85 - Under One Roof
Ethan.
He sat on the couch between Mathew and Adam as if he had always belonged there. As if the air wasn't tight with things unsaid. As if nothing between him and Scarlett had splintered into sharp, invisible glass.
Rain still clung to the shoulders of his dark suit jacket, the fabric slightly darker where droplets soaked in.
His hair, usually immaculate, was faintly disheveled from the storm outside.
And yet he looked composed. Untouchable.
Wearing that calm, unreadable expression like armor tailored only for him.
Then his eyes lifted.
And locked onto hers.
Something flickered.
Raw. Brief. Unspoken.
Scarlett stopped.
Completely.
The bowl in her hands trembled just enough for the porcelain to whisper against her fingers. She swallowed hard. Garlic. Lemon. And guilt coated her tongue like something she couldn't rinse away.
Emma beamed from across the room, blissfully unaware of the storm that had just stepped into her living room.
"Look who showed up after all," she chirped brightly. "I was just telling him about the time you nearly burned the house down trying to make popcorn."
Ethan rose slowly.
Unhurried.
Deliberate.
His gaze never left Scarlett.
"Scarlett," he said softly.
Just her name.
But it struck her like thunder cracking through a silent sky.
Not a greeting.
Not a question.
Something in between.
How did he know I was here? I didn't tell him.
She forced a smile.
Small. Tight. Fragile.
Her feet carried her forward, though her heart pounded so loudly she could feel it pulsing in her throat.
Ethan's hand lifted.
Reached.
The back of his fingers brushed hers.
Feather-light.
Calculated.
She didn't pull away.
Even though instinct surged through her veins like ice water.
"So," Mathew said, lifting his glass of iced tea, "good to have both of you under this roof again. Been too long since there was some young blood and noise around here."
Emma laughed. "And we're lucky Scarlett finally brought Ethan. Thought we'd have to put out a missing persons alert."
Scarlett let out a laugh.
It didn't match her face.
Ethan smiled.
Perfect timing. Perfect warmth. Perfect performance.
"I wouldn't miss it for the world," he said.
Her eyes flicked toward him.
Searching.
Probing.
Looking for cracks.
Was it real? Has it ever been?
What was he doing here?
Why did he come here?
After everything he'd done... How could he stand there so easily? So normally?
The room suddenly felt too small. Too bright. Too full of people who had no idea a silent tidal wave had just entered with him.
Mathew's brows knitted as he glanced between them.
Adam's smirk faded—just slightly. He noticed more than he pretended to.
Conversation resumed. Stories flowed. Laughter lifted.
And Ethan leaned forward.
Resting one arm along the back of Scarlett's chair.
His fingers brushed her shoulder.
Barely there.
Enough.
Her stomach tightened instantly.
Every laugh he gave carried a subtle gravity that tugged toward her. Every word he spoke seemed angled in her direction, even when he addressed someone else.
When Emma leaned over to fix the napkin on Scarlett's lap, Ethan's hand moved too—guiding the fabric gently, his fingers grazing Scarlett's thigh in the process.
Possessive. Casual. Seamless.
Scarlett's cheeks warmed.
She lifted her iced tea and pretended to sip.
The place his hand had brushed burned like a hidden flame.
Finally, she found her voice.
"I didn't know you were coming. I thought your meeting wouldn't be over yet."
Ethan's jaw tightened.
He inhaled slowly. Like a man bracing before stepping into deep water.
"I know. It ended early."
He leaned closer. His lips near her ear."Did you ran away again?"
Her heart slammed once.
Hard.
She ignored it. Barely.
The bowl in her hands landed on the coffee table with more force than necessary.
Dinner could wait.
Apparently, so could pretending.
Scarlett escaped into the kitchen.
She focused on arranging the salad plates with careful precision, aligning each fork exactly parallel to the knife. Her hands trembled faintly as she worked, and every few seconds her eyes betrayed her—darting toward the doorway.
Ethan stood there.
Hands in his pockets.
Watching.
Not intrusive.
But heavy.
Like the storm still pressing against the windows.
"You always set things so perfectly," he said quietly, stepping closer.
His cologne reached her first.
Cedar. Dark. Clean. Dangerous.
"I... it's just dinner," she said too fast. "Nothing special."
He tilted his head.
Studying her.
For one suspended heartbeat, she felt completely seen. Every wall stripped bare.
"It's never just dinner," he murmured. "Not when you're involved."
Her pulse jumped.
She wanted to step back. Hide. Put a counter between them.
Her feet didn't move.
Throughout dinner, he stayed close.
Whenever she stood, his hand brushed the small of her back.
Light.
Intentional.
His timing was flawless—laughing at Mathew's jokes, asking Adam about his course load, complimenting Emma's seasoning like it mattered to him personally.
Smooth. Polished. Effortless.
But Scarlett felt it.
The undercurrent.
His eyes drifted to her when no one noticed. Holding a second too long. Waiting.
She dodged him.
Lingering in the kitchen to refill glasses that weren't empty.
Helping Emma clear plates even when Emma waved her off.
Dragging Adam into an old game they used to play with scraps of paper and movie quotes.
Anything.
Everything.
Avoidance disguised as helpfulness.
Still—
She felt him watching.
Waiting.
Waiting for a moment alone.
But Scarlett wasn't sure she could give him that.
Not tonight.
Not here.
