Vanessa scowled at her reflection in the full-length mirror, the sharp angle of her jaw set against the softness the emerald green fabric wrapped her in. The dress clung to her figure like it had been poured over her skin, molding to her with intimate precision. It didn't just fit—it belonged to her, in that unsettling, uncanny way that suggested someone had seen her. Not just looked. Seen.
The emerald green made her eyes look like bottled stormlight—clear, dangerous, impossible to ignore. It softened her edges too, in a way that felt alien. Vulnerable. Tender in places she wasn't sure she'd ever exposed to anyone. And that... that was the part she couldn't get past.
It made her feel...
Beautiful.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
Ethan had done this.
Not on a dare. Not out of obligation. Not because she'd hinted or sighed or sent a single signal.
No. He had done this because he wanted to. That was the part that made her chest tighten with a strange heat—something almost like panic, almost like longing, but not quite either.
That kind of intention was foreign to her. She didn't know what to do with it. How to carry it.
What am I supposed to do with this?
The bed groaned beneath her as she dropped onto it, sprawling like she could outpace the thoughts rushing in behind her eyes. She stared up at the ceiling, trying to will her pulse to slow down. Her fingers curled into the duvet, grasping at fabric like it could ground her. The warmth creeping up her neck was relentless, embarrassing in its intensity. It wasn't just the dress—it was what the dress meant.
It was stupid. It was a dress. Just a dress.
But it wasn't.
It was the gesture.
And that gesture was undoing her.
She replayed his voice from earlier, trying to decode it again.
"It was easy."
Easy?
How?
How could something like this be easy?
If it had been her—if she'd been the one buying something like this for someone else—she'd have been paralyzed. She'd have scrolled for hours, double-checked measurements, worried about colors and cuts and whether it would be too much, not enough, wrong. She'd have second-guessed herself into paralysis.
But Ethan just knew.
He'd chosen this dress like he'd chosen her. Quietly. Confidently. Like he'd been paying attention all along.
Her breath hitched.
Is he always paying that much attention?
The thought lodged itself in her spine like a needle.
If he could get her size right without asking, what else had he noticed?
The way she tugged at her sleeves when she was nervous?
That she always tapped her pen exactly three times before writing?
That she avoided sitting with her back to a door because it made her feel exposed, unsafe?
She pressed a hand to her stomach, where the twist of realization had formed something sharp and fluttering.
I've been watching him... but has he been watching me this whole time?
A knock on her door jolted her upright like a string had been yanked in her chest. Her mother's familiar voice cut through the silence, casual and amused.
"You look like your brain's overheating."
Vanessa groaned, grabbing the nearest pillow and launching it with half-hearted force. "Get out."
Her mother, of course, caught it with ease and a laugh, stepping into the room.
"You're thinking too hard, sweetheart."
"I'm not thinking about anything," Vanessa muttered, glaring at the ceiling as if it had betrayed her by being witness to this unraveling.
"Mmm-hmm," her mother said, that infuriating hum of maternal intuition that always saw through her.
She smirked. "Sure. And I didn't just see you staring at yourself in that dress like a lovesick idiot."
Vanessa scowled, but it felt hollow now, like the last line of a script she didn't believe in anymore. Her mother kept moving, the smirk softening into something more fond as she sat beside her on the bed.
"You know," she began, "I never thought I'd see the day my daughter would panic over a boy."
"I'm not panicking," Vanessa lied, so reflexively that it barely sounded like a word.
Another hum. Another look. Her mother didn't even need to say anything. Vanessa sighed, burying her face in her hands.
"It's just... Ethan is weird."
"That's one way to describe him," her mother said with a smirk.
Vanessa hesitated. Then, like pulling a splinter, she forced the truth out.
"I just don't get how he knew my size. I never told him. And he just... got it right. Perfectly. Like he knew."
Her mother looked thoughtful, then tilted her head.
"Well, sweetheart, some people just pay attention. And from what I've seen... Ethan pays very close attention. Especially to you."
Her ears burned. She hated how that made her feel. Exposed. Like maybe she wasn't as invisible as she always pretended to be.
"He's not—"
"Oh, please," her mother interrupted. "That boy looks at you like you're the only person in the room. And you refuse to see it."
Vanessa bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. She turned her face away, as if the shadows in the corners of her room might have answers the ceiling didn't.
Did Ethan really look at her like that? Like she was something worth seeing?
Her mother reached out, brushing a hand against her knee. "Maybe instead of overthinking why he does these things... you should just accept that he does."
Vanessa frowned. "That's—"
"Hard?" her mother filled in gently. "Uncomfortable?"
"...Yeah."
Because I'm not used to this. To being seen. To being cared for.
Her mother stood, the mattress lifting as she left it. "You'll figure it out, Vannie. Just don't let that beautiful, stubborn head of yours get in your own way."
Then she was gone, leaving Vanessa alone again in the quiet hum of thoughts that refused to settle.
She stared down at the dress still clinging to her like a secret. Her fingers traced the edge of its fabric like it might whisper answers back to her.
He cares.
The weight of it dropped into her chest like a stone in water, rippling through her, quiet and heavy and unshakable.
And still...
'I don't know what to do about it.'
