Chapter 25 Ethan
Ethan
This stupid grin is permanently fixed on my face as I steal glances at Leni sitting in my passenger seat.
She rocked up to my house with a black cap pulled low over her gorgeous face, her flaming-red hair falling in two loose braids on either side of her head.
Looking ridiculously cute in her black leggings and oversized grey hoodie, she’s quieter than usual, and I’m not sure if it’s because of all the cloak and dagger we had to go through for this getaway or if she’s nervous about spending the weekend with me, but I try to draw her out.
“How did your monologue go?”
She glances at me, and it takes half a second before her mouth lifts into a smile—not her full beam, but a softer, more real one. The one I get when she’s not putting on her mask.
“You really want to know?”
“Of course I do.”
She breathes out a heavy sigh. “It was nerve-wracking. Nothing like a room full of theatre students judging your trauma for marks.”
“You based it on your poem from Tuesday?” I ask, recalling what she told me when we spoke Thursday night.
Leni nods. “After writing it, the previous piece I prepared just felt so… I don’t know. Trivial, maybe? I wanted something raw and emotional that showcased my range, but was also authentic, you know?”
“I’m sure you delivered exactly that.”
“I hope so.” Her voice is soft—that sweet, vulnerable sound that nestles deep into my soul. “It felt a little too honest, like I was naked up on stage.”
“Sounds brave.”
Silence stretches between us for a few beats. It’s not uncomfortable; we’re both simply lost in our own thoughts. The bushland blurs past the window, all grey-greens and dusty golds, and she sits there, her fingers twisting around the hem of her hoodie.
“Do you want to hear some of it?”
“If you’d like me to, I’d be honoured.”
Rather than recite it word-for-word, she talks through it in a casual but thoughtful way. No performance. No big gestures.
The air between us shifts. Not tense, just heavier.
I listen without interrupting, getting lost in her world.
She’s brave and beautiful, and carries more than she lets on, all wrapped up in that extraverted, outgoing persona she wears like armour.
Every now and then, like in this moment, she lets the mask slip, and it gives me a glimpse of the real Leni and the way she wants to be seen.
How she wants to stop pretending she doesn’t care when she actually does.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell her honestly, when she’s finished.
She offers me a shy smile. “Thank you.”
“How was it received?”
“Good, I think.”
“How did the rest of their monologues go?”
Leni regales me with behind-the-scenes stories about her classmates, lifting the mood.
From the guy who based his scene on The Bachelorette, to the girl who faked an onstage faint for ‘creative effect’, she shares her theory with me that most theatre students are either emotionally unstable, heartbreakingly talented, or both.
“Which category do you fit into, little devil?” I ask, my tone full of amusement.
She shrugs as if it’s obvious. “Both, of course.”
I can’t fight the grin tugging on my lips. “Of course.”
Leni’s quick-witted and funny. Naturally chaotic and bright, easily slipping between sarcasm and sincerity without warning. I love all the different facets of her, and how they complement each other to turn her into this enchanting enigma.
She asks about the game, about Coleridge, and how I think we’ll go.
I tell her I’m quietly confident, provided our centre back and goalkeeper get over whatever it is that has them at each other’s throats every other second, and I’m looking forward to seeing how the players respond to Andy taking over as head coach.
She frowns, lost in contemplation.
I reach over and squeeze her thigh.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, little devil?”
“You love coaching, right?”
I smile. “Yeah, I do.”
“So, why are you walking away?”
Releasing a weighted sigh, I shrug. “It’s time for new experiences.”
When I glance at her, she’s biting her bottom lip, and I’m tempted to lean over and trace my tongue over the indented flesh.
“It’s not because of me?”
“No,” I say definitively. “Beckford holds too many painful memories, and I need a fresh start.” Pausing, I wonder if my next words are going to scare her, but I decide to throw caution to the wind. “If anything, you would be a reason I’d consider staying.”
She lets my statement linger for a moment before saying softly, “I’m leaving after graduation, too.”
