Ethan
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Control is easiest to maintain when variables are predictable.
Work, systems, numbers, and even people to a degree.
Fear, however, isn’t predictable. And Addy Clarke, standing just inside my front door with her hands still shaking from someone else’s grip, is very clearly not under control.
I close the door behind us with more force than necessary, the sound echoing briefly through the apartment before settling into silence.
Captain circles once, then immediately presses himself against her legs, abandoning any pretense of independence. His tail is low, his body angled toward her as if he’s decided she’s now his responsibility.
“Sit,” I say.
She blinks at me, still catching up to the fact that she’s here, that the street is behind her, that she’s not alone with him anymore.
“I’m fine,” she says automatically.
She isn’t.
Her voice is thin in a way I haven’t heard before. Her posture's off, tension still locked into her shoulders, her fingers flexing slightly at her sides. Her body hasn’t quite realized the threat has passed.
“Addy,” I say, quieter now. “Sit.”
She hesitates for half a second, then nods and moves toward the couch.
Captain follows, pressing himself against her legs as a living reassurance that she’s home. She sinks down, one hand automatically threading into his fur, gripping just slightly too tight.
I cross to the kitchen, grab a glass, fill it with water, and bring it back.
“Drink,” I say, handing it to her.
She takes it without argument this time.
Good.
Her hands are still unsteady, the glass trembling faintly as she lifts it to her lips. She takes a sip, then another, forcing her body to catch up with her mind.
I stay standing, assessing, making sure there’s no delayed reaction, no hidden injury, nothing I missed in the street when my focus was elsewhere.
Her wrist.
I reach for it before thinking better of it. “Let me see.”
She startles slightly at the contact, then stills as I turn her hand gently, examining the skin where he grabbed her.
No bruising yet, but that doesn’t mean there won’t be.
My jaw tightens.
“I’m okay,” she says again, softer this time.
I release her hand slowly, aware of the moment remaining a fraction longer than necessary.
She pulls it back, wrapping her fingers around the glass again because it gives her something to hold onto.
We sit in silence for a beat.
Captain sighs heavily, settling his weight more firmly against her legs. He’s decided this is his post for the foreseeable future.
Addy lets out a breath. “Well, that was not how I pictured my night ending.”
I sit down across from her, leaning forward just enough to keep my attention fully on her without crowding the space. “What happened?”
She swallows. “Nothing dramatic at first. We were just talking. At the bar. He seemed normal.” A humorless huff of breath. “Which, apparently, is no longer a reliable indicator of anything.”
I don’t interrupt.
She takes another sip of water.
“I left early,” she continues. “Wasn’t really feeling it. Walked home. Thought it was fine.” Her fingers tighten slightly around the glass. “Then he followed me.”
My hands curl into fists against my knees. “And you told him to leave.”
“Yes.”
“And he didn’t.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
She gasps desperately as the memory flickers through her once more.
“I hate that,” she says suddenly, frustration cutting through the fear. “I hate that I have to think about things like that. Walking home. Saying no the right way. Not being too rude, not being too nice, not making it worse…”
She looks down at the glass in her hands.
“I hate that my brain immediately goes to okay, how do I not escalate this instead of why is this happening at all.”
I watch her carefully. The anger is good, better than fear.
“Your reaction was appropriate,” I say.
She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “That’s a very structured way to look at it.”
“It’s an accurate one.”
She glances up at me, a searching look in her expression. “I didn’t feel very… structured.”
“No,” I say. “You felt threatened. That’s different.”
She studies me. Then her shoulders loosen slightly. “Thank you.”
I nod once. “That shouldn’t have happened.”
“No,” she agrees. Then, after a beat, softer, “But it did.”
She shifts slightly on the couch, tucking one leg under her, still absentmindedly holding onto Captain because he’s part of her grounding process.
“I think,” she says slowly, “I might be a terrible judge of men.”
That gets my attention. “I doubt that.”
She gives me a look. “You don’t know my ex.”
