Chapter 26
Ethan
The first hint of dawn creeps through Rhea's thin curtains, urging me awake long before I had hoped this night would end. My arm has gone numb where it's trapped beneath her body, but I can't bring myself to move yet. She shifts restlessly against my chest, caught in whatever dreams plague her. Even unconscious, tension radiates from every muscle in her body.
I trace the dried tear tracks on her cheeks with my eyes, memorizing each detail of her face while I have the chance. The slight furrow between her brows that won't smooth out even in sleep. The way her fingers clutch at my shirt like she's afraid I'll disappear. She's never held onto me like this before.
We've shared countless moments of raw passion, but this... this quiet intimacy feels different. Dangerous. No rope marks decorate her wrists, no bruises bloom across her pale skin. Just her warmth pressed against me, her steady breaths mixing with mine in the pre-dawn stillness.
I heave a defeated sigh as she burrows closer, seeking comfort even in sleep. The urge to protect her wars with the knowledge that I'm part of what's tearing her apart. Whatever's haunting her, she won't tell us. Won't let us help. The distance in her eyes last night spoke volumes—she's slipping away, and I don't know how to stop it.
I shouldn't want to stop it. This was meant to be simple. Fun. No feelings, no complications. But watching her cry herself to sleep in my arms has shattered every defense I built to keep my heart safe.
The room grows lighter as the sun quickly rises like it’s rushing me along. I need to leave before she wakes, before I say something we'll both regret. With as much gentleness as I’m capable of, I extract my arm from beneath her, freezing when she whimpers. But she doesn't wake, just curls tighter in on herself.
The pen scratches quietly against paper as I write my note. Four words that say nothing of the storm raging in my mind: Rest well, little one. I place it on her nightstand, allowing myself one last look at her sleeping face.
My fingers itch to brush back the curl that's fallen across her cheek. To wake her with gentle kisses until she looks at me the way she did a week ago, before whatever anxiety started eating at her. I force myself to step back, shoving my hands in my pockets.
I refuse to call myself a coward as I make my way silently to the front door. I have to believe that letting her go is the right thing. Surely, it doesn’t count as running if she pushed us away first.
The coffee machine gurgles in our kitchen half an hour later as I stare compulsively at my phone. Rhea's profile photo shines back at me—a sweet shot she had chosen before I knew her. When her smile reached her eyes. My thumb hovers over the message icon before I force myself to lock the screen. Again.
My coffee sits forgotten in the pot as I pace the length of our apartment. The sound of Dean's steady snoring drifts from his room, but I know he'll wake soon. Years of sharing space have attuned me to his rhythms, just as he knows mine. The conversation we need to have sits like lead in my stomach.
Even with my phone tucked in the pocket of my jeans, I’m still contemplating every possible message I could send to Rhea, after leaving her alone in her own apartment. But what would I even say? 'I miss you'? 'Talk to me'? The words feel alien coming from me, too close to something Dean would say. I'm supposed to be the controlled one. The pragmatic one. The one who doesn't get attached.
Not that Rhea hasn’t been steadily tearing down that facade since the day I met her.
A groan from Dean's room signals he's finally stirring. My fingers clench around my mug as I finally pour my coffee. The rich aroma holds none of its usual appeal. Nothing holds my interest this morning. Nothing to pull me from beneath the black cloud that settled over me the minute I climbed out of Rhea’s bed.
Footsteps approach as Dean shuffles toward the kitchen, and I steel myself for what's coming. The truth neither of us wants to face. The reality that we've pushed too far, expected too much. That Rhea might choose neither of us in the end.
He appears in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep. One look at my face and his expression hardens. He knows me too well. He knows something's very wrong before I even open my mouth.
I draw in a steadying breath. "We need to talk about Rhea."
"There's nothing to talk about." Dean yanks open the fridge, movements sharp with tension. "She just needs some rest. A break from all the late nights. You heard her."
"You're not seeing what's right in front of you." I lean against the counter, watching him slam cabinet doors with growing agitation. "She's been pulling away for days. She only let us in last night because we showed up at her apartment without warning. You know that she would have felt unable to say no."
"She's just stressed about school.” He won't meet my eyes as he hastily stirs too much sugar into his coffee. "Once things calm down?—”
"She's distancing herself and we both know why." I cut off his excuses, making his jaw clench. "This isn't about midterms."
Dean spins to face me, coffee forgotten. "Because you had to mark her? Make it permanent without discussing it first? Push her further than she was ready for?"
"No, Dean. Because we made her fall for us. Both of us. And that’s not something she ever wanted."
“Maybe she wants it now. She’s scared, sure, but she told me how she feels. It’s real for her." His rebuttal cracks slightly, betraying the fear beneath his anger.
"I saw her face last night, bro. Even though she could barely look at me. Something's changed." I don’t have the heart to tell him about the tears. They felt to me like the final nail in the coffin. But to Dean they would be the perfect excuse to run over there and do anything to make her stay.
"Then we fix it." He confirms my unspoken theory as he starts pacing, five steps one way, turn, five steps back. "We talk to her, figure out what she needs?—”
"And say what?" I interrupt him again before he talks himself into a frenzy. "That everything will work out just fine? That she doesn’t have to worry about this twisted arrangement eventually tearing us all apart?"
