Chapter 13
Thirteen
The house was finally quiet.
Lydia stood in the hallway outside the guest bedrooms where Eli and Rosie had crashed after the excitement of decorating the tree, listening to their soft, even breathing.
Rosie had fallen asleep clutching the new gray bunny Ethan had bought her, her blonde curls spread across the pillow like spilled sunshine.
Eli had lasted a little longer, reading by flashlight under the covers until exhaustion finally claimed him.
They were safe. They were warm. They were home.
The thought made Lydia’s throat tighten. This wasn’t her home. It was Ethan’s house, his generosity, his space that he’d opened to them out of kindness. But standing here in the hallway, listening to her children sleep peacefully, it felt like home in a way their apartment in Ohio never had.
She pulled the door closed softly and turned to find Ethan waiting at the top of the stairs, his hazel eyes warm in the dim light.
“They out?” he asked quietly.
“Finally. I think decorating the tree exhausted them.” Lydia smiled. “Rosie made me promise we could do it again tomorrow. Apparently, one round of ornament-hanging wasn’t enough.”
“We can do it every day if she wants. At least when I’m not on shift,” Ethan said, and the casual way he included himself in those plans made something flutter in Lydia’s chest. “Come on. I want to show you something.”
He led her downstairs, and Lydia followed, hyperaware of his presence in front of her. The way his shoulders moved under his flannel shirt. The breadth of his back. The cedar scent that clung to him, mixing with woodsmoke from the stove and the pine smell of the Christmas tree.
Stop it, she told herself firmly. You’re a guest in his house.
A charity case. The last thing he needed was her developing some kind of schoolgirl crush just because he’d been kind to her.
I need to maintain some independence. I don’t know where this is going.
But when they reached the living room, and she saw what he’d done, all her stern self-talk evaporated.
Ethan had turned off all the lights except the Christmas tree.
The colored bulbs cast soft glows across the room, red and green and gold and blue, painting everything in gentle, magical light.
The nativity scene on the mantel seemed to glow, the tiny figures caught in their eternal tableau.
And through the window, she could see snow beginning to fall again, fat flakes drifting down through the darkness.
It was beautiful. Achingly, impossibly beautiful.
“Sit with me?” Ethan gestured to the couch, and Lydia noticed he’d made hot chocolate. Two mugs sat on the coffee table, steam rising in lazy spirals, topped with marshmallows that were already beginning to melt.
“You didn’t have to do this,” Lydia said, but she was already moving toward the couch, drawn by the warmth and the kindness and the sheer thoughtfulness of it.
“I wanted to.” Ethan handed her a mug as she settled into the cushions, careful to leave a respectable distance between them. “Besides, it’s tradition. Hot chocolate and Christmas lights. Sarah used to say it wasn’t really the holidays until you did both at the same time.”
Sarah. The name hung in the air between them, and Lydia saw Ethan’s expression shift. Not quite sad, but wistful. Like he was looking at something beautiful that existed just out of reach.
“Tell me about her,” Lydia said softly. She took a sip of the hot chocolate, which was perfect, rich and sweet with just a hint of cinnamon, and curled her legs under her.
“If you want to. You mentioned earlier that your house is pretty big for someone living alone. There’s a story there, isn’t there? ”
Ethan was quiet for a long moment, staring at the Christmas tree lights. Then he took a breath and began to talk.
“I met Sarah at the hospital,” he said. “Right after I got hired on as a paramedic. She was a nurse in the ER, and I brought in a patient. An elderly woman, a fall victim, nothing too serious. Sarah took one look at my patient handoff report and pointed out three things I’d missed in my assessment.
” He smiled at the memory. “I was mortified. But she just laughed and said I’d learn.
Told me to buy her coffee to make up for the extra work I’d caused her. ”
“Did you?” Lydia asked.
“That same afternoon. Spent my whole lunch break with her in the cafeteria, talking about everything and nothing. By the time I had to go back on shift, I knew—” He stopped, cleared his throat.
“I knew she was it. The one. The person I’d been waiting for my whole life without even knowing I was waiting. ”
The raw honesty in his voice made Lydia’s chest ache. She wanted to reach for his hand, to offer comfort, but she kept her fingers wrapped around her mug instead.
“I grew up in foster care,” Ethan continued, his eyes still on the tree.
