The club pulsed with bass-heavy music, lights flickering like strobe-lit heartbeats. Becky Rivera leaned against the bar, sipping a watered-down mojito, her patience dissolving faster than the ice in her glass. She checked her phone again. No texts. No calls. No ride.
"Jessie bailed," she muttered under her breath.
She should've known better. Her college friend had dragged her out for a girls' night, promising "just a few drinks and harmless dancing." But two hours in, Jessie had vanished with some guy from the dance floor, and Becky was stranded—alone, tipsy, and dangerously close to pissed off.
The club was in the industrial district, tucked between abandoned warehouses and expensive lofts. Ubers were scarce at this hour. The nearest bus wasn't running until dawn.
She glanced at the time. 1:03 a.m.
Her phone battery blinked at 9%.
"Great."
A wave of drunken laughter burst from the crowd behind her. Someone bumped into her shoulder. Becky stepped aside, clutching her phone like a lifeline.
She didn't want to call her mom.
She didn't have many other options.
Her thumb hovered over Ethan's contact.
Don't.
But she did.
One ring. Two. Then—
"What is it?" His voice, gravel-deep and taut with sleep.
Becky winced. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't know who else to call."
Silence.
"I'm at this club on Turner and 14th," she continued. "Jessie ditched me and I… I didn't plan this well."
More silence.
"I'm not drunk," she added quickly. "Okay, maybe a little, but—"
"I'll be there in ten," he said, and hung up.
Becky stared at her phone, stunned.
No lecture. No scolding.
Just I'll be there.
Exactly twelve minutes later, a black Audi SUV rolled to a smooth stop in front of the club. The passenger door swung open.
Ethan Cross.
Gray sweatpants. Black hoodie. No shoes. No coat.
He looked half-asleep and wholly furious.
Becky climbed in, tucking her dress beneath her thighs. The moment the door shut, the scent of his cologne hit her—clean, dark, like cedar and wind.
Neither of them spoke as the SUV pulled away from the curb.
She risked a glance sideways.
His jaw was tense. His eyes never left the road.
"Thank you," she said softly.
He gave a tight nod.
"I didn't know who else to call," she added.
His voice was low. "You did the right thing."
"I didn't think you'd answer."
"You're under my roof. That makes you my responsibility."
Her heart twisted at the word responsibility. So cold. So clinical.
"I didn't mean to wake you," she said after a beat.
"You didn't." His tone was clipped. "I don't sleep much."
The silence returned, thick with unspoken things.
Becky traced her finger over the condensation on the window. "You didn't ask why I went out."
"I assumed you had a reason."
"I needed air," she murmured. "After the dinner party. After everything."
He didn't respond.
She turned to face him. "Did I embarrass you that night?"
His fingers tightened around the wheel. "You don't embarrass me."
"You sure? Because I can be a walking PR disaster when provoked."
He sighed, the lines at his temples deepening. "You were honest. Crude, but honest."
She smirked faintly. "High praise coming from you."
He glanced at her then—just for a second—and the corner of his mouth twitched. It wasn't a smile. But it was something.
"You looked good," he said quietly.
Becky blinked. "At the party?"
He nodded once.
Her heart gave a dangerous lurch. She turned back to the window, afraid he'd see the heat rising in her cheeks.
"You're not what I expected," she whispered.
"Neither are you."
They drove the rest of the way in silence, the city lights flickering through the windshield.
---
Back at the penthouse, the elevator ride was quiet, but the air between them was anything but.
Becky stepped out first, the heels of her boots clicking against the marble floor. She tossed her clutch on the kitchen counter and pulled off her earrings, suddenly exhausted.
Ethan followed, walking straight to the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water. He handed it to her without a word.
She took it. "Thanks, again. For coming."
"You shouldn't go out alone at night. Not with people who leave you stranded."
"I get it. Bad judgment. Lesson learned."
He didn't look convinced. "Some people see girls like you and think 'target.' You don't know what kind of situations that can spiral into."
She arched an eyebrow. "Girls like me?"
He stared at her. "Young. Beautiful. Reckless."
Becky's breath hitched.
She set the water bottle down with more force than necessary. "You don't get to say that."
He stepped closer. "Why not?"
"Because you're my stepdad," she said bitterly. "Or did you forget that part again?"
His voice dropped. "I forget it every time you look at me like that."
Her throat closed.
"Like what?" she whispered.
"Like you want me to cross a line we both know I shouldn't."
She backed up, her shoulder hitting the wall.
"I don't—"
"Yes, you do," he said, not cruelly, but like a man bleeding truth. "And I do, too."
Silence.
Then she asked, softly, "So why don't you?"
He looked at her like she was the storm and the silence after.
"Because I wouldn't be able to stop."
---
She went to bed that night with her pulse pounding.
Sleep came late.
And in the dark, she wondered if maybe—for the first time in a long time—she was afraid of how much she didn't want him to stop.
---