The next day at school, Vanessa sat at her desk, fingers tapping an erratic rhythm against her notebook. Tap-tap-tap, pause. Tap. Her eyes kept sliding sideways, helplessly drawn to where Ethan sat, his brow faintly furrowed in concentration as he worked through complex equations like they were nothing more than puzzles meant for toddlers. His pen moved smoothly, decisively, never hesitating. As if the numbers answered to him.
Her mind, however, was anything but focused. Beneath her calm facade, a storm surged—thoughts crashing into each other, spiraling, refusing to be silenced. Her gaze kept flicking back to him, the list in her head growing louder with every tick of the classroom clock.
He could cook—like, not just meal-prep and throw-something-in-a-pan cooking, but real cooking. Seasoned, thoughtful, almost artistic. Dishes that tasted like comfort and focus, as if he understood flavor the same way he understood logic—intimately.
He was scarily good at studying. Not just for himself—no, that would've been too simple—but for her, too. He had this uncanny ability to break down complex ideas, like he could see the places where her thoughts tangled and knew exactly how to untie the knots. Tutoring with him wasn't just helpful—it was disarming. It made her feel seen, and that was starting to become a theme.
Then there was the money thing. The way he handled finances like it was a second language. She'd seen him stretch twenty bucks like it was two hundred. Calculating, aware, deliberate. Nothing he did was careless. Even the way he carried himself in the cafeteria, the way he planned his meals—efficient, meticulous, like someone who'd had to learn the value of every cent.
And, of course... he knew clothing sizes. Just by looking. That part still had her spiraling. How? How had he gotten hers so perfectly? Was he guessing? Measuring her with his eyes? How long had he been doing that? And why hadn't she noticed? Her stomach knotted at the thought.
As if that wasn't enough, he could fight. Not just the roughhousing kind of fighting. Real skill. Precision. Awareness. Sparring with him for months had taught her more than any self-defense class ever could—about strategy, about control, about restraint. He was dangerous in the way only someone who didn't want to be dangerous could be. And that made her feel... safe. Infuriatingly safe.
And now there was this. The newest revelation. His mother, a fashion designer. His father, an accountant. Suddenly, all the puzzle pieces clicked into place—the clothes, the budgeting, the sense of aesthetic and structure. The balance of discipline and instinct. The way he made chaos look like choreography.
She gripped her pen so tightly it left indents in her fingers, her thoughts buzzing like a nest of wasps under her skin.
She glanced at him again.
And, as if tethered to her, Ethan's voice drifted over—calm, low, knowing. "If you have something to say, just say it."
Vanessa nearly jumped. Her mouth opened before her thoughts could catch up. "How do you do that?" she hissed, not even bothering to hide her irritation.
Ethan finally looked up, tilting his head with that maddening calm. "Do what?"
She narrowed her eyes at him, her voice sharp but whisper-thin. "All of it. Cooking, fighting, managing money, guessing sizes, tutoring, and now—apparently—predicting when I'll show up at your house. Do you have a list of secret skills you're just waiting to unveil like party tricks?"
He smirked. That small, maddening, infuriating curve of his lips. "Not a list. Just things I've picked up."
"Picked up," she repeated, her voice dripping with disbelief. "You make it sound like it's normal to be good at everything."
He shrugged, turning back to his notebook like her growing mental chaos was background noise. "I had to learn."
That stopped her.
Not because of what he said—but how he said it. There was no pride in his voice. No arrogance. Just a quiet resignation. A truth he'd worn down into simplicity, the way a stone gets smooth after years of pressure.
I had to learn.
Vanessa leaned in, lowering her voice instinctively. "Because of your uncle?"
A flicker passed over his face. A tightening in his jaw. Barely noticeable—unless you were watching for it. She was. She always was, now.
"Partly," he said, after a beat too long.
Her eyes searched his, but he was already drifting away again, mentally. She knew that look—knew when his walls came back up. He wasn't ready to talk. Not about that. Maybe not yet. Maybe not ever.
Still, her curiosity burned too bright to smother. She smirked, leaning closer, letting the teasing take over. "So, what else are you hiding? Can you play the piano? Speak five languages? Hack into government databases in your sleep?"
That earned her a chuckle. Real. Quiet. Warm.
"You'll find out eventually."
Ugh. That was not helpful.
Vanessa groaned, collapsing forward onto her desk like a dramatic child. "That's not fair. I need to know now."
Ethan just closed his notebook and stood as the bell rang, slinging his bag over his shoulder with that annoying casual confidence. "Patience."
She scowled, pushing herself up. "Patience? I've been putting up with your mysterious nonsense since the start of the school year. You could at least throw me a bone."
He leaned down, his voice brushing close to her ear. "You already know more than most."
Her heart stuttered. Damn it.
Even now. Even when she was annoyed, frustrated, caught in this relentless loop of unanswered questions—he still had the power to fluster her with a sentence.
She yanked her bag onto her shoulder, muttering, "One of these days, I'm gonna start keeping a tally of how many times you pull this mysterious act."
Ethan laughed as they stepped into the hallway. "Go ahead. You'll run out of space before the week's over."
