By the time we reached my apartment, exhaustion clung to my bones like a second skin.
Every step up the stairs felt heavier than the last. My legs ached, my head throbbed, and adrenaline still hummed faintly beneath my skin, refusing to let me fully relax. The city noise faded behind us as I unlocked the door, the familiar click echoing far too loudly in the quiet hallway.
Inside, the apartment greeted us with silence.
Safe. Ordinary. Untouched.
I dropped my bag near the door and kicked off my shoes without ceremony, suddenly too tired to care about manners.
"You'll sleep on the sofa," I said, shrugging out of my coat and tossing it onto a chair. "I'm taking the bed."
I expected an argument. Or at least a joke.
Instead, Ethan simply hummed—a low, amused sound—as if this arrangement pleased him far more than it should have. He glanced around the apartment, eyes taking in the small space with interest, like he was already memorizing it.
"Hehehehehe," he muttered under his breath, grinning to himself.
I narrowed my eyes. "Don't make that sound."
"What sound?" he asked innocently.
"That sound. Like you're planning something."
"I always plan things," he replied lightly.
That… did not reassure me.
I ignored him, grabbed a blanket from the closet, and tossed it his way. He caught it easily, smile widening.
"Goodnight, hero," he said.
I paused at the bedroom door, glancing back. "Don't touch anything."
"No promises."
I slammed the door before I could hear whatever nonsense he said next.
-------
Birds chirped.
That was the first thing I noticed when I woke up.
The second was the smell.
Warm. Rich. Savory.
Impossible.
My eyes snapped open.
Food?
For a long second, I lay frozen in bed, staring at the ceiling. My brain struggled to catch up with reality. I never cooked. Ever. My kitchen existed purely for storage and the occasional emergency instant noodles.
Slowly, dread crept in.
I shot upright, heart racing, and hurried out of my room.
The moment I stepped into the kitchen, I nearly screamed.
Hell. No.
Ethan stood at my stove.
My stove.
Sleeves rolled up, hair slightly messy, moving around my kitchen like he belonged there. A pan sizzled softly, steam curling upward as he stirred something that smelled far too good to be legal.
"YOU'RE MAKING FOOD?!" I shouted, eyes wide. "No—wait—YOU ACTUALLY KNOW HOW TO COOK?!"
He glanced over his shoulder, completely unfazed.
"Oh. You're awake," he said calmly, like this was the most normal thing in the world. His gaze flicked over me, lingering just long enough to annoy me. "And wow. You look… tragic."
I gasped. "Excuse you?!"
"And Miss Anna," he continued, lifting a spoon like he was giving a lecture, "it's lunch. Not breakfast."
I stared at him.
Just stared.
Then I sighed dramatically, rubbing my temples. "I'm proud of you, my boy."
He snorted. "I don't need your validation."
"Yes, you do."
I changed clothes, pretending this situation—him cooking, humming softly, completely at ease in my space—was perfectly normal. We ate together at the small table, me still half-asleep, him irritatingly energetic.
The food was good.
Annoyingly good.
I refused to compliment him.
By evening, somehow—against my better judgment—we ended up at a café.
The café was small and warm, tucked between two old streets where the city's chaos softened into a distant hum. Wooden tables bore faint scratches from years of use, and sunlight filtered through the windows in lazy beams, dust dancing in the air. The smell of coffee and baked bread wrapped around us like a promise of comfort.
Too comfortable.
I sat across from Ethan, arms crossed, eyes narrowed.
"You did that on purpose."
He leaned back in his chair like he owned the place, one arm draped casually over the backrest. His posture was relaxed, almost arrogant, lips curved into that infuriatingly calm smile.
"Did what?" he asked.
My eye twitched. "You told the waiter I can't handle spicy food."
"And can you?" he asked, tilting his head, feigning innocence.
I opened my mouth—ready to defend myself—when the waiter arrived and placed a plate in front of me.
Extra spicy pasta.
Steam rose from it like it was mocking me.
Ethan chuckled softly. "Relax. You said you wanted to try new things."
"I wanted to try new things," I shot back, "not burn my tongue off because you think my suffering is funny."
Narrator:
He leaned forward now, elbows resting on the table, chin propped on his hands. His eyes traced every detail of her expression—the furrowed brows, the tight jaw, the faint color blooming in her cheeks.
God, he thought. She's beautiful when she's angry.
I grabbed my fork aggressively. "Stop staring."
"I'm not staring," he said smoothly.
"You are."
"I'm appreciating."
I scoffed. "You're annoying."
"And yet," he replied lightly, watching me take my first bite—and immediately stiffen—"you still came with me."
(I was the one who dragged him here. He was supposed to come alone. That somehow made it worse.)
The spice hit instantly.
I coughed, eyes watering despite my best efforts to hide it.
Without a word, Ethan slid his glass of water toward me.
I paused.
Surprised.
Then took it.
"Don't think this makes you nice," I muttered.
He smiled—not wide, not warm. Just that quiet, unreadable curve of his lips. "I never said I was."
I wiped my mouth and glared at him. "You enjoy this. Teasing me."
"Only yours," he said casually.
I froze.
For a heartbeat, the café noise faded. The air between us shifted—subtle but dangerous, like stepping too close to an edge without realizing it. I looked away first, suddenly very interested in my plate.
"You're weird," I muttered.
Narrator:
Ethan watched her closely. The way she pretended not to care. The way her shoulders stayed tense even in places meant for comfort. The way she fought smiles as fiercely as she fought anger.
He loved that fire.
Loved how she burned without even trying.
"So," he said after a moment, breaking the silence, "if the world ended tomorrow, what would you do today?"
I raised an eyebrow. "That's… random."
"Humor me."
I thought about it longer than I expected. "I'd eat without you commenting on my food choices."
He laughed—soft, genuine. Rare.
"Fair."
Then I added, quieter, "And I'd make sure the people I care about are safe."
Narrator:
His smile faded. Just a fraction—but enough.
"Always the hero," he murmured.
I looked at him sharply. "And you? What would you do?"
His gaze darkened, though his voice stayed calm. "Whatever it takes."
A chill crept up my spine.
"Ethan," I said slowly, "sometimes you talk like that, and it's… unsettling."
He tilted his head, studying me. "Does it scare you?"
I hesitated.
Then, honestly, "A little."
For a moment, something flickered behind his eyes—something deep, possessive, almost tender in a way that didn't feel safe. He leaned closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear.
"I'd never hurt you, Anna."
I searched his face.
He meant it.
And that was the most terrifying part.
I looked away, shaking my head. "You're impossible."
He leaned back, satisfied, watching my anger soften into reluctant calm.
Narrator:
Yes.
Impossible.
—But hers.
At least… that's what he believed back then.
Sigh.