“Since before I could walk. My biological parents, whoever they were, left me at a hospital when I was maybe three months old. No note, no explanation. Just a baby in a blanket.” He took a sip of his chocolate.
“I bounced around a lot. Some homes were okay. Some weren’t.
None of them kept me long enough to matter. ”
“Ethan,” Lydia breathed, her heart breaking for the little boy he’d been.
“It’s okay,” he said quickly. “I mean, it wasn’t okay then.
But I survived it. Joined the Army at eighteen because I needed somewhere to belong, some structure.
Became a medic because—” He shrugged. “Because saving people mattered. Because maybe if I could keep other people safe, it would make up for the fact that no one had wanted to keep me safe when I was a kid.”
Lydia set down her mug with trembling hands. The casual way he said it, like growing up unwanted was just a fact, like the loneliness of it hadn’t shaped everything he became, made her want to weep.
“Sarah changed all that,” Ethan said, and his voice softened.
“She was the first person who made me feel like I mattered. Not because I was useful, not because I could save lives or fix things or be what someone needed me to be. Just because I was me. Ethan. The guy who drank his coffee black and ran too many miles and had nightmares about Kandahar but wouldn’t talk about them. ”
“She sounds wonderful,” Lydia said quietly.
“She was.” Ethan’s throat worked. “We bought this house together. Planned everything. Which rooms would be the kids’ bedrooms, where we’d put the swing set, and what color to paint the kitchen.
She wanted four kids. I told her three was plenty.
We compromised on five.” He laughed, but it was raw with emotion. “Sarah always won our compromises.”
Lydia could picture it so clearly. Ethan and Sarah, walking through this empty house, seeing not what it was but what it could be. Filling the silence with dreams and laughter and plans for a future that should have been theirs.
“We were engaged,” Ethan said. “Wedding planned for that spring. Sarah had her dress picked out, the venue booked, everything. And then one night, she was driving home from a late shift at the hospital, and a drunk driver ran a red light.” His voice went flat, emotionless, the way it did when something hurt too much to feel.
“I was first on scene. My rig got the call, and I didn’t know …
not until I saw her car … that it was her. ”
“Oh God,” Lydia whispered. “Ethan, I’m so sorry.”
“I held her while she died,” he said, and now the tears were there, silent tracks down his face that he didn’t bother to wipe away.
“Right there on the road. She knew it was me. Smiled at me. Said she was sorry she was going to miss the wedding.” He swallowed hard.
“Like she was apologizing for dying. Like it was her fault some drunk asshole had decided to get behind the wheel.”
Lydia didn’t think. Just set her mug aside and moved across the couch, wrapping her arms around him. Ethan stiffened for just a moment, then melted into her embrace, his face pressing into her shoulder as his body shook with silent sobs.
“I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I don’t usually … I shouldn’t?—”
“Shh,” Lydia murmured, holding him tighter. “It’s okay. You’re allowed to cry. You’re allowed to feel it.”
They stayed like that for a long time, Lydia holding him while he grieved for the woman he’d loved and lost, for the future that had died on that road three years ago.
The Christmas lights cast their gentle glow over them both, and outside, the snow kept falling, and Lydia felt her heart crack open with tenderness for this man who’d given her everything despite carrying such profound loss.
Finally, Ethan pulled back, scrubbing at his face with the heel of his hand. “Sorry,” he said again. “I don’t know why I’m such a mess tonight. It’s been three years. I should be over it by now.”
“You don’t ‘get over’ losing someone you love,” Lydia said firmly. “You learn to live with it. That’s all any of us can do.”
Ethan looked at her, really looked at her, his hazel eyes red-rimmed but clear.
“After she died, I decided that was it. My one chance at family, at love, at having someone … it was over. I’d already cashed in my voucher, and the universe didn’t give second chances.
” He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, his fingers lingering on her cheek.
“And then you showed up. You and Eli and Rosie. And suddenly this empty house didn’t feel quite so empty anymore. ”
Lydia’s breath caught. She should pull back. Should put distance between them before this went somewhere she couldn’t come back from. But she couldn’t make herself move, couldn’t make herself give up the warmth of his hand on her face.
“Ethan, I—” She stopped, unsure what she wanted to say. That she was falling for him? That being here with him felt like home? That the thought of leaving terrified her almost as much as Tom finding them did?