Chapter 14
Ethan
The storm is done. The rain has slowed to a drizzle, the wind dying down like someone finally turned off a giant fan. Lightning flickers in the distance, long after the worst of it, and the smell of wet pine and earth drifts through the open windows.
I’m back inside my house, standing awkwardly by the kitchen counter, hands in my pockets. Mum, Dad, and Charlotte have come in from dinner — laughter and clinking wine glasses from the other room. Lily’s gone to bed.
Lucky hasn’t moved yet. She’s sitting on the couch, the way she does when she’s caught between leaving and staying.
“You really don’t have to walk me,” she says softly, almost stubborn.
“Yes, I do,” I reply. Firm, clipped, but not unkind. My voice carries the weight of habit, of control. I don’t like letting anyone see me hesitate.
She stands, grabbing her key from the coffee table, and I hold the door open for her. Outside, the air smells clean and sharp, a subtle reminder that everything has been washed away — if only temporarily.
We fall into the same rhythm as last time, walking side by side. Close, but not too close. Not yet.
“You really don’t let anyone in, do you?” she asks, casually, but her eyes are sharp. “Not your parents, not Charlotte, not even friends. Then again, do you have them? Friends?”
“I do, and I don’t let people in easily,” I reply, clipped. My jaw tightens. “It’s… simpler this way.”
“Simpler?” she repeats, voice teasing. “You mean lonely, rigid, afraid of being seen.”
I glance at her, annoyed and reluctant, but not enough to stop myself. “Maybe. But it works.”
She snorts. “Works for whom? You or everyone else?”
“Both,” I say curtly, keeping my pace steady. “Mostly me.”
She nudges my arm lightly with hers. “So you’re admitting it’s mostly selfish?”
“Not admitting anything,” I reply, deadpan. “Just stating a fact.”
Her lips twitch. “You sound exactly like someone who should have been in the army instead of in therapy.”
I smirk faintly, a dry twist at the corner of my mouth. “Was in the army. It’s not an option anymore.”
“Clearly,” she teases. “But you still get to be stubborn and unfeeling. Lucky, meet Mr. Maddox.”
I shake my head, but there’s a twitch of humor I can’t quite suppress. “Not unfeeling. Cautious. Controlled. Precise.”
“Cautious, controlled, precise… and painfully lonely,” she says softly, almost under her breath.
I stop walking for a moment, caught off guard by the accuracy of her jab. She doesn’t push, doesn’t lean in — she waits, sharp and steady, like she expects an answer.
I inhale slowly, trying to reset. “Maybe,” I admit, voice low. “Painfully lonely, yeah. But necessary.”
Her gaze lingers on me, curious, teasing, challenging. And somewhere in the pause, I feel it — the tension, the pull, the first real crack in the armor I’ve built.
Her eyes don’t leave mine, sharp and expectant, and I feel that old weight pressing down again — the one I carry for years I never show anyone.
“You know,” she says softly, “you don’t have to do all of it alone. You don’t have to… hide everything.”
I bristle at first. Reflexive. Defensive. But something in her tone — gentle, not judgmental — stops me mid-step. My jaw tightens, hands clenching in my pockets.
“I didn’t ask for company,” I say, curt, clipped.
“You didn’t have to ask,” she shoots back, voice low but teasing, a little dangerous. “It just doesn’t suit you to be untouchable all the time.”
Her words land like a hammer. My chest tightens. And then the dam breaks — just a little. Enough that I feel it, that I let it leak out.
“Fine,” I mutter, more to myself than her. “Not everyone’s untouchable. Some of us just… carry things we shouldn’t.”
She tilts her head, curiosity sharp. “Carry what?”
I look down, kicking a small stone along the path. The memory comes unbidden — Mara’s voice, her anger, my own guilt.
“I was… gone a lot,” I admit slowly, voice rougher than I like. “Army. Tours. Duty. She wanted me home. Full-time. And I wasn’t.”
Her hand brushes mine as we walk again, a light anchor. I don’t pull away.
“She phoned me, furious. I told her I couldn’t come at the drop of a hat when I’m on tour duty.
And then… she got in the car. Angry. And then she…
she died.” My voice falters, throat tightening.
“I… didn’t answer my parents' call that day because I was on an assignment. By the time I got to base… she was gone. And Lily…” My jaw tightens.
“She cried like her world ended. Because it had. I wasn’t there for either of them. ”
Lucky’s thumb brushes my hand — tentative, careful — and something loosens, tiny, dangerous, inside me.
“You carried that alone?” she asks softly, voice more curious than judgmental.
I shrug, a dry, brittle motion. “Doesn’t matter. It’s over. Should’ve been… should’ve done more. But it’s done.”
