2. Ethan
ETHAN
I like discipline. I like precision. I like knowing exactly how deep to cut, exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly what it takes to put a man back together when he’s been torn apart.
My world runs on control—on structure, on absolute certainty.
There is no room for hesitation. No space for mistakes.
In the OR, that’s easy.
Outside it? Less so.
It’s been sixteen hours since I started my shift, and my body knows it.
My shoulder aches from hunching over an open abdomen for too long, my brain still cataloging every step of the trauma case I closed an hour ago.
But instead of making the smart choice—heading back to my apartment, peeling off the stiff collar of my shirt, forcing myself to get some goddamn sleep—I step into Crowley’s.
It’s an old-money kind of place, the kind that keeps the music low and the whiskey expensive.
Refined but not pretentious. The clientele are mostly professionals—corporate types winding down, surgeons in half-loosened ties, the occasional politician making backroom deals over overpriced scotch.
I don’t talk to anyone. I don’t come here to talk.
I nod at the bartender, take my usual seat, roll my sleeves up to the elbows. It’s an old habit—surgical instinct, maybe. I don’t like fabric restricting my wrists. My hands always have to be ready.
A glass of bourbon slides in front of me. I take a slow sip, feeling the familiar burn slide down my throat, letting the day settle into my bones.
And then, across the room, tucked into the glow of dim lighting and crystal reflections, I spot Ivy Dawson sitting at the bar, perfectly poised to ruin my night.
She shouldn’t be here.
Not in this city. Not in my goddamn line of sight.
I tell myself I imagined it, that my brain is too fried from surgery, that the alcohol is already getting to me—but no.
No, that’s her. Dark hair, loose waves tumbling over one shoulder.
A short dress, wicked in the way it clings to her, daring eyes to linger.
She’s talking to someone—Cassie, I think—but it doesn’t matter.
She laughs at something, head tilting back just slightly, and a dull ache slides under my ribs.
I know better than to react. I’ve been good at ignoring this for a long time.
Ivy Dawson has always been a bad idea waiting to happen.
I’ve known her since she was a kid, running after Drew, climbing trees she had no business being in, scrapping with boys twice her size.
I was twenty when she was twelve, a med student drowning in textbooks, barely paying attention to the girl who was always trying to prove she wasn’t as small as people thought.
And then she grew up.
By the time she hit twenty, she wasn’t following Drew around anymore. She was watching me. Always just on the edge of my awareness, at family gatherings, at charity dinners, at the rare occasions where our circles inevitably collided.
I ignored it.
She was too young, too reckless, too much. And I had no business looking at her. I don’t do impulsive. I don’t do chaotic. I don’t do women who make me feel like I might lose control.
The women in my life are predictable. Polished. Subdued. They don’t challenge me, don’t push, don’t tempt me into anything I’d lose my sleep over.
Ivy Dawson is none of those things.
She’s relentless, impossible to contain, too wild, too free-willed, the kind of woman who slips through fingers and refuses to be held. And now she’s here, in the last place I ever expected to see her.
I don’t know how long I’ve been watching before she finally turns. Her eyes catch on mine, and there is a shift.
She doesn’t look away.
Neither do I, though it would be far wiser to break the moment, return to my drink, pretend that whatever just moved through my bloodstream wasn’t real. But Ivy? She knows exactly what she’s doing.
She smirks and lifts her glass in a silent challenge to me. My fingers tighten around the rim of my whiskey.
As far as I know, Ivy should still be overseas, halfway across the world, throwing herself into volunteer work, rebuilding houses, whatever excuse she found to keep moving. She should be anywhere but here, anywhere but this city, this bar, in front of me wearing that dress.
Ivy Dawson has spent years lingering at the edge of my awareness, always present, always watching, but never within reach.
My best friend’s little sister. A line in the sand I’ve never had trouble keeping my distance from—except for the moments I let myself wonder what it would feel like if I didn’t.
