8. Ethan
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ethan
By the time the elevator reaches my floor, I’ve already reminded myself twice that this is a practical decision.
Necessary.
Measured.
Entirely manageable.
None of which changes the fact that when the doors open and I see her standing there with two suitcases, the air seems to shift in a way I don't appreciate.
Addy looks up immediately.
There’s a fraction of a pause. Not enough to be called hesitation, but enough to register. Enough to confirm that I’m not the only one aware of the weight this arrangement carries.
“Hi,” she says.
It’s not the same tone she used in the interview. Less polished and guarded. More… herself.
“Miss Clarke,” I reply, stepping forward.
Her mouth twitches.
I take the larger suitcase from her before she can object, because standing in a hallway negotiating luggage isn't how I intend to begin this. “Come in.”
She follows me across the threshold, and I’m immediately aware of the contrast she creates against the apartment’s restraint. The space is designed to be clean and functional. Glass, steel, muted color. Deliberate architecture. Nothing placed without reason.
And then there’s Addy, all warmth, restless movement, and human unpredictability, standing in the middle of it as though the room itself has been forced to acknowledge a variable it hadn’t prepared for.
She stops just inside the entryway and looks around, trying, I suspect, to be subtle about it.
She isn’t.
I set the suitcase down. “You can take your time, if you need to, that is.”
Her gaze shifts back to me. “Is it that obvious?”
“Yes.”
She exhales a short laugh, glancing out toward the windows. “I mean… this is a lot.”
That’s one way to put it.
Floor-to-ceiling glass curves along the main living area, cutting across the skyline and lake beyond in a sweep of blue and silver.
The afternoon light catches on the marble in the kitchen, the darker wood built into the walls, the details most people tend to notice only after they’ve recovered from the view.
Addy notices all of it at once.
The view, the space, the scale.
I’m used to that reaction. It rarely interests me. This one does.
“It’s functional,” I say.
She turns slowly, fixing me with a look that suggests she finds that assessment either absurd or deeply offensive. “Functional?”
“Yes.”
She gestures toward the entire apartment. “This isn't functional. This is… what Batman would live in if he got into Scandinavian design and had a better therapist.”
Despite myself, I feel the slightest shift at the corner of my mouth.
“Oh, wow,” she says, eyes narrowing. “That was almost a smile. Do I get some kind of bonus for that?”
“No.”
“Shame.”
I pick up her second bag. “I’ll show you your room.”
She falls into step beside me, and I'm immediately, unhelpfully, aware of her proximity. The scent of vanilla and citrus reaches me before I can make a point of ignoring it.
The guest wing is set slightly apart from the main suite, not isolated, but private.
The room I prepared for her is larger than strictly necessary, with its own bathroom, a window overlooking the lake, and a seating area I doubt she’ll use for at least a week.
Most people don’t when they first arrive.
They tend to spend a day or two trying to decide whether the whole thing is real.
I open the door and step aside.
She walks in.
Then stops.
Again.
The room isn’t extravagant by the standards of the rest of the apartment. Comfortable, yes. Thoughtfully designed. Neutral without being impersonal.
She turns in a slow circle. “This is bigger than my entire apartment was.”
I set the luggage just inside. “That’s not unusual in Chicago.”
She gives me a look over her shoulder. “You know, some people hear a sentence like that and become class-conscious on the spot.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Her gaze shifts to the bed, the dresser, the small vase of white flowers near the window, which I suspect she notices last.
For some reason, that detail bothers me.
“The bathroom is through there,” I say. “Closet on the left. If you need anything additional, let me know.”
She turns back to me fully this time. “Thank you.”
The words are straightforward enough, but there’s an unguarded look in them.
“You’re welcome.”
There’s a beat.
Then, predictably, “This still feels like a bad idea.”
I meet her gaze. “And yet you accepted.”
“I must enjoy making things difficult for myself.”
“Yes,” I say. “I’ve noticed.”
That gets a sharper reaction. Her eyes flash, and for half a second, the room is no longer a guest room in my home, but the narrow electric space between us on that flight, where every word carried challenge under its surface, and every silence meant something worse.
I end that line of thought immediately.
“This arrangement works,” I say, more evenly than I feel. “Provided it remains structured.”
Her expression shifts. Less heat, more caution. “Right.”
“Your role is clearly defined.”
“I understand that.”
“Good.”