His pacing stops abruptly. " You're the one who started this. Who convinced me we could make it work after you pushed your way in."
"I was wrong." I don’t remember the last time I said those words. The last time I meant them. "I didn't expect..."
"Expect what?" Dean's eyes narrow with suspicion. "To actually care about her?"
I try to maintain my mask of indifference, though his words hit too close to home. "To watch her destroy herself trying to please us both."
"So, you're just giving up?" He laughs harshly. "How is that the way to show you care? To walk away? Or is that all you know how to do?"
"Sometimes walking away is the harder choice." I grip the edge of the counter as the age-old argument rears its ugly head. Dean has never forgiven me for leaving town when I did, for those years I spent running away. He never understood that I was losing my mind pretending to be happy. "Sometimes it's the only choice."
"Bullshit." Dean steps closer, invading my space. "You're just scared. Scared of feeling something real for once in your life."
The accusation hits me like a right hook from a heavyweight champ, but I force myself to stay calm. "And you're not?"
His jaw clenches so hard I can hear his teeth grind.
"You don't get to act like you know what's best here." Dean's voice is beginning to rise when he eventually resumes his relentless pacing. The wild look in his eyes mirrors my own forcefully hidden panic.
I remain motionless against the counter, my stillness a stark contrast to his agitation. Years of training in the ring taught me to conserve energy, to wait for my opponent to exhaust themselves. But this isn't a fight I want to win.
"I’m not claiming to know anything for sure. I'm just the one being realistic about losing her."
"There's nothing realistic about me giving up without a fight." Dean runs his fingers through his hair, tugging at the strands like he can pull the answers from his skull. "I can’t just watch her walk away. I thought we had something great. I thought she was loving every minute of it. How could I not see her changing her mind? And why won’t you help me fix it?"
"Because I care more about her happiness than winning. We both know that if we asked her to, she’d put what we want first. That’s just Rhea. But we’d be total assholes for demanding that from her when it’s not what she would choose."
Dean freezes mid-stride, the anger draining from his face as understanding dawns. We stare at each other across the kitchen, the truth we've both been avoiding finally laid bare.
He slumps against the wall, all the fight leaving him in a rush of breath. "Fuck."
I watch my brother's shoulders cave inward, recognizing the defeat in his posture because it mirrors my own. We've spent our lives holding each other up, pushing each other to be stronger, better, more controlled. But this...this shared vulnerability feels like free falling without a net.
The coffee grows cold on the counter, forgotten like our pretense of keeping this simple. Of keeping our hearts locked safely away where Rhea can't reach them.
But she already has.
For the first time since we were kids, I see raw fear in my twin's face. Not the arrogant smirk he wears like a badge of honor, not the genuine smile he usually only lets show when we’re alone. This is the bone-deep terror of losing something irreplaceable.
"I don't want to lose her either." The words scrape past my lips before I can stop them, rough with emotion I’m sure he finds jarring coming from me of all people.
True to my expectations, his head snaps up, shock written across features so similar to my own. Vulnerability is not my style. But now seems as good a time as any to let my brother know that I don’t have it together. His mouth opens and closes, but no words come out. What can he say? We both know there’s no protecting ourselves from the blow we know is coming.
Neither of us speaks for a long while. There's nothing left to say. The silence stretches until it feels like glass, fragile and sharp-edged. I’m still not convinced that Dean isn’t on the edge of a crazed rampage. Whether he’d go back to Rhea crying on his knees or fuck half the women in Ramona in an attempt to soothe his bruised heart, I can see him balancing on a knife edge. One wrong word could set him off.
My phone vibrates against my thigh, startling us both from our thoughts. Dean watches me, hope and dread warring in his expression as I pull the device from my pocket. One glance at the screen makes my stomach drop.
"It's her, isn't it?"
I nod, unable to form words as I read the message. Three lines that confirm everything we've been afraid of:
Rhea: I need some time.
Rhea: Please don't contact me.
Rhea: I’m sorry.
The phone feels like a ticking bomb in my hand as I turn it to show Dean. I watch his eyes dart back and forth as he reads it over and over again, as if the words might somehow change.
"She can't just..." He trails off, the protest dying before it fully forms. We both know she can. She should.
"We have to respect her wishes. No calls. No texts. No showing up at her apartment."
Dean's fingers curl into fists against his thighs. "For how long?"
"As long as she wants." I push away from the counter, needing to move, to do something with this restless energy building under my skin. "Forever, if she doesn’t reach out again."
"Forever," he echoes, his eyes glazed and distant. "What am I supposed to do with that? If she never comes back?"
I brace my hand on the doorjamb, staring out the window at the city waking up below. People are going about their morning routines, unaware that my world is imploding in this quiet kitchen.
"We live with it." It feels like my entire body is raging against my forced calm, like every muscle is coiled tight with the urge to lash out, to hit something. "She’s not ours if she doesn’t want to be."
Dean makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob. "How are you always so calm?"
"If I don’t keep a leash on myself, I’ll destroy everything I love.” I turn to face him, letting him see the truth in my eyes. "And then myself."