Her gaze lingers. Something unspoken passes between us, fragile and delicate. She sees the cracks I never let anyone touch. And maybe for the first time in years, I feel seen. Not as a soldier. Not as a father. Not as a man who has to be in control.
Just… me.
We sit in silence on the steps of her porch. And the pull between us — the unspoken almost-kiss from earlier, the warmth, the tension — hums quietly beneath it all.
I glance at her. She’s looking back, that subtle mixture of curiosity and challenge in her eyes, like she’s daring me to let the walls down even further. And I think, for the first time in forever, I might just want to.
The quiet settles around us like a soft cloak. The drizzle has slowed to a mist, and the air smells of wet earth and pine, sharp and clean. I notice her breathing has evened out slightly, though her eyes are still bright with unsaid questions.
“You’ve never really… let anyone in, have you?” she asks, voice low, probing. Not teasing this time. Serious.
I pause, kicking at a stone absentmindedly. “No,” I admit, curtly, almost defensively. “Not since… her.”
Lucky’s gaze softens, and she doesn’t push. Just watches. That’s enough to make me shift, just a little, to open the cracks I keep buried.
“I—” I start, throat tight. “I don’t… I don’t know how. I’ve spent years… controlling everything, guarding everyone I care about. And sometimes I forget that letting someone in doesn’t mean losing them.”
She tilts her head. “You mean… losing you.”
I look at her, startled at how accurate that is. “Maybe. Losing me… or letting anyone see what’s really inside me. I’ve… I’ve made a lot of mistakes.”
She doesn’t flinch at my words, doesn’t judge. She’s steady. Alive. Dangerous in her calm, because she sees me. And I feel it — for the first time in years — someone really sees me.
“You’re… human,” she says softly, and I feel it like a pulse in my chest. “Broken and hurt and… still standing. And you don’t have to hide it from me.”
I swallow. The words I want to say choke in my throat, the ones I shouldn’t. She’s right here, sitting beside me, her hand brushing mine occasionally, cautious, like she’s testing the pull.
“I was supposed to protect her,” I mutter finally, voice low, rough. “Mara. I failed. And Lily… I’ve carried it. All of it. The guilt. The anger. The regret. Everything.”
She doesn’t look away. Doesn’t avert her gaze. Just lets me speak, lets me lay myself bare without comment or interruption. Her quiet acceptance is heavier than any reprimand, stronger than any shield I’ve built.
“You’re not just a soldier,” she says softly. “You’re a man who’s lost, who’s hurt, but who’s… still here. And you still fight. Even if it’s just to survive.”
I glance at her, something flickering behind my eyes that I usually hide. Appreciation, awe, a dangerous pull I don’t trust. “You… make it sound easier than it is.”
She smirks faintly. “Maybe I like making things harder for you,” she teases lightly, but her eyes soften again. “I don’t know why I care, but I do. About you.”
Something in my chest twists. I want to tell her to stop. To run. To stay away. But I don’t. Because I want to feel this, dangerous as it is.
For the first time, I let myself slow, let the wall between us thin. Her hand brushes mine again, a whisper of touch, and I don’t pull away. The tension hums between us, fragile and electric.
I look down at her, and I see it — the way she sees me. Not the soldier. Not the father. Not the controlled man who keeps it all together. But me. Just Ethan. Broken. Guarded. Alive.
And in that moment, sitting under the awning that protects us from the misty sky, I realize I don’t want to hide from her anymore.
Not entirely.
Not now.
I glance at her again, catching the faintest shiver in her smile, and I know the truth. She’s a slow burn I shouldn't touch.
“You make it… easier to breathe,” I admit softly, surprising even myself. “Even when I don’t deserve it.”
Her gaze lifts, soft and steady, and for a moment, everything else — the storm, the guilt, the world — falls away.
There’s just her, just me, just the quiet intimacy that has nothing to do with touch and everything to do with seeing us, messy, impossible.
But I want her. And maybe… maybe she wants me too.
She leans slightly closer, and I don’t pull away. I shouldn’t. I want to. My entire body hums with the possibility, with the danger, with the warmth of letting someone in after years of shutting everyone out.
But then she tilts her head, eyes meeting mine, and I see it — understanding, patience, challenge. The quiet acknowledgment that we’re standing on the edge of something neither of us has dared to name yet.
And I let myself stay there, on the porch steps, with her, in the damp night air, letting the tension, the pull, the intimacy, settle between us.
The night hums around us, the silence alive and full, and for the first time in years, I let myself stay here, so close, open, and seen, without retreating.
I don’t move. She doesn’t either. And that, I realize, is enough for now.
For this moment, we exist only together, perched on wet wooden steps, hands nearly touching, hearts quietly daring to feel again.
And it’s terrifying. And it’s perfect.