Chapter Twelve
Headlights swept the wall.
He was already moving.
Window. Angle. Engine note. One car. Known pattern. A pattern he’d clocked before his brain bothered to name it.
He didn’t even have to think—his body just did it.
“Sheet,” he said, low. “Back under.”
The words came out flat, controlled. He heard the shift in the room, felt the air tighten, but he didn’t look yet. Looking was a luxury.
He reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head in one clean motion. Muscle memory. No wasted movement. The heat between them was still there, clinging to his skin, but he shut it down hard. Locked it behind the door he used when things got dangerous.
“Ethan—”
“Breathe.” He brushed his thumb over her hip as he passed, grounding her the way he’d learned to ground himself. “We’re fine.”
She blinked, still flushed, still half-wrecked, while he tied the drawstring of his sweats like he was getting ready for a debrief.
“Are you serious right now?”
He didn’t answer—just leaned in, kissed her temple, quick and sure, like a period at the end of a sentence he didn’t trust himself to finish.
“Stay,” he said. A command, not a request.
“Stay?” she whispered. “You’re…you’re just going to walk out there?”
He gave her a look—let her see the version of him that kept people alive. The one that didn’t flinch. The one that never promised softness when there wasn’t room for it.
“Your mom’s at the door,” he said. “You want her hauling that box herself?”
“I want you to not act like this didn’t just happen,” she said. “I can still feel you, Ethan.”
Guilt flashed through him, sharp and unwelcome. “I’ll handle it,” he said simply. “Just relax.”
“Ethan—”
“Baby,” he cut in, touching the watch still on her wrist—an anchor he was leaving behind. “I have to go.”
“Don’t.”
“I have to.”
And then he was gone.
Door closed.
Hand on the frame. Soft latch.
No noise. No trace.
The second the air hit his chest, something in him shifted. Tightened. Clicked back into place. Whatever they’d been a second ago stayed behind that door.
He took the stairs like he was still on patrol—quiet feet, center of gravity low, breath already even.
Below, the house was normal. The kitchen light was on. Something sweet hung in the air—cobbler, maybe. There was a dish towel flung over the sink, a half-written grocery list on the counter.
And then—
“Lord, this box is heavy,” Georgianna said brightly. “You about gave me a heart attack, sneaking up like that!”
He turned the corner just in time to see her wobbling with a casserole pan and a cardboard box half her size.
Ethan’s voice came easy, smooth as polished steel. “Sorry, ma’am. Just got in from the barn. Let me take that.”
He didn’t miss a beat. Didn’t stammer. Didn’t show a trace of the fact that he still had Amara’s taste in his mouth. Still had her breath in his lungs. Still had her sweat cooling on his chest beneath the henley.
He took the box from Georgianna like he did everything else—with quiet competence. No questions. No explanation. Just a nod. A steady hand.
“You always did have good timing,” Georgianna said with a warm smile, brushing imaginary dust from her slacks. “Amara said you were staying on through Sunday?”
He nodded. “Long as I’m needed.”
Not a lie. Not exactly the truth either.
He followed her into the kitchen and placed the box on the counter where she gestured. She kept chattering—small-town updates, something about Luella’s niece moving back from Murfreesboro. He gave all the right cues. A smile. A chuckle. A well-timed, “Huh.”
But inside, the echo of Amara’s breath still haunted his chest. The image of her flushed and stretched out beneath him, pupils blown wide, mouth kiss-swollen—his. And then the look she’d given him when he’d shut it all down. When he’d gone cold again.
He’d seen that before. It gutted him.
But what else was he supposed to do?
Better to let her breathe. Let her think. Let him reset before he said something too real. Something he couldn’t take back.
Behind his calm, a single thought beat steady as a drum.
You fucked that up, Kane.
He didn’t know if it was the leaving, the lying, the kiss to the temple like a soldier to a casualty, or the command—stay—like she was a tactical position, not a woman. But he’d felt her go still. He’d felt the way her heart stuttered.
He knew better.
But knowing better never stopped him from burning the house down on his way out.
Georgianna pulled something from the box, humming under her breath. He said thank you, made himself useful, offered to take the trash out. Every gesture precise. Easy. Clean.
He was good at clean.
He just didn’t know how to be good at her.
And upstairs, he knew—knew—she was dressing with hands that shook. Tying back her hair. Rebuilding the armor he’d only barely peeled off.
The watch he gave her would still be ticking.