Ethan
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
I wake to absence before I wake to anything else.
For a few seconds, I remain still, staring at the ceiling and listening to the quiet.
It isn’t completely quiet. In this apartment, it rarely is.
The ventilation hums low in the walls. Somewhere beyond the bedroom door, Captain’s tags give a faint metallic shift against the floor.
Farther away, muted by distance and the architecture of the penthouse, I can hear movement from the kitchen.
Cupboard. Drawer. A voice too soft to make out in full.
Addy.
And, based on the smaller rhythm interrupting hers every few seconds, Oliver.
I close my eyes briefly.
Objectively, this is the correct outcome.
Last night was reckless. More reckless, perhaps, because it happened after rules had already proven themselves decorative at best. We crossed one line on the plane. Then another in this apartment. Then enough others that pretending the map remains legible has become a fairly ridiculous exercise.
I sit up and drag a hand over my face, forcing the thought into a shape I can dismiss. The room is washed in pale morning light, Chicago muted behind the glass in shades of silver and blue. My shirt from last night is draped over the chair near the windows.
I stand, dress, and by the time I step out into the hallway, I’m composed enough to pass for a man whose judgment hasn't been repeatedly compromised by his own nanny.
The smell of coffee reaches me before the kitchen does.
I stop at the threshold. Addy is at the stove in one of those oversized cardigans she seems to prefer, soft cream this morning, sleeves pushed carelessly to her forearms. Her hair is twisted up in a loose knot that appears to be held together more by optimism than design.
Oliver is seated at the island in socks and a T-shirt, constructing something alarmingly ambitious out of fruit and cereal pieces while Captain supervises from the floor with criminal intent.
The scene is ordinary, which is precisely the problem.
It's becoming far too easy to stand in a doorway and feel my chest tighten at the sight of her moving through my kitchen as though she belongs there.
Addy turns slightly, reaching for a plate, and Oliver says, “No, that one has blueberries.”
“Yes. That’s because I put them there.”
“I only wanted five.”
Addy glances at the plate, then back at him with absolute seriousness. “You have six. Try surviving the hardship.”
Oliver studies the extra blueberry like it has personally wronged him. “It’s too many.”
“It’s one too many,” she says. “This isn’t oppression.”
Oliver appears to consider escalating. Then, with surprising maturity, chooses not to.
Captain, seeing a lapse in attention, inches closer to the island.
Without looking down, Addy points behind her. “Don’t even think about it.”
Captain sits.
I should continue into the kitchen. Say good morning. Join them. Behave as though none of us spent part of last night forgetting every good reason this arrangement should remain simple.
Instead, I stay exactly where I am and watch for another moment.
Addy reaches over to slide Oliver’s glass of juice closer to him before he asks.
He accepts it without looking up from his fruit architecture, the ease of the gesture indicating this is already becoming routine.
She notices when he hesitates over the eggs, says nothing, and simply places the toast nearer instead. He starts eating that first.
Small adjustment. Quiet observation. No fuss made of either.
Competence is attractive. There's no point pretending otherwise.
Her competence, specifically, is beginning to feel actively dangerous.
“Dad’s awake,” Oliver says, ruining my vantage point with the efficient betrayal typical of children.
Addy turns.
For half a second, too many emotions pass over her face, too quickly to name. Surprise, certainly. Awareness, definitely. Then the expression settles, becoming easier. Lighter.
“Good morning,” she says.
“Morning.”
I step into the kitchen. Captain abandons all restraint and comes to investigate my existence. Oliver goes back to breakfast. Addy reaches automatically for the coffee pot before I ask.
I notice that too.
I notice everything, apparently, which is becoming exhausting.
She pours a cup and sets it on the counter near my usual place. “I made coffee. I figured that was safer than letting you greet the day unsupported.”
“That was prudent.”
“I have many strengths.”
I take the cup. “Modesty among them?”
“Obviously.”
Her mouth curves just slightly when she says it, but she doesn’t meet my eyes for long. That's wise. If she did, there's a very real chance I would think about last night in far too much detail, standing here in front of my son with coffee in my hand and no excuse worth respecting.
Oliver holds up a slice of toast. “Captain wants this.”
Captain does, in fact, want that.
“Captain wants most things,” I say.
“That’s because he believes in abundance,” Addy replies.
I look at her.
She looks back this time.