She shot him a look, but deep down, she couldn't ignore the curiosity tightening in her chest. What else did he know? What else had he been silently collecting while she was busy brushing him off, underestimating him, poking at his edges just to see what would shake loose?
And now, with every new piece of information, she was beginning to realize how little she actually knew about Ethan's life. She had scratched the surface—seen the pieces he allowed her to see. The parents, the uncle, the skills... the scars he didn't speak about.
But what about everything else?
And why, even now, was she starting to feel like she wanted to know?
As they walked down the hallway, shoulder to shoulder, Vanessa's thoughts weren't just swirling—they were spiraling. Ethan strolled beside her like always, calm, unreadable, every step a quiet show of balance and ease. The kind of ease that only came from knowing things others didn't. And that—that exactly—was the problem.
She glanced at him from the corner of her eye, her mind snapping onto a new thought like a spark to dry leaves.
What if I tested him?
If he wasn't going to tell her what else he was capable of—if he was just going to keep walking around like some goddamn riddle in a hoodie—then fine. She'd figure it out herself. Crack him open like a locked safe, one challenge at a time. Watch him stumble. If he could stumble. God, could he stumble?
A slow, mischievous smirk tugged at her lips as she turned her head slightly. "Fine. Keep your secrets. But don't be surprised if I figure them out on my own."
He didn't even flinch. Just one raised brow, one flash of that insufferably amused expression that made her want to both kiss and slap it off his face. "That sounds like a challenge."
Vanessa gave a light shrug, carefully casual. "Maybe it is."
But inside, her pulse ticked up. This wasn't just curiosity anymore—it had grown roots. It was a fixation. A need. She didn't even know when that had happened, but it had settled into her skin like something living, something she couldn't shake off.
The rest of the day passed in a haze of half-heard lectures and unacknowledged worksheets. Vanessa's mind stayed locked on one thing—how to unravel Ethan.
He was too smooth. Too composed. Like he'd practiced life itself in front of a mirror and memorized the script. She wasn't even sure he could be caught off guard, but damn it, she was going to try.
By lunch, the plan had already started taking shape in her head. She watched him with laser focus as he bit into his sandwich like he had all the time in the world. Relaxed, unbothered. His fingers steady, posture perfect. Like the chaos of high school couldn't touch him.
Annoying.
Vanessa narrowed her eyes.
What makes you tick, Ethan?
Across the table, Hannah noticed the intensity radiating from Vanessa like heat waves. "Vanessa... you look like you're trying to set him on fire with your mind."
Vanessa didn't even blink. "I might as well. I'm trying to figure out what else he's hiding."
And, of course, because of course, Ethan didn't even bother looking up as he smirked and said, "And how's that going for you?"
Her eye twitched.
Smug. Little. Shit.
She crossed her arms, leaning back like it didn't get to her. Like her thoughts weren't running a hundred miles an hour. "Oh, don't worry. I'll figure something out."
Hannah's eyes bounced between them with growing interest. "Wait... Ethan has secrets?"
Vanessa let out a dramatic sigh, one part theatrical, two parts real. "So many. It's like I've been dating a cryptid."
"Is that supposed to be an insult?" Ethan asked, that calm amusement still curling his words.
"It is now," she grumbled.
Hannah laughed, but she didn't let it go. "Okay, but what's the big deal? I mean, yeah, Ethan's smart and apparently good at a lot of things, but why are you so obsessed with figuring him out?"
Vanessa tapped her fingers against the edge of the table, her gaze drifting again to where Ethan sat, every detail maddeningly in control. "Because he never gets caught off guard. Ever. It's like he already knows what's going to happen before it does."
Ethan didn't deny it. Just gave another one of those infuriatingly mild shrugs. "Observation."
She rolled her eyes, nearly groaning aloud. "Oh, screw off with your 'observation' excuse. No one just naturally knows everyone's clothing sizes. Or that I was going to show up at your house."
That was the thing that really stuck with her. She still couldn't shake it. How had he known? How did he always know?
Hannah gasped, clasping her hands to her chest in mock-shock. "Wait, you went to his house?!"
Vanessa waved her off, eyes still locked on Ethan. "Not the point!"
She leaned forward, bracing her elbows on the table, her tone deadly serious. "The point is, I need to know what else you're capable of. So get ready, because I'm going to figure you out."
Ethan didn't blink. Didn't smirk. Just leaned forward slightly, resting his chin on his hand, looking at her like she was the one under the microscope. "And what happens if you don't?"
Her breath hitched—just barely.
Vanessa narrowed her eyes, ignoring the twist in her gut. "That won't happen."
A pause. Then that smirk returned, just a breath softer. Like he knew something she didn't. "We'll see."
Vanessa held his gaze a second too long. Something electric passed between them—quiet, charged, unspeakable.
And just like that, her internal challenge shifted into something deeper. She hadn't expected this to become a game—not one she actually cared about. But here she was, caught in the gravity of him again. This boy who never flinched, never faltered. This boy who could make her feel like she was sprinting while he walked.
She was going to crack him open.
That evening, Vanessa sat cross-legged on her bed, the room dim except for the golden glow of her bedside lamp. A pencil twirled endlessly between her fingers, forgotten homework scattered on the blankets beside her. But her mind wasn't on assignments. Not even close.
