal.
Normal didn't come easily.
The lights were dimmer than usual, the glow from the stove casting long shadows across the room. Ethan stood there, sleeves rolled, leaning slightly against the counter as if he'd been thinking for a long time.
He looked up when I entered.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
The silence stretched — not awkward, not empty — just full.
"You're late," he said.
"I stayed back," I replied. "Studying."
His gaze flicked to my face, then lingered. Not intrusive. Not soft.
Searching.
I moved past him toward the sink, hyper-aware of the space between us narrowing. The air felt warmer here, the scent of something faintly familiar — soap, coffee, something distinctly him.
"You were at the library," Ethan said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
"Yes."
Another pause.
"And Ryan?"
The name landed like a spark.
"With him?" I asked, turning.
Ethan's expression didn't change, but something shifted behind his eyes — a tightening, quick and controlled.
"I saw you," he said. "In the corridor."
My pulse stuttered.
"You weren't meant to," I replied, too quickly.
Silence fell again, thicker this time.
I turned back to the sink, gripping the edge of the counter. I could feel him behind me — not close enough to touch, but close enough that my skin prickled with awareness.
"He seems… comfortable," Ethan said.
The words were neutral.
The implication wasn't.
"He's my boyfriend," I replied, sharper than intended.
"I know."
That single sentence carried restraint so heavy it pressed against my ribs.
I turned, suddenly needing to see his face.
Ethan stood there, hands at his sides, posture controlled. His gaze held mine, steady and unreadable.
"You don't sound convinced," he said.
"I don't have to convince you," I replied.
"No," he agreed. "You don't."
Something in the way he said it — calm, distant — unsettled me more than anger would have.
I stepped past him, heading toward the living room, needing space. Needing air.
The power flickered.
Once.
Then went out.
Darkness swallowed the room, followed by a low hum as the house settled into silence.
I stopped short, my breath catching.
"Careful," Ethan said, closer now.
I turned too quickly and collided with him.
Not hard.
Just enough.
His hands came up instinctively, gripping my arms to steady me. The contact sent a sharp wave through me — heat flaring where his fingers rested, my body reacting before my mind could intervene.
We froze.
His grip tightened for a fraction of a second.
Then loosened.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
Ethan stepped back first.
Too fast.
Too controlled.
"Sorry," he said.
The word sounded like restraint, not apology.
I swallowed, my heart racing. "It's fine."
It wasn't.
The lights came back on, harsh in their normalcy.
The moment shattered, but the feeling didn't.
I crossed my arms, grounding myself. "You should be careful too."
A faint curve touched his mouth — not a smile. Something sharper.
"I am," he said. "That's the problem."
The words settled between us like a confession he refused to finish.
I turned away, moving toward the stairs.
"Clara," Ethan said.
Just my name.
I stopped without turning.
"I'm leaving early tomorrow," he added quietly.
The statement landed harder than I expected.
"Oh," I said.
Silence followed.
"You don't have to," I added, then immediately regretted it.
Ethan exhaled slowly. "That's exactly why I do."
I faced him then.
He stood in the dim light, composed as ever, but something raw flickered beneath the surface — something he was holding back with effort.
"Good night," he said.
Then he turned and walked away.
I stood there long after he disappeared down the hallway, my body still humming from contact that barely counted as touch.
That night, sleep refused to come.
Every time I closed my eyes, I felt it again — the brief pressure of his hands, the way he stepped back too quickly, the control it must have taken.
He hadn't crossed the line.
He'd fled from it.
And that realization hurt more than if he hadn't cared at all.
I turned onto my side, staring into the dark.
Resisting him was starting to hurt.
Because the more Ethan restrained himself, the more I felt like I was the one losing control.