24. Ethan
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Ethan
Cooking isn't a skill I possess in any meaningful sense.
My attempts over the past year have ranged from inefficient to structurally unsound, and on one memorable occasion, resulted in smoke alarms that functioned with admirable sensitivity and no sense of proportion.
I’ve since learned two things: first, that precision matters more in a kitchen than I initially allowed for, and second, that following instructions isn't the same as understanding them.
Tonight, however, I'm not improvising.
Tonight is controlled and intentional, every step measured carefully enough to avoid disaster.
The apartment's quiet in the way it only becomes once Oliver is asleep, the residual energy of the day settling. The city beyond the windows is a field of light and motion, Chicago at night presenting itself as composed, even if the reality beneath it's anything but.
I stand at the counter, sleeves rolled, working through the steps I’ve reviewed twice already. Pasta, simple enough to execute without failure, structured enough to require attention.
I hear footsteps in the hallway, unhurried, followed by the slight pause that suggests she’s deciding whether to interrupt or observe. It lasts half a second.
“Is this… a fire hazard,” Addy says, “or should I be impressed?”
I don’t look up immediately. “That depends on your standards.”
“Low,” she says promptly. “Very low. I’ve seen what you consider woodworking.”
“That was an experimental phase.”
“That was a cry for help.”
I allow myself a brief exhale that might qualify as amusement and turn toward her.
She’s leaning lightly against the edge of the island, hair pulled back loosely, a few strands already escaping. Comfortable. Off duty, in the way she becomes when she’s no longer moving through the house with the quiet awareness of Oliver’s schedule guiding her.
There's something about that shift I’ve started to notice that I should probably ignore. It doesn’t help that the memory of the dressing room hasn't left me since.
“You’re supposed to be resting,” I say.
“I'm resting,” she replies. “What are you making?”
“Dinner.”
She narrows her eyes slightly. “That’s vague.”
“You’ll see.”
She studies me, then pushes off the counter and steps closer, just enough to look into the pan. “Okay, I’ll admit, that looks… not terrible.”
“Sit,” I say, gesturing toward the dining table.
She does, surprisingly, without argument. “Are you always this bossy in your own kitchen?”
“Yes.”
“That tracks.”
I carry both plates over and set one in front of her before taking the chair opposite.
She looks at the plate, then at me. “This looks suspiciously like you know what you’re doing.”
“I followed instructions.”
“Ah,” she says. “So we credit someone else.”
“Always.”
She takes a bite.
Pauses.
Then looks up at me with a look approaching genuine surprise. “Okay. That’s actually good.”
“I’m aware.”
“You don’t even pretend to be humble.”
“It would be a lie.”
She laughs softly, shaking her head, and the sound settles into the space between us in a way that feels easy.
We eat.
For a while, the conversation stays in safe territory. Oliver. The day. Captain’s continued commitment to causing drama. The minor adjustments she’s made to the house that I’ve noticed but not commented on.
“You reorganized the pantry,” I say.
She glances up. “You noticed?”
“Yes.”
“It was a disaster.”
“It was functional.”
She gives me a look. “Now it’s functional.”
I consider that for a moment before nodding. “It’s more efficient.”
She smiles, satisfied.
I take a sip of wine, watching her over the rim of the glass.
She’s more relaxed tonight, less guarded. Still quick, still sharp, but not braced in the same way she has been since she arrived. The edges of her humor soften between sentences. The pauses last a fraction longer.
It changes the dynamic.
It makes it easier to forget certain constraints, which is precisely why I shouldn’t.
“You’ve adjusted quickly.”
“To the job?”
“To the house.”
She shrugs. “It’s not that different from what I’ve done before. Just bigger. And with more glass.”
“And fewer instructions.”
“I noticed.” She studies me for a moment. “You don't tell me what to do.”
“I don't interfere unless necessary.”
“That takes trust.”
“It does.”
“Why?”
“Because you've given me no reason not to.”
She smiles faintly. “That's a very Ethan Strong answer.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Safe,” she says with a smile. “And careful.”
I don’t return the smile because I’m aware of where this conversation is moving, and I haven’t decided whether to let it.