Because tonight, she’s not on the periphery. Tonight, she’s standing right in front of me, in a low-cut dress, her mouth painted in dark red, looking like every goddamn sin I’ve spent my life avoiding. I don’t believe in fate. I don’t believe in signs, in unavoidable paths, in destiny. But tonight?
Tonight, I don’t get a choice. So I stand and I close the space between us in measured, even strides, stopping just short of her barstool. She doesn’t look surprised.
“Dawson.” Her name leaves me evenly.
She tilts her head, those dark eyes gleaming. “Cross.”
Her lips curve, like she expected me to come to her. Like she knew, the second I saw her, that I’d have no choice.
She’s changed. That much is obvious. She was always quick, sharp-witted, but now there’s something harder beneath it. “You should be halfway across the world right now,” I say, studying her.
She leans back against the bar, crossing her legs. “And yet, here I am.”
I let my gaze sweep over her, taking in the curve of her bare shoulder, the way the dim light casts shadows against her skin. “Shame. Valleria was doing just fine without you.”
She laughs, the sound rich, unbothered. “Please. This city has been begging for me to come back.”
The smart move would be turn and walk away .
Instead, I settle onto the stool beside hers, waving down the bartender. “Whiskey. Neat.”
Ivy watches, tapping her nails lightly against the side of her glass.
She’s waiting for me to say something else.
Maybe give her a lecture about how she’s not supposed to be here, and if Drew caught sight of his little sister in a dress cut that high, he’d lose his mind.
Especially when it clings like that, barely skimming over what no one else should be seeing.
But the truth is I’m not thinking about Drew.
I’m not thinking about the rules I’ve always followed.
I’m not thinking at all.
She exhales slowly, swirling the remnants of her drink, her gaze flicking to the room beyond me. I glance at the bartender as my drink is set down, then turn my attention back to her.
Her eyes are fixed on my face.
I raise a brow. “What?”
She shrugs, taking another sip. “I’m just trying to figure out whether you’re actually happy to see me or you’re just mentally drafting the speech you’re about to give.”
That pulls a low laugh from me. “You think I put that much effort into speeches?”
I notice it the moment her posture shifts—just barely, but enough. A man brushes too close as he moves past, and I see the flicker of unease in her expression, the slight stiffening of her shoulders. It’s subtle, something most people wouldn’t catch.
But I do.
Ivy is sharp edges now, her independence worn like armor. But there’s something else beneath it, something I wasn’t expecting. A tension that doesn’t belong.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the bar. “So. Are you going to tell me why you’re really back?”
She tilts her head, giving me a slow, mocking smile. “What makes you think there’s a reason?”
Because I know you.
Because I see it—the way you keep checking the room, the way you roll your shoulders like you’re shaking something off.
But I don’t say that.
Instead, I let a small smirk pull at the corner of my mouth. “Because you’re you.”
She huffs a short laugh, but there’s something else behind it. A wall, built fast, set firm.
The thing about Ivy is, she’s good at pretending. Always has been.
But I spent years in medical school, years studying the minutiae of human expression, learning how to read what isn’t said.
And right now?
She’s saying a hell of a lot without speaking.
I don’t just want her.
I want to know what put that look in her eyes.
Cassie makes a noise beside her, something smug, something that says she sees exactly where this is going .
She leans in toward Ivy, murmuring something too low for me to catch, then shoots me a knowing smirk before grabbing her clutch.
“I’m calling it a night,” she announces, more to Ivy than to me, already slipping off her stool. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”
Ivy barely acknowledges her, just lifts her glass in a lazy farewell, her attention still locked on me. Cassie gives me one last glance—half amusement, half warning—before disappearing into the crowd.
And then it’s just the two of us.
Ivy leans in, close enough that I catch the scents of vanilla and smoke, softness wrapped in danger.
“You always did like control, Ethan,” she murmurs, lips curving like she knows exactly what she’s doing. “But I don’t think you’d know what to do with me now.”