It was on him.
How do you catch someone off guard, she thought, when they live their whole damn life three steps ahead?
Every time she thought she had Ethan cornered, he slipped through her fingers like smoke. He didn't brag. He didn't deflect. He just was—unapologetically calm, composed, controlled. And that calmness was infuriating. Because it meant she couldn't read him. Couldn't touch whatever was underneath all that stillness.
And yet, it pulled her in. God help her, it made her want to dig deeper.
Her fingers stopped twirling the pencil. An idea had begun to stir—slow, delicious, dangerous.
She leaned back against her pillows, her lips curling in a slow, mischievous grin.
Let's see how smooth you really are, Ethan.
The next morning, Vanessa walked into school with a plan and a kind of reckless determination buzzing in her blood. Her backpack slung casually over one shoulder, she moved through the halls like a current, her eyes already scanning the usual spot.
And there he was.
Leaning against his locker like he owned it, arms crossed, legs relaxed, expression unreadable. That familiar posture of casual indifference that somehow made everyone else in the hallway blur in comparison. He didn't even seem to notice her approach.
But he did. He always did.
Vanessa squared her shoulders. Time to push him. Just a little.
With deliberate confidence, she closed the distance and stopped just shy of invading his space—closer than usual, just enough to cross the line between casual and something more.
"Morning, Ethan," she said smoothly, her voice low and honeyed, tilting her head as if she were inspecting him like an art piece.
His eyes flicked to her. "Morning."
No reaction. No shift in posture. No arch of a brow. Just calm.
God, you're annoying.
Vanessa didn't falter. Not this time.
She reached out and, with the kind of nonchalance she did not feel, adjusted the collar of his leather jacket with a slow, practiced touch. Her fingers brushed the fabric—and him. Still, he didn't move. But she saw it. A blink. Subtle. Intentional.
"You know, for someone so meticulous," she said, smoothing her hand down the sleeve of his jacket like she was dusting it, "I'm surprised you didn't fix this."
"Didn't think it needed fixing," he replied. Calm as ever. But there was something in his voice now—a slight shift, like he was trying to place her mood.
She hummed, letting her fingers linger just a moment too long before dropping them. "Hmm, maybe not. But you like things neat, don't you?"
His eyes sharpened, focused. "I do."
Still not flustered. Not even close. She almost groaned in frustration. Seriously?
Fine.
Time for the final move.
With deliberate slowness, Vanessa placed her hand on his chest, leaning in until there was barely an inch between them. She could feel the heat of his body under her palm, the steady beat of his heart. Her voice dropped to a whisper meant only for him.
"You know, Ethan... I've been thinking a lot about you."
And there—a flicker. So fast she almost missed it, but she didn't. A spark of surprise, subtle but real. Not enough to rattle him, but enough to light something in his eyes.
"Oh?" he murmured, his voice lower now. Watching her. Measuring. But there was something else. Curiosity.
Vanessa smiled, satisfied. Got you.
She stepped back, tossing her hair like it was all nothing. "Just wanted to let you know. See you in class."
She didn't look back as she walked away—but she heard him. That low, knowing chuckle.
"Interesting."
Vanessa bit back a grin. Oh, she'd caught him. Not entirely. But enough. Enough to know he wasn't invincible.
She strutted into class like a queen. Sat at her desk like she was ten feet tall.
Finally. A reaction.
But then... the seconds ticked by. Her fingers tapped against the wood of her desk, and the longer she waited, the more something uncomfortable began to settle in her chest.
Why wasn't he rattled?
She had expected—hoped—for a stumble, a moment of awkwardness, even a flirty comeback she could shut down. Instead, he'd just... gone with it. Accepted it. Like she hadn't thrown herself into unfamiliar territory just to shake him.
And then came the sound she hadn't realized she was waiting for.
Chair legs scraping. His.
Ethan slid into the seat next to her with the same infuriating composure he always had, as if nothing had happened at all. Like she hadn't just tried to throw him off his axis.
"Morning," he said again, but this time his tone was layered—amused, warm, almost teasing.
Vanessa stiffened, her hand freezing mid-tap.
"You already said that," she muttered, not looking at him.
Ethan shrugged, a slow, confident movement. "True. But I felt like repeating it, considering how interesting my morning has been so far."
She turned to him sharply, ready to call him out—and stopped.
That damn smirk.
He knew. He knew exactly what she had tried to do, and now he was enjoying it. He was letting her chase while pretending to stand still.
Vanessa narrowed her eyes, her voice sharp. "Don't get cocky."
But he just leaned back, tilting his head toward her, voice like velvet and sin. "I don't have to. You already think about me enough."
Her breath hitched. Her stomach twisted in on itself like it had been hooked on a line and yanked.
Damn it.
She turned away, face burning, jaw tight. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Not yet.
But inside? She knew this game was far from over.
It had only just begun.
Vanessa sat at their usual lunch table, arms folded on the cool surface, her tray barely touched. Her gaze was sharp, calculating, locked on the empty seat across from her. She was no longer just curious—this had evolved into something far more personal. Obsessive, maybe. But she wasn't backing down.
