8. Ethan
ETHAN
Iused to love Seattle.
That was the thought I kept circling as I stood just inside the doors of the hospital’s administrative building, letting people move around me while I tried to remember what it had felt like to belong somewhere like this.
The noise of it. The scale. The anonymity—the way you could walk into a coffee shop and be completely unknown, unburdened by anyone’s expectations of who you were supposed to be.
I’d had a plan for this city once. Law school, the bar, a firm with enough glass in the walls to feel like an arrival. Then my grandfather called, and I left, and the version of my life that made sense on paper stayed behind without me.
I’d been back in Gray Harbor for two years now, and I still hadn’t taken the bar. Lucy was somewhere in the middle of it, a moment of bad timing dressed up as something easier than grief.
Gray Harbor wasn’t wrong for me—I was starting to believe that now. But I’d come back because I had no other option, not because I’d chosen it, and there was a version of me that hadn’t forgiven myself for not knowing the difference.
Standing in this lobby made it louder.
I used to think I’d recognize the want when it came back—that being here would flip some switch and the old ambition would reignite.
It didn’t. I was in a building two blocks from where I used to study until two in the morning, and I felt nothing pulling me toward any of it.
No itch to stay. No sense of unfinished business calling me back into a courtroom.
Just an unfamiliar lobby and a meeting I’d rather not be at.
Was it the title or the unfinished plan?
My gaze drifted toward the elevators and back to the doors behind me—not because I was going to leave but because I wanted to confirm to myself that I could. That this was a decision and not something I’d stumbled into.
The whole thing was strange. Alba had made it nearly impossible to say no.
She’d used every bit of history we had and known exactly which angles would work.
Normally, I wouldn’t have agreed to something like this.
Selfishly, I wanted to see Salem again. And the kids—I wanted to help the kids. Maybe not in that order.
“You’re early.” Alba’s voice cut through the lobby. She was already halfway across the floor, less paint on her clothes than usual, a structured jacket standing in for the usual chaos, the kind of put-together that suggested she owned this version of herself and saved it for occasions like this.
“You said eleven.”
“It’s ten thirty-eight.”
“Close enough.”
She smiled. “Nervous?”
“No.”
“Liar.”
I didn’t argue. It would’ve taken more energy than it was worth, and she wasn’t wrong, though it wasn’t the meeting making me tense. Meetings, I could handle.
I dragged a hand over the back of my neck. “This isn’t really my thing.”
“Professional buildings?” she asked, glancing around.
“PR relationships.”
She looked at me for a second, her expression softening. “We’re not asking you to pretend. We’re asking you not to walk away from something already happening that actually helps people. Honestly, we just need your handsome face.”
I exhaled slowly.
She didn’t push it further. She just reached past me and hit the elevator button.
“Come on,” she said. “Let’s go meet the people who are going to make this sound like a really good idea.”
“I’m sure they will.”
The conference room was all glass on three sides, the city laid out behind it in flat afternoon light. Polished, deliberate.
A woman stood as we walked in—bright pink suit, blonde hair pulled into a low bun, nothing hesitant about her. “You must be Ethan.”
“Yeah.” I took her hand.
“Lila Hart. I oversee partnership strategy for Heroes for Children.” Her handshake was firm. “Thanks for coming in.”
“Of course.”
Alba slid in beside me, already talking, comfortable in a way that made it obvious this whole operation existed because of her. I let her take the lead and tried not to look like I was counting exits.
“Salem should be here any minute,” Lila said, glancing toward the door.
I knew what Salem looked like—half the internet did at this point—but I didn’t know her voice, didn’t know how she moved through a room. The hallway didn’t count. That had been fog and blue light and thirty seconds neither of us had planned for. I was eager to learn the rest.
The door opened.
Salem stepped in, dark hair loose over one shoulder. Her bright green eyes reflected the unease I was feeling. She was stunning. I'd told myself the pull I felt toward her was just adrenaline, an illusion cooked up by the Butcher's Den. Now, looking at her, I knew I'd been wrong.
Her hair was ebony and not quite curly, not quite straight, with a few loose strands falling over her eyes.
A smattering of freckles crossed the bridge of her nose, and her dark lashes framed those green eyes in a way that made it hard to look away.
She scanned the room, and when her gaze landed on me, it stayed just a moment too long before she looked away.
“Salem,” Lila said, stepping forward. “Hi—I’m Lila Hart, partnership strategy for Heroes for Children.”
“Hi,” Salem said. Her voice was steadier than I’d expected and a little raspy. It suited her.
We sat.
Lila didn’t waste time. Numbers came up on the screen behind her—clean, climbing, designed to land, and mostly succeeding. I followed along as best I could, given that the woman beside me was apparently louder in my peripheral vision than a PowerPoint presentation.
“People are responding to something real,” Lila said.
“We’re not creating that. We’re guiding it.
This was an authentic moment between the two of you, and we want to build on the attention it’s already getting.
About a month. Be seen together. Attend a few events.
If you’re open to it, some volunteer work tied to the foundation.
This isn’t a staged campaign. No fake proposals, no scripted moments.
Anything connected to the two of you draws attention.
We just want to put that toward something good. ”
“This seems a little out there,” I said. “One video, and people want to see us together that badly?”
“Yes,” Lila said, without missing a beat. “I know it sounds ridiculous. People are finding it harder and harder to connect to anything these days, so when something real shows up, they latch on. If they’re going to do that anyway, why not use it for something good?”
Salem leaned forward, looking at the slide. “And if we said no to the volunteer stuff? Just the appearances?”
“You could,” Lila said. “It just performs worse. People want the version of you that’s doing something, not the version standing next to a banner.”
“Makes sense,” Salem muttered.
Lila clicked to the next slide. “Contractually, you’ll each post a selfie per event, captioned with the organization’s hashtag, but something that feels authentic to you. You show up, you help out, you’re seen enjoying each other’s company.” She looked between us. “Easy enough?”
I nodded.
“There’s also a stipend. Twenty thousand each, as thanks for putting other plans on hold and making this a priority.”
I didn’t need the money, and I almost said so, until I caught Salem’s expression. The way her grip shifted on the notebook in front of her gave me pause.
So, I said nothing.
Lila passed out the paperwork. We each took a copy, signed where she pointed, and the meeting wrapped with the brisk efficiency of people who had somewhere else to be.
I pushed my chair back and caught up to Salem before she reached the door. “Hey.”
She looked up. “Hey.”
“You want to get dinner—er, lunch? Whatever meal applies right now. Not part of this.” I gestured back at the room. “Somewhere that doesn’t feel like a presentation.”
Her mouth curved. “That sounds nice.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
She studied me for a second, then nodded. “Okay. Where to?”
I gestured at the door. “Somewhere without contracts, preferably."
“That would be lovely.”
She stepped past me, then glanced back just enough to make sure I was following.
“Well,” I said. “After you, my parasocial romantic acquaintance.”
Her face did something for half a second I couldn’t read, and I immediately wondered if I’d miscalculated.
“I need that engraved on a pen,” she said.
I breathed easier.
The elevator opened as we reached it, timing that felt unearned, but I wasn’t going to argue with it. We stepped in. The doors closed, and the city dropped away floor by floor through the narrow window on the far wall.
“So,” she said, staring straight ahead.
“So…”
We arrived at the lobby before I figured out what came next. The noise of the building faded behind us as we stepped out, and it occurred to me that I was going to have to get used to this—whatever this was—because we’d signed up for a lot more of it.
Walking next to her out of a building I’d never managed to love the way I used to, in a city that had started to feel like someone else’s, I found I didn’t mind.