My chest constricts. “I know.”
She stays quiet, and I let her sit with her thoughts. When she reaches into her bag and pulls out a tattered book of poetry, I smile softly. I’ve learned that when she feels overwhelmed, she turns to the classics for answers.
At least ten minutes pass before she reads out loud. “That love is all there is, is all we know of love. It is enough, the freight should be proportioned to the groove.”
My lips tug up into a grin. “Emily Dickinson, right?”
“She’s a real wordsmith. No frills, just truth.”
My damn heart races, and I nod slowly, trying to work out where she’s going with this. What is she trying to tell me? “The truth being… what? Love is everything?”
She nods. “Exactly. Not love specifically between two people but love as a constant. The base layer of everything. She’s saying we don’t need to fully understand it for it to be real. It just is.”
I glance at her. Her face is lit by the morning sun, her eyes bright. It’s unfair how often she catches me off guard like this, when she’s her brilliant, unfiltered, true self.
“That’s a pretty bold claim, little devil. Where are you going with this?”
She laughs, the sound doing crazy things to my insides.
“You’re a historian, Ethan. You know half of human history is just people doing ridiculous things for love.
Look at Antony and Cleopatra. Shah Jahan built the Taj Mahal, one of the most iconic and elaborate buildings in the world, as a mausoleum for his late wife.
Hell, even King Edward the Eighth gave up being the actual king to marry Wallis Simpson. ”
“While the other half did ridiculous things because of the failure of love,” I tease, listing them off.
“Like Nero, who mourned his wife so hard he married a boy who looked like her. Or Abelard, who got himself castrated over a forbidden affair. Or Napoleon, whispering Josephine’s name with his dying breath after divorcing her. ”
Leni grins, tilting her head. “You’ve just proved my point.”
“What’s that?”
“Love is the common denominator.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. “You always manage to turn the simplest of poems into a grand philosophical debate.”
She shrugs. “I enjoy debating with you.”
Warmth settles over me at her confession. It only strengthens my resolve to find a way to keep her.
Leni glances down at her book, then says, “I spoke to Jeremy last night.”
“Your cousin who owns Euphoria?” I’d been surprised to find out he was the reason she went to the club.
“Yeah. He’s the black sheep of the family because of his sexual orientation,” she explains, and I hate the pain in her voice.
“Euphoria was created as a safe place for people to explore their sexual desires, no matter what they were, free of judgement. I only wish he’d stop feeling guilty for who he is and allow himself to find happiness with Diego. ”
“Diego?”
“He’s the head bartender. Jeremy’s been in love with him for years, but he keeps sabotaging himself because he’s scared of what our family will say.”
“Is he scared about what they’ll say to him or to Diego?”
Her brow furrows like she’s never considered that before.
“Both, I guess.” She fiddles with the drawstring of her hoodie.
“Sometimes people make love harder than it needs to be. Age, timing, labels, what other people will think. Why should that matter? If two people make each other feel safe and seen, that should be enough.”
Somehow, I don’t think we’re talking about Jeremy and Diego anymore, but we’re almost at the cabin and don’t have the time to unpack this. Instead, I decide to keep the mood light by teasing her.
“That’s very profound for someone who made me stop for sour gummy worms half an hour ago.”
“They’re not mutually exclusive,” she says, poking out her tongue. “I can appreciate Emily Dickinson and sugary treats.”
I laugh. “You certainly can.”
She leans back in her seat, stretching her arms above her. “How far away are we?”
“Not far,” I tell her.
She hums and rests her socked feet on the dash as she returns her focus to her poetry book. I can’t resist watching her from the corner of my eye, loving how relaxed she looks despite the heaviness of our conversation. She looks like she belongs in the front seat of my car.
Less than five minutes later, we pull off the main road and follow a gravel track through a stretch of bushland that’s thick and green.
I slow the car as the cabin comes into view.
It’s low and wide, nestled into the trees like it grew out of the bush.