There's an entire conversation in that glance that neither of us can afford to have at eight in the morning over eggs.
I break it first. “You’re up early.”
“So are you.”
“I usually am.”
“Yes, but today you’re not yet doing it in a suit, which feels more aggressive.”
“Work often does.”
She hums softly, then turns back to the stove to plate the rest of breakfast. The movement shifts her cardigan at the shoulder just enough to reveal the line of her neck.
I look at my coffee instead.
Professional, necessary, correct. None of those words are doing a particularly impressive job.
The morning gradually settles into something workable.
Addy keeps the conversation largely directed toward Oliver.
Oliver has strong opinions about whether Captain would make a good pilot.
Captain attempts theft twice and is stopped both times.
I answer two emails while drinking coffee and pretend I'm not acutely aware of the woman moving around the kitchen in my peripheral vision.
When Oliver disappears briefly to retrieve a toy plane he feels breakfast requires, Addy sets a plate near me.
“You should eat,” she says.
I glance down. Eggs. Toast. Fruit. Balanced, uncomplicated, exactly the sort of meal I would have instructed someone else to make while failing to make it for myself.
“You didn’t have to do this.”
“I know,” she says.
I look up.
Her expression is calm, but not detached. There’s a softness in it she probably doesn’t realize she lets show when she’s being sincere.
It does unhelpful things to the atmosphere.
“Thank you,” I say.
“You’re welcome.”
That should be the end of it.
Instead, because apparently my judgment continues to make selective and unfortunate choices around her, I say, “We both know what last night was.”
I study her. “Do we?”
Her gaze flicks toward the hallway Oliver disappeared down, then back to me. “We know it was a bad idea.”
That, at least, is true.
And yet…
I lower my voice. “You’re here because Oliver needs consistency. Because this household works better with you in it. I’m not going to do anything that compromises that.”
“Okay,” she agrees.
I nod once. “Okay.”
It's the most responsible conversation we’ve had in days. It also leaves a distinct sense of dissatisfaction in its wake, which I ignore on principle.
Oliver returns at speed with the plane in question, and the morning moves on.
By the time I’m ready to leave, Addy is kneeling on the living room rug, helping him reconstruct an airport out of sofa cushions, two books, and a complete disregard for scale.
Captain has inserted himself into the runway system as a weather event.
Addy is explaining why emergency landings generally require less tail wagging.
I stop near the entryway and watch them again.
This is becoming a habit.
Oliver glances up first. “You’re leaving.”
“Yes.”
He accepts that with the stoicism of a child accustomed to adults having somewhere to be, though his hand remains on the wing of the toy jet.
“I’ll be back for dinner,” I say.
“Okay.”
Addy rises to her feet. “We’ll be here.”
I pick up my briefcase and step closer before I think better of it. “If you need anything, call.”
“Anything?”
The question is light, but there’s something underneath it. A test, perhaps. Or maybe I only want there to be one.
“Yes.”
Her mouth curves. “Even if Captain starts a coup?”
“Especially then.”
I hold her gaze a fraction too long.
Then I leave before common sense has to intervene more forcefully.
The office is already in motion when I arrive.
Strong AeroTech rarely wakes gently, but today there’s a particular edge to it.
The lobby traffic is faster than usual. Two people from systems are speaking too quickly near the security turnstiles.
Someone from finance is standing by the reception desk with the posture of a person who has received an email they resent.
By the time the elevator reaches my floor, I’ve already had three messages from Sara and one from Jeffrey, none of which suggest a peaceful morning.
Naturally.
I cross the executive floor and step into my office just as Sara comes through the inner door from the conference room.
“There’s a problem,” she says.
“Good morning.”
“It can still become one.”
“That isn’t a greeting either.”
“Jeffrey is waiting.”
I set my briefcase down, remove my jacket, and follow her into the conference room.
Jeffrey is standing by the main screen with one hand on his hip and the other wrapped around coffee.
Two engineers from the demo team sit at the table, fearing they’ve had the sort of morning that tends to shorten careers if handled badly.
On the screen behind them is a systems map for the new AI stabilization architecture, annotated in four different colors, which is rarely a sign of good news.
I take the seat at the head of the table. “Explain.”
Jeffrey sets his coffee down. “The demo model is producing intermittent false positives during predictive correction.”
That isn't ideal. “How intermittent?”