Chapter 11
Ethan
I’m up before dawn on purpose. The house is quiet in that soft, blue-grey way that makes everything feel suspended, as if time itself is taking a breath.
I drink my coffee slowly, letting the warmth settle into me while the familiar thrum of order slides into my bones.
I try to convince myself I won’t see Lucky today.
That avoiding her is the safest thing I can do, for her and for myself.
It sounds reasonable in a silent kitchen. It always does.
Avoidance only works, though, when the person you are avoiding isn’t living ten strides from your back deck.
By seven-thirty, I am outside pretending to check a loose board below the back porch that doesn’t need checking.
The morning air still carries the coolness of night.
The whole yard feels washed clean and brightened by that early June light that sharpens everything it touches.
For a moment, I let myself believe I can ride that sense of calm, that maybe today will stay quiet.
Then I hear her patio door slide open, the metal track dragging in a tired, gritty rush.
She exhales softly, the kind of breath a person takes when they are bracing themselves for whatever the day decides to throw at them.
Something tightens inside my chest, hot and unwelcome, as if someone has hooked a finger under a stitch I thought had healed.
I straighten and put on the expression I learned to wear after Mara. Neutral. Polite. Closed. A face that says I’m fine and don’t ask and don’t get close. It fits too easily.
Lucky steps out onto her deck with her sunglasses on and her hair pulled into a messy knot.
She holds a coffee mug in both hands, curled into it as if she is using it for warmth or courage.
She looks smaller today. A little tired around the edges.
But when she spots me, she pauses. There is a tiny shift in her stance, barely a second of stillness, as if she is waiting for something I would rather not name.
“Morning,” she says. Her voice is light but careful, like she’s tapping the surface of a frozen pond to test whether it will hold.
I make myself stand straight, forcing calm into my posture. “Morning,” I reply.
The word comes out too sharp and entirely too flat. I hear the mistake the second it leaves my mouth. Her head tilts slightly as she studies me from behind her sunglasses.
“You’re up early,” she says.
“I’m always up early.” The answer is clipped, practically cut from stone. It sounds like a defence instead of a fact.
She shifts her mug from one hand to the other. “Yeah, I just meant… earlier than usual.”
I nod once. “Had things to do.”
Another lie. Another wall I stack between us with steady, practiced hands.
Her brow pulls in the smallest amount. Not a full frown, but close enough that I can picture what her eyes must look like behind the dark lenses. Curious. Hurt. Searching. “Right,” she murmurs.
The silence that settles between us is not the soft, easy kind she carried into my kitchen yesterday. This one has a brittle edge, thin and uncomfortable, like a sheet of glass that might crack under the wrong tone.
She steps closer to her railing, the morning light catching on the loose strands of her hair. “Listen, about last night—”
“Nothing to talk about,” I say, cutting her off.
It’s too fast. Too sharp. Too defensive.
Her mouth presses into a tight line behind the rim of her mug. I cannot see her eyes, but I hear the small, pained breath she draws in. The sound lands like a punch straight to the ribs.
Christ. I didn’t mean for it to come out like that. But apologising would open a door, and I am not ready for any doors to open. Not with her. Not after everything that surfaced last night at the quarry.
She swallows and lifts her chin a fraction. “Okay,” she says, her voice thin around the edges. “If that’s what you want.”
It isn’t. Not even close.
But want and need rarely match.
“I’ve just got a lot on,” I say. Softer, but still too controlled. “Family here. Work. Things to sort.”
She lets out a tiny huff of laughter. There is no humour in it. “Do you always list reasons, or am I special?”
I blink. “What?”
“Oh, nothing.” She waves it off, though her fingers tremble slightly. “You’re very tidy with your excuses, that’s all.”
I grit my teeth. “I’m not making excuses.”
Her head tilts again, this time with sharp precision. “Then what are you doing?”
“Keeping things simple.”
She laughs again. This time, it sounds brittle enough to splinter. “Right. Because God forbid anything gets messy.”
The words hit too close. They hit exactly where they shouldn’t. I look away before she can see the truth land.
“I don’t want to argue,” I say.
“Neither do I.” Something in her tone cracks. Quiet. Wounded.
For a moment, a brief and terrifying moment, I feel the instinct to soften. To say something real. To fix what I just crushed without thinking. But real is dangerous. Real asks for more than I have to give. So I shut it down.
“We shouldn’t,” I say instead.
She exhales slowly, and it almost sounds like a flinch. “Got it.”
Her hand lifts toward her sunglasses. For a second, I think she might take them off and let me see her eyes. Let me see how much damage I’ve done. But she doesn’t. She just steps back.
“Well,” she says quietly. “Enjoy… whatever you’re doing.”
The hesitation before she turns is small, barely a pause, but it guts me. It is the kind of pause that suggests she was hoping I’d say something normal, human, or kind. Something that might undo even a sliver of the tension between us.
I don’t say it.
I freeze, because softness has teeth, and I don’t trust myself not to bleed.
“You too,” I manage.
Two useless words. Cold enough that she flinches again.
She disappears inside without another sound. The glass door slides shut with a soft finality, and it hits harder than if she had slammed it.
I stand there with my hand resting on the board and my breath caught somewhere between my ribs and my throat. Brilliant. Well done. Exactly what I intended, apparently: hurt her before she gets close enough to hurt me.
Except the second she vanished inside, every instinct in me started pulling the other way.
I exhale slowly. My jaw feels locked in place. I didn’t want to be that sharp. I didn’t want to see her shoulders tighten or hear that small, wounded breath. The memory of it replays too clearly, settling under my sternum like a dull ache that refuses to ease.
I scrub a hand over my face. “Knobhead,” I mutter under my breath.
It doesn’t help. I could have handled the entire exchange differently. I could have been polite. I could have been gentle. But gentleness leads to honesty, and honesty leads to doors I can’t open. Not after everything was dragged to the surface yesterday.
Still, I didn’t need to cut her like that. She wasn’t asking for anything. She wasn’t pushing. She just wanted to talk.
And I shut her down like she was a threat.
The worst part is the look she gave me before turning away. The confusion. The flicker of hurt she tried to mask with humour. Lucky moves loud and talks loud and lives loud, but she bruises fast. Faster than she lets anyone see.
And I caused it. Again.
I run my thumb along the rough edge of the wooden board, grounding myself in the coarse texture.
The pressure in my chest grows tighter and colder until it feels hollow all at once.
This is why I keep my distance. The reason why I lock everything down.
Every time I let myself soften, I end up hurting someone.
But knowing that doesn’t make this feel any better.
I stare at her closed door for a moment too long. A small war rages inside me. One part of me wants to knock, apologise, do something to fix what I broke. The other part screams for distance.
The louder voice wins. It always does.
I turn back toward my house, moving stiffly, mechanically. Regret follows with every step, close enough that I can almost feel its breath on my neck.
For the first time in a long time, the silence around me doesn’t feel like armour.
It feels like punishment.