Chapter 38
PIPER
The following day Greg sits on my desk, looking distinctly unhappy. Despite my best efforts—water, sunlight, even playing him music like Ethan does—his leaves are starting to droop. Apparently, plants can pine for their owners.
“I know, buddy,” I tell him, adjusting his position for the hundredth time. “I miss him too.”
I miss Ethan. I do.
Even my successful grade in Creative Writing feels hollow without him to share it with.
I’ve drafted seventeen different apology texts. None of them feel right. How do you explain that you were scared? That you’d been hurt before and couldn’t bear to risk it again? That his trust meant so much you were terrified of breaking it?
Greg’s leaves droop further, and that’s what finally snaps me into action. If nothing else, Ethan deserves his plant back healthy.
By 2 PM, I’m standing outside his house with Greg in my arms and my heart in my throat. No index cards, no structured apology. Just me, holding his dying plant and hoping that’s enough to start a conversation.
I knock before I can lose my nerve.
Freddie answers, takes one look at me holding Greg, and his eyes go wide.
“Holy shit. Ethan! Ethan!!”
“Is he—” I start.
“He’s been a disaster,” Freddie says bluntly. “Like, actually concerning levels of moping. He submitted his game to studios though, so that’s good. But yeah. Disaster.”
My chest tightens. He submitted his game. The one I helped make better. The one he fixed because of my critique.
Ethan appears at the top of the stairs and freezes. He looks... tired. Beautiful and familiar and tired, like he hasn’t been sleeping well. When he sees me holding Greg, something flickers across his face.
“Hey,” I say inadequately.
“Hey.” He comes down slowly, eyes on his plant. “Is Greg okay?”
“He misses you.” I hold out the monstera like a peace offering. “His leaves started drooping yesterday. I think he’s depressed.”
“Plants don’t get depressed,” Ethan says automatically, but he’s already reaching for Greg, fingers gentle as he checks the leaves.
“This one does.” I watch him fuss over the plant, the careful way he examines each leaf. “He’s been pining.”
“Just Greg?”
The question hangs between us.
“No,” I admit. “Not just Greg.”
He finally looks at me properly. “Want to come up? Greg probably needs to settle back in his spot.”
I follow him to his room, trying not to notice how natural this feels. How much I’ve missed the controlled chaos of his space, the sketches on the walls, the way afternoon light falls through the window where Greg belongs.
Ethan settles Greg on the windowsill, murmuring something I can’t catch. Already the plant seems perkier, like he knows he’s home.
“So,” Ethan says, not turning around. “You came to return my plant.”
“I came to apologize.” The words tumble out. “And to tell you something. Two things, actually.”
He turns, leaning against his desk. “I’m listening.”
“First—I passed Creative Writing. B+. Professor Long says my scholarship is safe.” I pull out my phone, show him the email. “Because of you. Because you taught me how to see stories as more than just structure.”
His face softens. “Pip, that’s amazing.”
“I couldn’t have done it without you.” I pocket my phone, gather my courage. “Which brings me to the second thing. The real reason I’m here.”
“Which is?”
“I’m in love with you.”
The words fall into the space between us, simple and terrifying.
Ethan goes very still. “What?”
“I’m in love with you,” I repeat, steadier now.
“Not because we’re 94% compatible. Not because you helped me pass my class.
But because you make me want to be brave.
Because you see the poetry in my code and trust me with your vulnerable parts.
Because you took my harsh critique and turned it into art, which is the sexiest thing anyone has ever done. ”
“Piper—”
“Wait.” I pull out my phone, hands shaking slightly. “To prove it, I structured our entire relationship into a three-act story. Because that’s apparently how my brain processes emotions now, thanks to you.”
His eyebrows rise. “You wrote our relationship as a story structure?”
“With proper beats and everything.” I unlock my phone, pull up my notes. “Want to hear it?”
“I really, really do.”
I clear my throat. “Act One: The Setup. Girl meets boy in diner. Girl insults boy’s plant.
Boy somehow finds this charming.” I glance up at him.
“Inciting incident: fake dating scheme to make ex jealous. Classic rom-com setup, except the protagonist doesn’t realize she’s already falling for the love interest.”
Ethan’s mouth twitches. “Go on.”
“Act Two: The Confrontation. Everything gets complicated. The fake relationship starts feeling real. The protagonist discovers she’s been unknowingly critiquing the love interest’s deepest work.
” I take a breath. “Plot twist: she’s ButterBoi69.
Crisis point: the truth comes out, trust breaks, everything falls apart. ”
“And Act Three?” His voice is soft.
“The Resolution. The protagonist realizes she’s been waiting her whole life for other people to choose her.
But real love isn’t about waiting—it’s about choosing.
” I look directly at him. “So she brings the love interest his plant and admits that she structured their entire relationship into a three-act structure because she’s a huge nerd who doesn’t know how else to say ‘I love you’ except through the language he taught her. ”
“That’s...” Ethan starts laughing. “That’s the most you thing I’ve ever heard.”
“Is that bad?”
“It’s perfect.” He crosses to me in two strides. “You turned us into a story structure. Of course, you did.”
“With a potential sequel,” I add quickly. “Because the best stories leave room for more.”
“God, I love you,” he says, and then his hands are in my hair and his mouth is on mine and everything else fades away.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.
“For the record,” he says against my lips, “your three-act structure is flawless. Though I might suggest one revision.”
“What’s that?”
“The crisis point isn’t when trust breaks. It’s when both characters realize they’ve been letting fear write their story instead of love.”
“That’s...” I pull back to look at him. “That’s actually better.”
“I learned from the best critic.” He grins. “So what happens in our sequel?”
“Now we stop letting fear make our choices. We be honest with each other, even when it’s scary.” I glance at Greg, who definitely looks perkier. “And maybe we let your plant take partial credit for matchmaking.”
“Speaking of which,” Ethan says, “I think our story needs a proper first date. Dinner? Tonight? Somewhere that isn’t the dining hall?”
“Are you asking me on a real date, Ethan Prescott?”
“I’m asking my girlfriend, who writes three-act apologies and makes my plant happy, if she’ll let me take her somewhere nice.”
“Girlfriend?” The word makes my chest warm.
“If you’ll have me. Terrible jokes, structured narratives, and all.”
“Deal,” I say, and kiss him again.
Greg rustles in his pot, leaves already looking healthier.
“I think Greg approves of our story,” Ethan murmurs against my mouth.
“Greg’s a smart plant.”
“The smartest. Though I think we’re pretty smart too.”
And standing here in his room, with our story finally making sense, I think he’s right.
We’re smart enough to know that the best love stories aren’t the ones that follow predictable patterns.
They’re the ones where two people choose to write their own ending, together.