She holds my gaze for a beat longer, then stands, finishing the last sip of her drink before setting the empty glass on the counter. She doesn’t have to say a word. The invitation is there, hanging in the air between us, as clear as a hand curling into a fist around my collar.
I don’t hesitate and push up from my stool, tossing a few bills onto the bar, and follow her out.
The night is cool, the air thick with city sounds—distant laughter, the low drone of engines idling at a red light, the uneven rhythm of footsteps against damp pavement.
Ivy moves ahead of me, confident, unhurried, leading me down the sidewalk like she’s done this before.
Like she knew from the moment she saw me that this was how the night would end.
It’d be sensible to let her disappear into the dark, tell myself this is a line I won’t cross, but I can’t bring myself to do that tonight.
Because this isn’t about right or wrong anymore. It’s about the way my pulse has been hammering in my throat since the second I saw her. It’s about the way she looked at me across the bar, like she knew exactly where this was going and dared me to stop it.
She doesn’t bother with a cab. I follow her through the winding streets, past elegant brownstones and ivy-covered gates, the hush of wealth settling over this part of town.
But when she stops in front of a smaller guesthouse, tucked between two larger estates, I lift a brow. “Not staying with your family?”
She snorts, pulling out her keys. “I’d rather set myself on fire.”
Fair enough.
She unlocks the door, stepping inside without hesitation, and I do what I shouldn’t—I follow.
Inside, warmth settles around me, laced with a faint trace of something sweet—vanilla again, maybe, but softer.
The lighting is low, shadows stretching long across the hardwood.
A couch sits in the center of the living room, a well-worn throw draped over the back, books stacked haphazardly on a side table. It’s… cozy. Lived-in. Unexpected.
I shut the door behind me, watching as she toes off her shoes.
Ivy turns, tilting her head slightly, studying me with the same expectant, knowing gaze she’s always had. But this time, there’s nothing cautious about it.
I take a slow step forward.
“You sure about this?” My voice is strained with poorly restrained longing.
She exhales, stepping toward me, closing the space between us.
Her fingers find the buttons of my shirt, dragging lightly over the fabric.
“I’m sure about tonight,” she says simply. Then she rises onto her toes, her lips just a breath away from mine.
I drag her against me, my hands spanning her waist, fingers curling into the smooth fabric of her dress. She gasps, soft, surprised, before her arms loop around my neck, pulling me down into her.
Her breath is warm against my lips, her mouth already parted, waiting. My control hangs by a thread—thin, fraying—but the second I press my tongue past the seam of her lips, it snaps completely.
She gives in with a tiny moan, her body molding against mine as I claim her mouth without hesitation.
My tongue strokes against hers, slow at first, coaxing, teasing, until she meets me with equal force.
It’s not gentle. It’s not careful. It’s heat and hunger, a clash of mouths and breath and the kind of tension that’s been building for years.
Her fingers tangle in my hair, nails scratching against my scalp, and I groan into her mouth.
I tighten my grip on her waist, pressing her back against the wall, pinning her between my body and the cool surface.
She arches into me, her hips shifting, her tongue sliding against mine in a rhythm that makes my pulse pound in my throat.
I angle her chin, deepening the kiss, drinking in the soft, breathless whimper she makes when I suck her bottom lip between my teeth. She tastes like whiskey and something sweeter, something uniquely her, and I want more. Need more.
I swallow her gasp as I take control, devouring her, my mouth moving with a punishing intensity that leaves no room for doubt—she is mine tonight. And she knows it.
She presses closer, and I walk her back, step by step, until she’s against the wall.
Her hands are everywhere—my shoulders, my chest, her fingers slipping under my shirt like she’s been waiting for this as long as I have.
I nip at her bottom lip, just to hear her sharp inhale, just to watch her eyes darken.
“Still think I wouldn’t know what to do with you?” I murmur against her mouth.
She shivers, her nails pressing into my skin.
“Prove me wrong, Cross.”