I cock my head to one side. “Is this the one you were talking about on…” Oh shit, how do I word this delicately? “When we first met?”
Her cheeks redden as she nods. “Right, yes. That one.”
I lean back. “Tell me more.”
“He didn’t exactly scream terrible person at the start,” she goes on. “He was charming. Fun. Big plans. Big everything.” A small, bitter smile. “Turns out that also included big capacity for being an absolute disaster.”
I don’t comment.
“I kept thinking,” she continues, “if I just adjusted a little, compromised more, smoothed things over, then it’d work.” She shakes her head. “Like I could fix it by being easier to love.”
“You weren’t the problem,” I say automatically, as if I can diagnose something I know very little about.
She lets out a soft breath. “I know that now.”
“Good.”
She glances at me again, flames flickering in her eyes. “It’s just…” she hesitates, then laughs faintly. “It messes with your instincts, you know? Makes you second-guess everything. Like, great, you picked that one, so clearly your judgment is questionable at best.”
“It’s not,” I say.
She arches a brow. “Confident.”
“Yes.”
“Based on?”
I hold her gaze. “Current evidence.”
The room goes very still.
Her voice drops slightly. “That’s a dangerous thing to say.”
“Why?”
“Because,” she says, very carefully, “you’re including yourself in that assessment.”
“Yes.”
Her breath catches, just slightly. “That feels biased.”
“Possibly.”
She huffs out a quiet laugh, but it’s softer now. “You’re very calm about this.”
“I don’t see a reason not to be.”
“I do,” she says. “Several, actually.”
“List them.”
She stares at me. “You’re serious?”
“Yes.”
I think she might argue. Instead, she sets the glass down slowly, like she needs both hands free to build a case against me. “Okay. Reason one, I work for you.”
“Not relevant to your ability to assess character.”
“Highly relevant to everything else.”
“Continue.”
She narrows her eyes slightly, but there’s no real irritation. “Reason two, we already made one questionable decision.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
Her mouth twitches. “I’m being polite.”
“Unnecessarily.”
“Wow,” she mutters. “Bold.”
“True.”
She shakes her head, but there’s a small smile there now. “Reason three, this is complicated.”
“Yes.”
“And reason four,” she adds, almost as an afterthought, “I don’t trust myself not to make things worse.”
I lean forward slightly. “Why?”
She looks at me, really looks, and all the humor drops away completely. “Because I wanted that.”
The kitchen from the other night snaps back into focus with unnecessary clarity. The tension, the distance that wasn’t distance, the moment that nearly crossed into something else.
“I know,” I say.
Her breath catches again. “You do?”
“Yes.”
She swallows. “That doesn’t concern you?”
“It does.”
“And?”
“And I’m still here.”
Her eyes flick down briefly, then back up to mine. “That’s not helping.”
“It’s not meant to.”
She lets out a shaky breath. “Ethan…”
I don’t respond immediately because I’m very aware of the exact point we’re standing on and how easy it would be to step past it.
She shifts slightly on the couch, turning toward me just enough that the space between us narrows. “I don’t want to mess this up.”
“Then don’t.”
She huffs out a breath. “You’re impossible.”
“Frequently.”
Her gaze drops briefly to my mouth.
Then back up.
I feel it, that shift, the same one from the kitchen, except this time there’s no distance left to pretend exists.
“Addy,” I say, low.
She inhales, about to say something… and then she doesn’t.
She just moves.
I close the distance before either of us can reconsider.
The moment our mouths meet, everything else drops out.
Her hand comes up immediately, fingers curling into the front of my shirt. I catch her at the waist, holding her as she leans into me, the tension from earlier shifting.
This isn’t the plane. There’s no recklessness here, or drama, just clarity, and that might be worse.
She exhales softly against my mouth, and I feel it as a shock straight through my chest. Then she pulls back. “We shouldn’t…”
I know exactly what she’s about to say. I don’t let her finish because if she does, she’ll mean it. I kiss her again.
And this time, she doesn’t stop me.