Single storey, made from locally sourced timber and stone, with floor-to-ceiling double-glazed windows that make you feel like you’re surrounded by the environment.
There’s no manicured lawn or paved driveway, just raw ground and bush.
Andy’s parents live in the middle of Sydney, so it’s their place to get away from the hustle and bustle of the big city when they come to visit him.
Leni leans forward, her eyes wide as she takes it all in. “So, this is the infamous love shack. Or have you brought me here to murder me because it will be easy to hide the body?”
Her voice is light and teasing, and I roll my eyes. “Neither.”
“Mmm,” she hums, unbuckling her seatbelt when I pull the car to a stop and turn off the ignition. “Then what would you call it, sir?”
My dick automatically jumps to attention at that word. Fuck. I don’t have enough time to put him to good use. He’ll have to wait until after the game.
With a groan, I climb out and shut the door.
“Do you own this place?” she calls over her shoulder as she walks to the edge of the veranda and runs her hand along the timber railing.
“I wish,” I say with a chuckle. “No, it belongs to Andy’s parents.”
“Andy?” she enquires with a furrowed brow when she turns back to face me.
“Professor Johnson.”
“Oh.” Her eyes widen. “Does he know about us?”
I don’t know if it’s hope or wariness in her tone, but I don’t miss the disappointment and slump in her shoulders when I say, “No, he just thinks I’m having a much-needed reset.” Although I’m sure he suspects I’m not here alone.
Something about her demeanour makes me wonder if she was hoping I would tell her he does know, even though she knows how dangerous it is for us if anyone finds out while she’s still a student.
Before I can press her further, she looks back at the cabin.
“This is actually incredible.”
I grin, grabbing our overnight bags, the groceries, and the esky from the boot before locking the car and following her up the steps. “You haven’t seen the best part yet.”
Inside, Leni walks slowly through the open-plan kitchen and living space, taking it all in. The big stone fireplace. The deep armchair by the window. The timber shelves lined with books. She runs her fingers over the spines, reading some of them out loud.
It’s the beginning of spring, but the weather is still quite fresh. A shiver runs through her, and I quickly drop the bags so I can light a fire. When the flames are stoked, and the sound of crackling logs fills the space, I turn to see her watching me, a soft smile playing on her lips.
“What?” I ask, rubbing the back of my neck.
“Nothing,” she says quietly.
“You were staring.”
Her cheeks flush, and she ducks her head. “No, I wasn’t.”
I cross the room to wrap my arms around her waist, and she places her hands on my chest, tilting her head to look at me.
Closing the distance, I brush my lips over hers.
I’ve been desperate for a taste since the Uber dropped her off at my place this morning, but we didn’t want to risk being seen together, so we got in the car and left straight away.
“You’re going to be late for your game,” she murmurs against my lips.
“Don’t care,” I tell her, pulling her in to deepen the kiss.
She melts into my embrace, moaning into my mouth. I know she can feel my growing bulge pressing into her stomach, but she doesn’t make any move to take things further.
Instead, she pulls away, a wicked little smirk playing on her lips.
“Go,” she says. “Shout at some uni kids. Win for Beckford.”
I run my tongue over her kiss-swollen lips. “I’m sure Andy can handle it.”
She presses her lips to mine before pushing me away. “Get out of here, Coach.”
Suddenly, I don’t feel so good about leaving her.
“Are you sure you’ll be okay alone here for a couple of hours? Reception is spotty, and you don’t have a car.”
“Ethan,” she says in a mock-serious tone. “If I get murdered by a possum, tell my family to hire professionals to clean out my room. I don’t need my mum or sisters finding my dildo collection—it’s worth millions.”
Just like that, the tension breaks.
I lean in and kiss her one last time. “Be back by three thirty. Four at the latest.”
“I’ll be here.”
It’s almost physically painful to walk away, but I’m already pushing it to make it to the game on time. When I’m back behind the wheel, I shake my head with a laugh. How is this my life?