This wasn't about Ethan being mysterious anymore. No. This was about her being outplayed—again. He made it look so damn effortless, every time. And that? That was starting to get under her skin in a way nothing else ever had.
The sound of his footsteps reached her before he even appeared—unhurried, measured. She didn't need to look to know it was him. He always moved like he had nowhere to be, yet was always exactly where he needed to be. Like time bent around him, not the other way around.
He placed his tray down across from her without a word, just the quiet clink of plastic against plastic. The same meal as always—grilled chicken, rice, some kind of greens, and his favorite drink. No sugar, no processed junk. Perfectly disciplined. Of course.
Vanessa's eyes narrowed, lips curving into something between amusement and frustration.
"You're so disciplined," she said, resting her chin on her hand as she studied him. "Don't you ever eat anything fun?"
Ethan didn't even look up. "Food is fuel."
God, she thought, rolling her eyes. You would say something like that.
It should've ended there. But no. She wasn't letting him slide away that easily. Not again.
Her fingers closed around her alrady used fork, scooping up a generous bite of her dessert—rich chocolate cake, thick with frosting, still slightly warm at the center. A comfort food she had no shame indulging in.
She leaned forward across the table, just a bit too close. Close enough to make it intimate. Challenging. Her arm outstretched, fork poised in midair between them.
"C'mon," she said, voice dipped in playfulness with an edge of dare. "Try it."
That made him pause.
Ethan glanced at the fork. Then at her. His gaze lingered for a heartbeat longer than it needed to, but his face remained unreadable.
"What are you doing?" he asked, the faintest tilt to his head.
Vanessa's smirk widened, eyes glinting. "Testing a theory."
There. A flicker of something passed through his eyes. But he didn't ask what theory. Didn't pull away. He didn't even look annoyed.
He leaned in.
What—?
With no hesitation, no warning, Ethan closed the space and took the bite straight from the fork—from her hand—his lips brushing the tines as her had done.
And then he sat back.
Chewed slowly. Calmly.
Vanessa's brain momentarily short-circuited.
She blinked, still holding the fork midair, her expression frozen somewhere between shock and something she refused to name.
Ethan swallowed. Looked her in the eye. Cool. Collected.
"...Not bad," he said.
And then, as if nothing had happened, he picked up his drink and resumed eating.
Vanessa was still staring.
What. The actual. Hell.
Her heart stuttered. Her breath hitched in her throat, unnoticed. That hadn't just been unexpected. That had been—bold. She had expected him to flinch. To blush. To deflect with one of his smooth, sidestepping one-liners.
But no. He'd met her move head-on. Matched it. Matched her. Without blinking.
She lowered the fork slowly, like she wasn't even sure how her hands worked anymore. The air around them felt charged now, static dancing along her skin like sparks waiting to catch.
That was supposed to throw him off balance. That was supposed to tilt the game back in my favor.
Instead, he'd leaned into it. Owned it.
He's doing this on purpose.
Her stomach twisted with a new feeling—one part frustration, two parts something far more dangerous.
She clenched her jaw, stabbing into her cake again with more force than necessary. Her fork scraped the bottom of the tray, the sound sharp, impatient. Her eyes flicked back to him.
He wasn't even looking at her anymore.
Unbothered. Like she hadn't just tried to shake his cool exterior to the ground.
But there was a small tug at the corner of his lips—a ghost of a smirk.
He knows.
He knew exactly what he was doing. Exactly how to turn her own play against her. He wasn't flustered. He was entertained. Amused. And that? That made her want to scream. Or maybe kiss him. She wasn't entirely sure anymore.
She stabbed her cake again.
Alright. Fine. If this is how he wants to play...
Her mind spun, already crafting the next move, next opportunity, next pressure point. He'd shown her a crack today, even if it was small. And if there was a crack—Vanessa was going to find a way to pull it wide open.
The game was still on.
The prom felt like a wild, glowing dream—full of lights, laughter, and emotions that ran deeper than most people wanted to admit. It was everything you'd expect from the last big night of high school, but somehow even more intense. The ballroom sparkled with fairy lights hung like stars, and the air was thick with perfume, nervous energy, and the pressure of pretending not to care too much. It was that one night where time didn't feel real—a dreamy, glittery moment on the edge of growing up and saying goodbye.
Vanessa stood just off the dance floor, the sharp sound of her heels clicking against the marble floor in a steady, restless beat. Her arms were crossed, and her fingers pressed into the fabric of her dress, leaving little crescent marks. The music thumped—popular songs mixing with older hits, giving the room a steady pulse. But she wasn't really hearing it.
She looked stunning—no, dangerous—in a deep green dress that clung to her curves like it was made just for her. The silk caught the light every time she moved, glowing like liquid jade. A golden headpiece sat perfectly in her dark curls, making her look like a queen—or something older and more powerful. She turned heads everywhere she went. But inside?
Inside, she was tense. Angry. Tired of playing it cool.
Because Ethan was out there in the crowd. Moving through it like he owned the place—relaxed, charming, and, as always, annoyingly perfect.
She'd already seen him tonight. He looked ridiculously good in a black suit that fit him like a dream. His hair was just messy enough to seem casual, but she knew it was on purpose. Everything about him was always just right. And the worst part? He was still out of reach.
