Chapter 10
Ethan
I don’t go home.
I make it halfway down the path before I realize I can’t walk into that house, not with Mum waiting to dissect every expression on my face, not with Charlotte’s knowing smirk, not with the ghost of almost kissing Lucky still burning behind my ribs.
The truck is closer than the front door. That’s reason enough.The key turns. The engine rumbles—a familiar, grounding sound that fills the space where breath should be. I pull out of the driveway before I’ve given myself permission to.
The lake drops behind me fast, swallowed by the early summer night.
It’s not fully dark yet; the sky still holds a strip of cobalt at the horizon, the kind of not-night that feels suspended, like time hasn’t committed to anything.
Crickets. Cool air is rushing in through the cracked window.
The smell of wet earth from the rain earlier.
I don’t have a destination, just distance. Space. Noise that isn’t my own thoughts.
I almost kissed her.
Bloody ‘ell.
I drag a hand over my face, knuckles scraping my jaw. I can still feel the warmth of her breath, the way she tilted toward me without hesitation. Like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like she trusted me.
And I stepped back.
Coward.
I take the road that winds out toward the old quarry. It’s quiet, deserted at this hour, and far enough from everything that no one will follow. It’s the one place that’s stayed unchanged since I was sixteen and furious at the world.
It’s where I used to go to make sense of things, when Lily finally fell asleep and I couldn’t.
And I had a lot of those nights.
Headlights sweep over broken gravel as I pull in. The pit is a dark bowl below, water collected at the bottom, still and black. The trees shift in the breeze, whispering.
I kill the engine. The sudden quiet hits like a punch.
I should get out. I don’t.
Because the only thing I can think about is Lucky Vale in my living room, laughing with my family like she belonged there, looking at me like she saw straight through every wall I’ve built.
And the feeling—unwanted, reckless, bone-deep—that I wanted to kiss her more than I’ve wanted anything in a very long time.
I lean back in the seat, jaw clenched so tight it aches.
I’m attracted to her. There’s no point pretending otherwise now.
And I hate it.
The more I sit here, the more everything inside me winds tight. Like something’s been knocked out of place and I can’t force it back where it belongs.
The quarry air is cool and damp. My breath fogs faintly on the windscreen.
This shouldn’t be happening.
Not over a woman I barely know.
Not over someone like Lucky—chaotic, bright, unpredictable, the exact opposite of the quiet, controlled life I’ve built.
But I can’t deny it anymore: something in me reacted to her.
Something I thought had died.
My chest aches. A slow, dull throb.
It’s been a long time since I let myself feel anything this sharp.
And as soon as that door cracks open—Mara slips through.
Not the romanticised version.
The real one.
We were way too young. Nineteen and twenty.
She laughed too loud, and I took everything too seriously.
She wanted roots; I wanted the bloody world.
It was touch-and-go for a few years. And then she got pregnant.
And suddenly, everything became about stability, mortgages, and sensible choices instead of long-term deployments and adventure.
I cared for her. I loved her in the way I understood love back then.
But not in the way she needed.
Not in the way she deserved.
The guilt settles heavy on my shoulders—familiar as an old bruise.
After Lily was born, I tried to be what she needed.
Tried to be present, to be steady. But the truth is, some part of me was terrified of becoming a man I didn’t recognise—locked down, resentful.
I even had a vasectomy at twenty-five just to make sure we didn’t bring another child into the mess I was already making.
Told myself it was temporary, that I could reverse it when life “settled.” Really, it was just another escape hatch. One more selfish attempt at control.
Mara never knew.
Thank God.
I remember the arguments when I’d return home on leave.
Her standing in the kitchen, hair escaping its clip, eyes bright with frustration.
“Ethan, I can’t do this alone anymore.”
“You’re not alone. I’m right here.”
“No, you’re not. You’re always halfway out the door.”
And she wasn’t wrong.
I always had one foot in the army and one at home, never fully committed to either. I kept telling myself I was providing, protecting, doing the right thing. But really—I was hiding. From responsibility. From disappointment. From the terror of being boxed into a life I hadn’t chosen.
I volunteered for deployments I didn’t need to take. Missions that suited the part of me that knew how to disappear, how to do things, and know things I could never explain to her. She once asked what my unit actually did. I changed the subject.
And then, six years later, she died.
Not quietly.
Not gently.
Not in a way I could pretend was fate.
We fought over the phone.
She begged me to come home.
I said we’d talk when I got leave.
She said she couldn’t wait that long.
The line went dead.
She drove angry.
Didn’t see the lorry.
By the time the call reached my unit, she was already gone.
By the time I made it home, Lily was crying in someone else’s arms, and the house in Houston smelled like stale coffee, shock, and everything broken in an instant.
I failed her before I even tried.
Failed them both.
My throat tightens. My hands clench—useless, empty, too late.
This is why I can’t do this.
Why I can’t let myself want Lucky, or anyone.
Because someone always pays for the parts of me I can’t give.
A sharp breath punches out of me. My eyes burn, but nothing falls. Nothing ever does.
I grip the steering wheel until the leather bites into my palms.
Wanting Lucky is dangerous.
Wanting anyone is.
But wanting her—someone who could crack me open without even meaning to—feels like stepping toward a ledge I know too well.
So I shut it down.
The way I was trained to.
The way I’ve survived since I was nineteen.
I close the door inside myself. Hard.
Silence the part that wants.
Silence the part that remembers.
By the time I start the engine again, my pulse is level.
Face blank.
Thoughts cold and ordered.
Whatever almost happened on that porch—whatever would have happened if I hadn’t stepped back—it won’t happen again.
I won’t let it.
By the time I reach home, everything is locked down tight.
Emotionless.
Controlled.
The house is dark when I pull up. Good. I’m not in any shape to handle questions or Charlotte’s teasing smirk.
The porch creaks under my boots.
The door closes behind me with a soft click.
The silence settles like armour, fitted and familiar.
I move through the house in practiced motions.
Check the windows.
Check the locks.
Switch the hall light on, then off.
Routine. Predictable. Safe.
I avoid the places that might make me think—Mara’s photo in the hallway, Lily’s drawings on the fridge, the chair where Lucky sat earlier, as if she belonged there.
Bathroom. Cold water on my face. Toothbrush. Lights off.
Everything mechanical.
Everything controlled.
I slide into bed without letting my mind drift anywhere dangerous. The sheets feel too big, too empty, but I ignore them. I’ve ignored worse.
Sleep comes in fragments.
Somewhere in the dark, I hear the fridge hum. At some point, my mother’s voice murmurs downstairs.
And somewhere in between, Lucky slips into my dreams—eyes bright, hair wild, that sharp half-smile—leaning toward me again.
I wake before she reaches me.