Chapter 20 #2
“I mean it. The guy’s built like a damn wall. Use it. Lean into it. Hell, get cozy with him if it keeps you safer.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
If he knew how cozy I’d been last night—
“Banks,” I warn, voice cracking. “Don’t.”
“What?” He snorts. “He’s right there with you, isn’t he? Big hands, broad chest, probably owns an axe for fun. I’m just saying—if someone tries to get near you again, I’d rather they run into him first.”
My pulse thuds painfully.
“Just… stop,” I whisper.
He hears something in my voice—something small and broken—and his tone softens instantly.
“Lu… you’re not alone there, right?”
I look toward the patio door.
I can see Ethan through the glass—broad back, shoulders tense, staring out at the lake like he’s tracking every ripple. Like he already senses something’s wrong.
“No,” I breathe. “I’m not alone.”
“Good.” Banks exhales. “Then breathe. One hour. I’ll update you.”
“Lu?”
“Yeah?”
“You’re safe for now. Don’t spiral. Don’t run.”
Too late.
My mind is already splintering.
The call clicks off.
Silence swallows me whole.
My hand falls to my side, phone hanging limp from my fingers. The room feels too bright, too open, too vulnerable. My heartbeat is a raw, bruised thing pounding against my ribs.
The silence that follows is worse than the ringing ever was.
I stand there in the mess of my notes, phone trembling in my hand, heart thundering, skin crawling with invisible eyes. There’s a taste in my mouth, it’s copper and metallic, and becoming stronger as my panic rises fast and hot.
He’s out.
Free.
Breathing the same air as me.
And all the noise in my head goes dead quiet.
The kind of quiet I learned to fear as a kid.
The kind that comes right before something breaks.
I swallow, barely able to feel my own body.
I need noise.
I need movement.
I need—
Ethan.
But I can’t move yet.
My world has cracked open, and all I can do is stand in the shards.
My legs move on autopilot.
Instead of going straight to the patio, I veer toward the coat rack by the door. The big cardigan—the oversized black one I hide in when I don’t want to be seen—hangs there like it’s been waiting for this exact moment.
My hands fumble with it.
I pull it on too fast, shoving my arms through the sleeves, wrapping it around myself like armor. It swallows me whole, down to mid-thigh.
But it’s not enough.
I scan the patio floor, vision swimming, until I spot the scrap of lace from last night—my thong half tucked under the leg of a chair. My face burns as I snatch it up, stepping into it quickly, clumsily, like the walls themselves are watching me.
I can’t be out here naked.
Not right now.
Not with my pulse still stuttering like something is hunting me.
I breathe in.
Breathe out.
Almost steady.
Almost.
Ethan’s already turned toward me.
He’s standing by the railing overlooking the lake, mug in hand, steam drifting into the warm morning air. The blanket he wrapped around himself is now tied low on his hips like a makeshift kilt, and the sun pulls gold across his shoulders, making him look carved out of calm.
His eyes skim over me once—slow, assessing, landing on the cardigan, lingering on the tremble in my fingers even though I’m trying like hell to hide it.
“You alright?” he asks.
Two words.
Soft.
Measured.
But sharp enough to cut straight through me.
“Yeah,” I say quickly. Too quickly. “Fine.”
I force a shrug. Casual. Unbothered. Like I didn’t just go pale at a phone call that detonated my whole morning. Like I didn’t just crawl back into my clothes because my skin suddenly feels too exposed, too open, too easy to reach.
He doesn’t believe me.
I can see it.
But he doesn’t push.
Instead, he holds out a mug.
“Coffee.”
My hand shakes as I take the mug—just a little, just enough for the surface to ripple—but I bring it to my lips anyway, hoping the heat will ground me, hoping he doesn’t notice.
He notices, of course, he does. Ethan sees everything.
But instead of pushing, he chooses stillness.
He stands close enough that I feel his warmth, but not so close that I feel cornered, holding that respectful, protective distance he seems to instinctively maintain.
His voice stays low and neutral. He doesn’t ask who called, or why I’m suddenly dressed like someone bracing for an earthquake.
He watches me, jaw tight and expression unreadable, like he’s calculating a threat he hasn’t fully identified yet.
The mug is the only thing keeping my hands from coming apart, its heat an anchor I cling to.
Around us, the lake glitters and birds chatter in the trees. It’s a perfect morning—clear, quiet, gentle. And inside my chest, everything is collapsing.
“Lucky.” His voice rumbles, gentle but anchoring. “If something’s wrong, you can tell me.”
I swallow hard.
Coffee burns down my throat.
The cardigan suddenly feels too small, even when wrapped tight around me.
“I said I’m fine,” I whisper.
He doesn’t push.
But the silence between us shifts—heavy, aware, bracing—like he’s already preparing to catch whatever’s coming.
Ethan’s eyes stay on me as I hover near the edge of the patio, cradling my mug like it’s the only thing keeping me upright. I sip, trying to calm the tremor in my fingers, but the coffee only spreads heat across a body that feels ice-cold inside.
He doesn’t push. He watches me with that quiet, steady awareness that makes everything inside me want to crumble.
“Lucky… you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” I lie, tugging the cardigan tighter around me. “Just tired.”
The lie hangs between us, thick and obvious, but he lets it be. For me. For whatever he thinks I need.
He nods slowly, like he’s making a decision. “I’ll give you a bit of space then.” His tone is gentle, careful—like he’s talking to a skittish animal he doesn’t want to startle. “But I’m here. A few steps away. You just say the word.”
When he moves to go inside, he pauses. Looks at me again. Something tightens in his jaw—not anger, not frustration, just concern that’s trying not to become fear.
“Come here,” he murmurs.
I do, because refusing him feels too complicated, and because my legs seem to move without my permission. Ethan hugs me—solid, warm, grounding. His arms wrap around me like walls built fast and strong. For a moment, my cheek against his bare chest, I almost let myself lean. Almost.
But the fear is already tightening, crowding out everything soft.
He releases me slowly. “If you need anything—anything—you call for me.”
I nod. A silent promise I know I won’t keep.
Ethan disappears down the hallway to get dressed, and as soon as the front door clicks shut, something in me snaps.
I rush inside, mug abandoned, heart jackhammering.
The lake house suddenly feels too open. Too exposed. Every shadow looks like movement. Every creak of the wooden beams sounds like footsteps inside my memory.
I lock and bolt the front door. Then the back. Then the side door.
Windows—every latch clicked. Curtains—yanked shut until the daylight is smothered.
My breath is thin, ragged. The house feels smaller with each lock I throw, like the walls are shrinking inward.
When I reach the front door again, something inside me breaks completely.
I sink to the floor of the hallway, knees pulled to my chest. The cardigan pools around me like armor that doesn’t work. I rock without realizing I’m doing it—forward and back, forward and back—trying to reassemble the pieces of myself that feel scattered across the years.
“He can’t get in,” I whisper, pressing my forehead to my knees.
“He can’t get in. Not here. Not here.”
Over and over, the mantra spilling out in a cracked whisper.
But the shaking won’t stop.
And for the first time since last night, I feel the cold edge of the truth:
I am not safe.
Not really.
Not anywhere.
Not while he’s out.