Every time she tried to get close, he'd slip away. He'd dance with someone else, say something clever, give her a smile that made her heart skip. A gentle touch at her back that sent heat up her spine. And yet—he never gave anything away. Never looked nervous. Never let her catch him off guard.
It was like he was always in control. Like he was watching her. Waiting for her to come closer. Letting her chase.
And she hated that.
She had spent the week planning tonight.Orchestrating moments, opportunities—tiny traps to catch him off guard. And she wasn't above pulling strings. Which is why, when Hannah stepped up to the mic on the stage and called out over the music, Vanessa already knew what was coming.
"Alright, everyone," Hannah chirped with theatrical delight, her voice carrying across the ballroom, "we've got a special little twist for this next number!"
Vanessa's stomach flipped, her pulse quickening. This was it. Her moment.
The crowd hushed slightly, students leaning forward in anticipation. Hannah made a show of shuffling imaginary cards before her eyes flicked—just for a second—toward Vanessa. The corner of Vanessa's lips twitched.
"And the lucky person is..." Hannah stretched the pause, milking the tension. "Ethan!"
The reaction was immediate and electric. Cheers, teasing whistles, applause that rippled like lightning through the room. Phones were already out, ready to record whatever came next. The crowd was hungry, and Vanessa was almost giddy.
Ethan's head tilted up slowly from where he stood near the back. No visible surprise. Just a long, thoughtful pause. Like he was already analyzing the setup. Already reading between the lines.
He exhaled through his nose, just loud enough for Vanessa to hear as she stepped up beside him.
"Huh."
She arched a brow. "Something wrong?"
Ethan looked at her, calm as ever, the corners of his mouth twitching into that familiar, infuriating smirk. "No. Just didn't expect to be set up tonight."
She widened her eyes, mock-innocent. "Set up? Me? I have no idea what you're talking about."
He gave her a once-over, slow and knowing. "Uh-huh."
The crowd parted as he moved through it toward the stage, Vanessa trailing behind, trying not to grin too hard. Her heart thudded in her chest. Let's see how smooth you really are, Ethan.
Hannah handed him the instrument options like a game show prize girl: keyboard, guitar, drums, or bass.
He didn't hesitate. His fingers closed around the drumsticks with a kind of quiet confidence that sent a little shiver down Vanessa's spine.
The band kicked in. A familiar track—upbeat, playful, easy to dance to.
Ethan started drumming.
And Jesus, could he play.
His hands moved with a precision that was almost sensual—tight, fluid, like rhythm lived in his bones. He didn't miss a beat. Didn't even look like he was trying. His eyes remained half-lidded, focused, relaxed. Like he was in his element. Like the stage was just another extension of him.
The crowd lost it. Students cheered, couples danced, Hannah sang into the mic.
Vanessa stood there, arms limp at her sides, stunned into silence.
Of course he can drum. Of course he can.
He'd made her believe this was her moment. Her trap. But here he was—center stage, composed, winning.
When the song ended, the room burst into applause. Ethan passed the sticks back and stepped down like he hadn't just stolen the show.
Vanessa caught up with him near the edge of the dance floor, her jaw tight.
"Okay," she said, eyes narrowing, "when exactly were you planning to tell me you could do that?"
He didn't even pretend to play coy. Just smirked with that maddening little glint in his eye. "I wasn't."
"Why not?" she shot back, folding her arms again, this time more to keep herself steady than anything else.
He leaned in. Too close. His voice dipped low, threading through her nerves like velvet.
"Because I was waiting to see how long it would take you to find out."
Vanessa's breath hitched. Her mouth opened—then closed. She had nothing. Not a single snarky comeback.
She'd been outmaneuvered.
Again.
She scowled, muttering under her breath, "Insufferable."
And then he did something entirely unexpected. He took her hand—gentle, deliberate—and pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles. His eyes never left hers.
"And you love it."
The worst part? He was right.
Her skin buzzed where his lips had touched. Her chest was tight, her face warm, and somewhere deep inside her, something began to unravel.
She turned away quickly, flustered and furious with herself for feeling. But this wasn't over.
The music started up again behind them. The dance floor swelled. Laughter rose, flashlights flickered, and in the distance, the promise of slow songs and confessions lingered.
Vanessa inhaled, steadying herself.
The night wasn't over. Neither was she.
They stood near the edge of the dance floor, the low hum of voices and the lingering thrill from Ethan's impromptu performance still hanging in the air like smoke. The crowd was buzzing—laughing, chattering, still reeling from the sight of him on stage, drumming like it had been nothing, like he hadn't just pulled another mask off and left it at her feet.
Vanessa could still hear the echoes of it in her chest, her pulse not quite settled, her heart still fluttering in protest.
And there he was. Calm. Casually confident. Hands shoved deep in the pockets of his suit pants, shoulders relaxed like he hadn't just casually stolen the breath out of her lungs and turned the spotlight back on himself with maddening ease. That smirk—God, that smirk—was back, like he knew.
Like he always did.
Vanessa narrowed her eyes, sharp and deliberate. She wasn't done. Not even close.
"So," she said, her voice edged with challenge, "anything else you've been keeping from me?"