She folds her arms, leaning one shoulder against the dresser in a posture that's far too casual for someone trying to convince me she’s taking this seriously. “Do you always speak in corporate policy statements when you’re uncomfortable?”
I look at her.
She lifts her chin slightly.
“I’m not uncomfortable.”
“Sure.”
I should leave the room.
That would be the practical choice.
Instead, I remain where I am and say, “If you intend to challenge every instruction I give, this will be a short placement.”
“And if you keep talking to me like I’m an HR liability, it’ll be a long one.”
Then a blur of movement cuts straight through it.
Captain.
He barrels into the room with all the grace of a collapsing building, skids against the rug, and launches himself at Addy with shameless enthusiasm. She laughs before she can help it, the sound immediate and bright in a way that alters the room more efficiently than any design choice ever could.
“Okay, yes, hi, you absolute menace,” she says as Captain attempts to climb into her lap while she’s still standing.
He leans his entire body into her legs, tail moving with enough force to knock over a small child.
“He remembers you,” I say.
She glances up while scratching behind his ears. “From the interview?”
“Yes.”
“Huh.” Captain licks her wrist. She smiles down at him. “Well, clearly he has excellent taste.”
“Or no judgment.”
“That too.”
A smaller figure appears in the doorway a moment later.
Oliver.
He stops just outside the room, studying Addy with the same careful attention he applies to anything he considers potentially important. His expression gives very little away.
Addy sees him immediately and straightens, though not so abruptly that it feels performative.
“Hi,” she says. “Officially.”
Oliver considers her. “You came back.”
“She did,” I say.
He ignores me, eyes still on her. “Are you staying now?”
Addy glances briefly at me before answering, which tells me she understands the significance of the question. “That’s the plan.”
He steps inside.
Captain, sensing a shift in focus, abandons all pretense of dignity and sprawls across Addy’s feet.
She looks down. “This seems possessive.”
“He does that,” Oliver says.
“Good to know.” She lowers herself slightly, enough to be closer to his height without making a show of it. “Your dad was just showing me around.”
Oliver nods once, then points toward the suitcase nearest the bed. “That one’s too heavy.”
Addy blinks. “You checked?”
“I saw Dad try to carry it.”
That, for some reason, nearly makes her laugh.
She presses her lips together instead. “Well. That's deeply invasive, but yes, it probably is.”
Oliver steps closer to inspect the suitcase as though this is a matter requiring immediate technical assessment. “What’s in it?”
“Important things,” Addy says gravely. “Clothes. Books. Possibly emotional baggage.”
He looks up at her.
There’s a brief pause.
Then, to my surprise, the corner of his mouth twitches.
“You joke a lot,” he says.
“Yes,” she replies. “It’s how I cope with the crushing weight of existence.”
Oliver thinks about that, pretending he understands every single word. “Okay.”
Captain rolls over at her feet as if in total agreement.
I watch the three of them for as long as I can without being caught.
There’s no effort in it. No strategy or manufactured warmth. Addy doesn’t attempt to charm him. She doesn’t speak to him in the exaggerated carefulness adults often use when they want a child to like them. She simply meets him where he is, which, more often than not, is what matters.
He responds to that.
So does the dog.
That should be enough to settle any remaining questions I had about this arrangement.
I still don’t trust how quickly the apartment feels different with her in it.
“Come,” I say. “I’ll show you the rest.”
She rises. Captain does the same, because apparently, this is now a group activity.
The kitchen is first.
I explain the obvious practicalities. Oliver’s schedule.
School mornings. Pickup times. Preferred meals.
Allergies: none. Foods he dislikes: many.
Bedtime routine. Reading habits. The fact that he asks questions most adults aren’t prepared for, and dislikes being lied to, even in the form of simplification.
Addy listens properly. She moves through the kitchen as I speak, eyes tracing the details she’ll need to remember, occasionally asking questions that indicate she’s building a system in her head as she goes.
“What time is breakfast usually?”
“Seven.”
“And dinner?”
“Six thirty unless there’s an event or conflict.”
“Do you want updates during the day?”
“If necessary.”
She glances at me. “Necessary according to your standards or mine?”
“A reasonable combination of both.”
“That sounds suspiciously flexible.”
“It isn’t.”
She hums, unconvinced, and moves on.
I show her the pantry, where things are kept, the family room, Oliver’s bathroom, the laundry room, and the service entrance she’ll almost never need to use but should know exists.
When we reach Oliver’s room, he darts ahead of us and begins explaining things himself.