Not yet.
After the main courses were cleared, she stayed at the sink, sleeves pushed up, washing dishes that were already clean.
Soap slicked her fingers.
Her eyes lifted.
Met his across the room.
Her grip slipped.
"You're working too hard," Ethan said behind her.
She hadn't heard him approach.
He stood close enough that the heat of his body seeped into her back. His voice was low. Commanding. Not harsh.
"I'm... helping," she stammered, staring at the suds.
"You don't need to help to be present," he murmured.
His hand hovered near hers.
Close.
Not touching.
The tension stretched between their fingers like a wire pulled too tight.
She wanted to turn.
To step away.
To escape.
But something rooted her to the floor.
When dinner settled into that warm, drowsy contentment only family evenings carried, Mathew leaned back in his armchair, wood creaking softly.
"Ethan, why don't you two stay tonight? It's late. Emma can get Scarlett's room ready."
Scarlett's brows lifted.
Surprise flickered in her eyes.
Her lips parted—
"We'd love to, Dad," Ethan said smoothly.
His gaze brushed hers for half a second.
"But you have an important meeting tomorrow," Scarlett cut in quickly, turning her head to hide her expression.
He noticed.
Of course he noticed.
The tightening of her jaw. The way her fingers curled into her lap.
Ethan's hand settled lightly over hers.
Warm.
Steady.
"It is not as important as family," he said softly. "I can cancel it, Scarlett."
Emma clapped her hands. "Wonderful! I'll go get Scarlett's room ready."
Scarlett's head snapped toward him, eyes wide.
He didn't look at her.
He smiled warmly at Mathew.
Mathew nodded, pleased. "Good. It'll be just like old times. Except now, I've got a son-in-law under my roof too."
Scarlett pressed her lips together.
Said nothing.
Conversation shifted.
Business.
Efficiency.
Property redevelopment strategy.
Mathew listened, impressed, as Ethan spoke with calm clarity, explaining possibilities with quiet confidence.
"You've got a good head on your shoulders," Mathew said, clapping his back. "Scarlett chose well."
Ethan gave a modest smile. "I just care about the people she cares about, sir."
From across the room, Scarlett froze.
She had entered silently.
She heard it.
And something inside her chest twisted.
Upstairs, faint creaks followed Emma's footsteps as she prepared the room. Linen rustled. Drawers slid. Rain whispered against the windows.
Downstairs, the house softened into quiet.
Mathew gestured toward the chair across from him. "Sit with me for a bit."
Ethan sat.
Leaning forward.
Hands clasped.
Elbows on knees.
Casual posture.
Not relaxed.
Mathew spoke about business—delays, a vendor falling through, the constant pressure of keeping a small operation alive in a world that favored giants.
He didn't complain.
He never did.
But weariness edged his voice.
Ethan listened.
Really listened.
Brows slightly drawn. Eyes intent.
Then he spoke—offering ideas. Grounded. Thoughtful. Strategic without being cold.
"You're not just dealing with logistics," he said, tapping his glass lightly. "You're dealing with loyalty—people who've been with you for decades. The solution's gotta honor that. Adjust incentives, sure. But don't undercut their place in the system. That's your strength."
Mathew stared at him.
Long.
Reassessing.
"Thanks, Ethan. I was still having doubts whether this marriage is a right thing or not. But now I am happy that I made the right choice. I can see you really care about this family." His voice roughened slightly. "Scarlett is lucky to have you. And you are also lucky to have her."
Ethan smiled.
Warm.
Measured.
Something flickered at the corner of his eyes—too quick to name.
"I care about all of you," he said quietly. "Deeply."
Mathew nodded, satisfied. "Don't let her push you away. She gets that from her mother—always ready to run when something hurts."
Ethan didn't answer.
He only looked down at his hands.
Then set his glass on the table.
Upstairs, Emma's voice called, "The room's ready!"
Movement followed.
Adam disappeared toward his room.
Mathew climbed the stairs with a tired yawn.
Lights switched off one by one until only a single sconce at the end of the hallway cast a soft amber glow across the wooden floor.
Scarlett stood outside her old bedroom.
Arms wrapped around herself like she was holding her ribs together.
The door behind her was half open. Its brass knob faded. Familiar scuff marks lining the paint.
She didn't look at Ethan.
Not at first.
When she finally did, her face was unreadable. A mask perfected over years.
But the seams were showing.
"How'd you know I was here?" she whispered.
Not sharp.
Not accusing.
Guarded.
Ethan leaned his shoulder against the opposite doorframe. Old wood creaked softly under his weight. He folded his arms.
Let silence stretch.
"I called your phone," he said quietly. "Your brother picked up."
Scarlett exhaled slowly.
Eyes closing for half a second.
Not surprising.
Just... inevitable.
A thread of guilt curled across her features.
"You didn't have to come," she murmured. "I could've said something—explained, made up a reason."
"I wanted to."
Three words.
Simple.
Honest.
They hit harder than anything else he could've said.
Her breath caught.
She blinked at him.
The reply she'd been preparing dissolved somewhere between instinct and something far more dangerous.
She nodded faintly.
Her hand lifted.
Reached for the doorknob.
Hovered.
Then she turned it.
The door opened with a soft groan.
Without a word, she stepped inside.
Ethan followed.
Two quiet steps.
Then he stopped.
And the silence between them—
tightened.