Ethan tilted his head slightly, that damned glint in his eyes catching the golden light as he watched her with a slow smile. "Plenty."
Her breath caught, not because of what he said, but how—like it was a promise. A threat. A door cracked open and waiting for her to step through. She scoffed, rolling her eyes, trying to shake the heat rising in her chest. "Oh, I'm sure."
But before she could press him, before she could tease or demand more, the music shifted. The pounding bass gave way to something softer, more tender—notes like a warm sigh curling through the air. The lights dimmed around them, casting the dance floor in amber tones and low shadows, and everything slowed.
And then he moved.
Without hesitation. Without a word.
Ethan reached out and pulled her gently but firmly toward him.
"Dance with me," he said. Not asked—said.
Vanessa blinked, startled. His voice had changed—no longer light, no longer playing. It was steadier now, deeper, threaded with something that made her pulse quicken in her throat. There was no teasing in his expression. No smirk. Just something... open. Raw.
The air shifted between them. Thickened. Stilled.
She hesitated, every part of her trained to fight, to question, to deflect. But her hands moved on their own, resting lightly on his shoulders, fingers curling against the cool fabric of his jacket. His arm slid around her waist, pulling her closer with a confidence that should've felt smug—but didn't.
It felt safe. And she didn't know what to do with that.
The music surrounded them, soft and slow, but it was background noise now. Vanessa barely registered the song, her world narrowed down to the heat of his body, the press of his hand on her back, the rise and fall of his chest against hers.
Every nerve in her skin was awake, lit from within, aching under the weight of his touch. His fingers traced idle, lazy circles against the curve of her spine—nothing overt, nothing demanding, just a quiet reminder that he was touching her, that he could.
And God, it was enough to send sparks spiraling through her.
She cleared her throat, desperate for air, for distance she didn't actually want. "You didn't answer me, by the way."
Ethan didn't miss a beat, his fingers still drawing that maddening pattern on her back. "Didn't I?"
Vanessa fought the shiver crawling up her neck. She would not let him see the effect he was having on her. "You're impossible."
He laughed—low, rich, warm. It vibrated through his chest and straight into her bones. "And yet," he murmured, "here you are. In my arms."
Her cheeks flared with heat. She hated how right he was. How easily he dismantled her with a few simple words and that quiet confidence she couldn't seem to crack.
"Yeah, well," she muttered, struggling to sound unaffected, "don't let it go to your head."
"Too late," he said, voice dipping just enough to send goosebumps racing down her arms.
She opened her mouth—another jab lined up—but the words never came. She found herself watching him instead. Really watching. The set of his jaw. The slight tension around his eyes. The way he held her—not possessively, but with care. With intention.
The question slipped out before she could stop it. "Why do you know so many things?"
For a moment, something shifted in him. His smile faltered, just slightly. His hand at her back stilled.
He was quiet. Thoughtful.
Then, softly: "I had to."
Vanessa blinked, the simple answer striking harder than it should have.
"What do you mean?"
He hesitated again, his gaze drifting somewhere past her shoulder like he was watching ghosts dance in the corner of the room. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. Tired. "When you grow up in a house where you're alone more often than not... when you don't know who to trust... you learn things. You get good at whatever you can. Because being useful means being in control. Means no one can use your weaknesses against you."
Her breath caught.
It hadn't been a flex. It hadn't been a game.
All this time—his talents, his knowledge, his calm composure—it had been armor. Not arrogance.
Survival.
She felt something tighten in her chest. The weight of realization sank deep into her stomach. She thought of every time she'd tried to poke holes in his perfect image. Every time she'd teased, tested, provoked. And suddenly, it didn't feel clever. It felt careless.
"Ethan..." she whispered, guilt seeping in.
He looked back down at her, and the smirk he wore now was different. Softer. "Don't give me that look," he said, and for once, his voice was gentle. "I'm fine."
But she didn't believe it. Not entirely. And that made her ache in a way she hadn't expected.
Fine. He was always fine.
Not because he wanted to be, but because he had to be.
Without thinking, without letting herself overanalyze it, Vanessa stepped in closer and rested her forehead lightly against his shoulder. Her hands gripped his shoulders more firmly, grounding herself in the moment.
Ethan went rigid for half a second. And then, slowly, carefully, his arm tightened around her, pulling her in. His chin rested atop her head, his breath warm against her hair.
"What's this?" he asked, voice quieter now, like he wasn't sure he wanted to break the spell.
Vanessa closed her eyes. "Nothing," she said, barely above a whisper. "Just... shut up and dance."
He chuckled softly, the sound vibrating through her. "Yes, ma'am."
And for that one perfect moment, the world faded.
The music, the lights, the crowd—they were just distant flickers. The only thing real was the feel of his body against hers, the rhythm of their steps, and the growing tension between them—not the sharp, playful kind they usually traded like fire, but something deeper. Heavier.
She didn't know what this meant. She didn't know where it would lead.
But she did know one thing.
This was no longer just a game.
And whatever Ethan thought, she wasn't walking away without a fight.
