The next morning, Becky Rivera woke to the soft knock of rain against the penthouse windows. A silver-grey sky hung over the city like a moody canvas, streaks of water trailing down the glass like slow tears. She lay in bed longer than usual, watching the clouds move. Everything felt quieter since the bluff.
Since Ethan.
Since that soft brush of arms and words unsaid.
Her mind kept returning to the way his hand had hovered, hesitant, near her shoulder. The warm silence of the car. The subtle glance he gave her when she laughed, like he wasn't supposed to enjoy it but couldn't help himself.
And now?
Silence again.
He hadn't been at breakfast. Not that she expected him to cook or chat, but even his usual quiet presence—papers rustling in his hand, the faint clink of his espresso spoon—was missing.
She wandered into the kitchen, tugging on the hem of her oversized hoodie, her bare feet tapping on the cool marble. The place looked untouched. Her mom's empty coffee cup sat in the sink. A note on the counter read: Emergency work trip. Back Friday night. Love you, baby. It was scribbled in her mother's familiar quick cursive.
Becky sighed. Of course.
Her phone buzzed.
ETHAN: There's something on the coffee table for you.
No emojis. No follow-up.
She frowned, slowly walking over.
A crisp white envelope sat atop the polished wood.
Her name was written in Ethan's handwriting—neat, slanted, precise.
Becky sat down, heart already uneasy. She opened it carefully.
Inside: five $100 bills, folded together.
And a note:
"I thought you might need this. No expectations. Just help." —E.
Becky stared at the bills like they were poisoned.
Her chest tightened.
This—this—was how he wanted to help?
After everything they shared?
After listening to her break down in his car, hearing her pain, seeing her vulnerability… he thought money would fix it?
Was she just some kid he pitied?
Or worse—was this hush money for all the tension simmering between them?
She stood abruptly, the envelope sliding off her lap and hitting the floor like a slap.
"Unbelievable," she muttered.
By the time Ethan walked through the front door that evening, his hair slightly damp from the rain and his shoulders stiff from hours at a site inspection, Becky was waiting.
Arms folded.
The envelope in her hand.
He paused when he saw her in the hallway. "You got it."
"Oh, I got it," she said, her voice cool.
He studied her face. "You're upset."
"Gee, what gave it away?" she snapped.
"I just wanted to help—"
"Help? By throwing money at me like I'm some problem you can fix with cash?" Her voice rose.
"That's not what I meant."
"Then what did you mean, Ethan?" Becky stepped closer, eyes flashing. "That I'm a charity case? That you feel sorry for me? Or maybe this is a payment for keeping my mouth shut? For pretending nothing happened when we stood two inches apart and forgot we were related by law?"
His jaw clenched. "That's not fair."
"No, what's not fair is you thinking this is okay. That after everything—after that night—you could just hand me bills like I'm an employee you're trying to keep happy."
"I didn't know what else to do," he said quietly.
Becky faltered. The honesty in his voice cracked through her fury.
"What?"
Ethan ran a hand through his hair. "I don't know how to do this, Becky. I don't know how to... comfort someone. I build walls for a living. Not bridges."
She blinked.
"I saw how hurt you were after that class. I saw the way you held it in, like you've been doing it your whole life. And I thought, maybe, if I gave you something—anything—it'd feel like I cared."
She looked down at the envelope.
Five hundred dollars suddenly felt like a very clumsy offering from a man who didn't know how to say I'm proud of you, I see you, You matter.
Her voice softened. "You really thought this would make me feel seen?"
"I thought it might make things easier. For school. For groceries. I wasn't trying to offend you."
"Well, you did."
"I know."
They stood in silence for a beat.
"Do you even realize how hard it is to live here?" Becky finally asked. "In this giant, cold place with a mom who's never around and a man I can't look at for too long without feeling like I'm losing my mind?"
Ethan looked up sharply. "You think I don't feel it too?"
Her breath caught.
He took a step closer. "You think I sleep at night not hearing your footsteps down the hall? Not wondering what you're thinking when you stare out the window like the whole world left you behind?"
Becky's heart pounded.
"You're not invisible, Becky. Not to me."
Her walls cracked.
"And yet," she whispered, "you keep building distance every time we get close."
Ethan looked away.
"I have to," he said. "You're my wife's daughter."
Becky swallowed. "But you're not mine."
His eyes met hers again. There was so much in them. Guilt. Longing. Restraint.
"You deserve better than this," he said finally. "Better than me."
"I'm not asking for anything," she said. "Just... don't shut me out and expect an envelope to fill the silence."
He nodded slowly. "I won't do it again."
Becky dropped the envelope onto the table. "Good. Because I don't want your money."
He opened his mouth to respond, but the sound of the elevator chiming interrupted them.
They both turned.
Her mom's voice echoed from the hallway.
"Beck? Ethan? You home?"
Becky froze.
Ethan's mask snapped back into place like a reflex. His shoulders straightened. His expression turned neutral.
They exchanged one last look—something electric and unsaid lingering in the air between them—before the door swung open and their secret shattered.
---
Later that night, Becky lay awake on the couch. The rain had returned, soft and rhythmic against the windows. The penthouse was dark except for the kitchen light.
Her mother had gone to bed hours ago after a quick update about her conference and a vague comment about Becky looking "pale."
Becky hadn't corrected her. What was the point?
She stared at the ceiling.
She didn't want to be mad anymore. But something in her had shifted permanently.
Not just because of Ethan's envelope—but because he'd seen her. He'd heard her.
And somehow that made things more complicated, not less.
Footsteps.
She sat up, startled.
Ethan stood at the edge of the hallway, shirtless, in grey sweatpants, holding a mug of tea.
They looked at each other for a moment.
"You okay?" he asked.
She nodded, tugging the blanket tighter around her.
He walked into the kitchen, the soft light casting gold along the lines of his back.
She watched, unable to look away.
He turned, catching her stare.
"I wasn't sleeping either," he said.
"Tea helps?"
"Sometimes."
She hesitated. "Can I have a cup?"
He nodded, and five minutes later, they were both sitting on opposite ends of the couch, mugs in hand.
No words.
Just the hum of quiet and the storm outside.
Becky curled her legs underneath her, sipping slowly.
"Ethan?"
"Yeah?"
"If I ever look out the window like the world left me behind again... can you remind me it didn't?"
His eyes softened.
"I promise."
---