She watches me for a moment.
“You're pulling back.”
I don't deny it.
“Can I ask you something?”
“You can.”
Her gaze searches mine. “You don't have to answer.”
“I know.”
She watches me, as if measuring whether to proceed. “Your wife’s accident.”
The words are careful, respectful, without being fragile. “I know the official version,” she continues. “But you don’t believe it?”
This is the point at which most conversations end. People ask out of politeness, curiosity, or obligation. They expect a deflection.
She isn’t expecting that.
She’s waiting.
“No,” I say finally. “I don’t. I reviewed the data myself,” I continue. “After the report was released.”
Her brow furrows slightly in concentration. “And something didn’t match.”
“Yes.”
“What?”
I lean back slightly, considering how much to say. Then decide, for reasons I don’t fully examine, not to filter it. “The failure pattern. It didn’t behave like pilot error. It behaved like a system conflict.”
She nods slowly. “Like something was overriding something else?”
“Or failing to resolve correctly,” I say. “The stabilization system is designed with layered failsafes. Redundancies. If one component misreads input, another compensates.”
“And that didn’t happen.”
“No.”
“Which means…”
“That a layer didn’t engage,” I finish.
She’s quiet, processing. “Could that just happen?”
“No.”
She studies me. “So either something broke…”
“Or something was altered.”
The words settle between us.
“Did anyone else look into it?” she asks.
“The official investigation did.”
“And they didn’t find anything.”
“No.” I lean back slightly, the memory arriving with more clarity than I want. “I pushed harder at the start. Independent reviews, private analysts, legal consultations.” My mouth tightens faintly. “I spent nearly a year trying to prove the report was incomplete.”
Addy stays quiet.
“But aviation investigations don’t operate on instinct,” I continue. “Not even informed instinct. They operate on evidence, and the evidence wasn’t clean enough to support what I believed had happened.”
“Because the system failure couldn’t be replicated?”
“Because the logs were fragmented, the crash damage was extensive, and every conclusion short of pilot error required proving a chain of technical fault no one could definitively isolate after the fact.” I pause.
“And because grieving husbands who refuse to accept official findings aren’t viewed as objective sources. ”
Her expression shifts slightly at that.
“The more I pushed,” I say quietly, “the more it started to look less like investigation and more like obsession.”
Which eventually, it became.
“At some point,” I say, “I had a choice between continuing to tear apart a dead system looking for certainty or being present for my son.”
Addy’s gaze softens slightly.
“I’m not sure I made the right choice,” I admit.
She leans back slightly, exhaling. “That’s why you built the new system.”
“Yes.”
“So no one else ever ends up in that situation again.”
“Yes.”
She nods slowly. “You’ve been carrying that alone.”
It’s not phrased as pity, just observation.
“I’ve been managing it,” I say.
“That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” I admit.
She looks at me then, and there’s a flicker in her expression that isn’t curiosity or sympathy.
It’s understanding, unqualified, uncomplicated, and I don’t feel the need to reduce what I’m saying into something easier to accept.
“You’re the first person who’s asked the right questions,” I say.
Her breath catches slightly. “Yeah?”
“Yes.”
I become aware of the way the light catches in her hair, of the fact that the conversation has moved from structured to far less controlled.
Dangerous territory.
“Addy,” I say.
Her name sits differently in the air now.
She stills. “Mm?”
I don’t know, in that moment, whether I’m going to say or do something.
Her gaze drops, briefly, to my mouth.
I stand, closing the distance between us.
My hand settles lightly at her jaw, fingers warm against her skin, and there’s a moment, just a fraction of one, where everything could still stop.
It doesn’t.
Her hand comes up as I finally kiss her, fingers curling lightly into the front of my shirt, pulling me closer in a way that erases whatever distance was left between us.
The restraint fractures under the pressure of it, the memory of the plane, the tension of the past few days, all of it collapsing into desire.
Her mouth is warm, soft, and entirely unsteady in a way that makes my chest tighten.
I deepen the kiss without thinking, my hand sliding from her jaw to the back of her neck, holding her there.
I don’t want to let her go.
I might not ever want to.