When the music picked up again, shaking off the softness of the slow song like glitter in a breeze, they stepped away from the dance floor. The weight of the last few minutes clung to Vanessa's skin, humming under the surface—like something electric had burrowed into her bones and refused to leave. She didn't know what she expected from this night, but this—this slow-burn push and pull between something light and something unbearably raw—was not it.
Outside, the air was cool against her heated skin. The night was still young, stars just beginning to pierce through the velvet dark above the school grounds. Laughter and distant music floated out through the open doors, muffled now, far away from the strange intensity that walked beside her.
Ethan. Always composed. Always a step ahead. Always so damn unruffled.
Vanessa shot him a side glance as they strolled along the path behind the gym, where fairy lights blinked lazily over garden hedges and benches left mostly untouched. Her heels clicked softly against the stone, and she folded her arms with intent.
"Alright," she said, sharp and deliberate. "Spill. What else can you do?"
Ethan, of course, didn't miss a beat. His lips curved into that maddening smirk, eyes glinting in the dim light like he already knew exactly how this would play out. "Now, where would the fun be in that?"
Vanessa huffed, stopping just short of shoving him. "I swear, if you tell me you can also cook gourmet meals while juggling flaming knives, I—"
"Never tried flaming knives," he interrupted smoothly, barely holding back a chuckle, "but I can cook gourmet meals, if that's what you're asking."
She stared at him, mouth slightly open. "Of course you can," she muttered, throwing her hands up in exasperation, half-wishing she had something to throw at him.
He laughed, the sound low and warm, vibrating in her chest even though it didn't belong there. "Why does that frustrate you so much?"
"Because it's not fair!" she groaned, her voice tight with disbelief. "No one should be this good at everything."
Ethan gave a casual shrug, as if the entire universe hadn't just tilted sideways around him. "Maybe you're just dating an exceptional guy."
Her brain froze.
Heat scorched her face faster than she could stop it.
"I didn't say that!" she snapped, far too quickly, her voice an octave too high.
"But you were thinking it." His voice dropped—smooth, teasing, certain. The kind of tone that wrapped around her and lingered.
She opened her mouth, ready to argue—to throw words like knives—but her brain short-circuited before they formed.
And then he leaned in.
Too close.
His breath brushed the shell of her ear as he murmured, "If you really want to know about my other talents, maybe you should come back to my place tonight and see for yourself what other instruments I can bang a beat out of."
Time stopped.
Her brain completely shut down.
Blood roared in her ears. Heat rushed to her cheeks, her chest, everywhere.
"I—you—what—"
She sputtered, mouth flapping uselessly as her thoughts collapsed in on themselves like a black hole of mortification.
Ethan's laughter was soft, unhurried, and completely infuriating. "Something wrong, Vanessa?"
"You know damn well what's wrong!" she hissed, trying to regain any shred of composure, her voice dangerously high-pitched.
He grinned, wolfish and utterly unrepentant. "Relax. I'm just messing with you. Mostly."
"Insufferable," she growled, yanking her eyes away from his way-too-pleased expression. Her face felt like it was on fire. She turned away, half-wishing the night would swallow her whole, half-preparing her next move in this increasingly dangerous game.
She hadn't even begun to recover when her phone buzzed.
She glanced down absently—then froze.
Her blood ran cold.
Mom: Have fun at Ethan's! Don't do anything I would.
Her entire body went still.
No. No no no no.
She reread it, blinking like the words might magically rearrange themselves into something innocent.
They didn't.
Her stomach dropped to her heels.
Her head whipped toward Ethan so fast it could've given her whiplash. He was still walking beside her, all hands-in-pockets, all smug and infuriating, and somehow—somehow—still looking like the calmest person in the world.
"What did you do?" she asked, her voice sharp with panic.
Ethan raised a brow, all fake innocence. "What do you mean?"
"You—" she jabbed a finger at him, breath catching. "You asked my parents, didn't you?"
He nodded, like it was the most normal thing in the world. "Yeah. Figured it'd be easier if I just asked for permission ahead of time."
Vanessa gaped. "You did what?!"
Ethan stopped walking, turning to face her, completely unfazed by the full meltdown brewing just beneath her skin. "Asked your parents if you could stay over. They said yes."
Her jaw dropped. "And you didn't think to tell me?!"
"You were going to find out eventually."
"ETHAN!" she nearly shrieked, hands clenched into fists as if that would hold her together.
She could barely breathe.
Her mother knew she was staying over at Ethan's. Her mom. And not only did she know, but she sent that text? With that tone?
Vanessa's internal organs were slowly melting. There was no other explanation for the heat threatening to combust her from the inside out.
I am never living this down.
Ethan just kept smirking like a man who'd already won every game she hadn't realized they were playing.
"Are you backing out?" he asked, head tilting, voice low and impossible.
Vanessa's pride snapped up like a shield.
"Of course not."
There was no hesitation. No retreat. If he thought he could embarrass her into submission, he was dead wrong. She would walk into that lion's den with her head held high—and burn it down from the inside out if she had to.
Ethan's grin widened. He leaned in, whisper-soft, warm breath grazing her skin.
"Then let's go, princess."
She scowled, heart pounding too loud. "I told you to stop calling me that."
"Sure you did," he said, voice dripping amusement.
~~~~~