LIANA'S POV
They always said eyes could follow you, but I never believed it until his did.
ETHAN BLACKWOOD.
My brother's best friend. The boy who somehow turned into a man faster than the rest of them.
He was never loud, never reckless, never the center of attention the way Jason was. But Ethan didn't need noise. He had presence. A dark, suffocating presence that always, always seemed to wrap around me.
And no matter how much I pretended otherwise, I knew—he was watching.
High School.
Jason was a senior then. So was Ethan. I was sixteen, still figuring myself out, still hiding in oversized sweaters and sketchbooks filled with half-finished fashion ideas. Jason's friends came and went like a revolving door of noise, energy, and laughter.
But Ethan wasn't like them.
He never joked at the dinner table. He never teased me. He didn't act like I was invisible either. Instead, he looked.
And God, the way he looked…
It wasn't casual. It wasn't harmless.
It was heavy. Intense. Possessive.
Like I was already his, and I just didn't know it yet.
One Friday night, Jason invited half the basketball team and his inner circle for a movie marathon at our house. Chaos filled the living room—pizza boxes, soda cans, popcorn flying across the couch. Natalie, my best friend, was with me, tucked under a blanket while the boys fought over which Marvel movie came next.
Jason's other friends made fun of me.
"Jason's little sister is cute—like a baby bird," Ryan joked.
"She's too serious," Mark added.
They laughed. Jason threw popcorn at me playfully. Natalie rolled her eyes.
But Ethan… he didn't join in. He sat in the corner, water glass in hand, while the others reached for beer. His eyes weren't on the screen. They weren't on Jason.
They were on me.
After an hour of his unwavering stare, my skin burned. My patience snapped.
I turned sharply, meeting his gaze, and hissed:
"Do you want something?"
For a second, silence. The chaos of the room dulled until it was just me and him.
His lips parted, slow, deliberate.
"I already have it."
The words were a whisper, but they hit me like a scream.
Chills crawled up my spine. My breath caught.
Jason's voice broke the moment, calling from the kitchen:
"Ethan, man, stop being creepy. That's my sister."
Laughter erupted. Jason tossed him a beer, the others howled, and Natalie nudged me under the blanket, her wide eyes whispering what the hell.
But Ethan didn't laugh. Didn't move. Didn't look away.
Just kept staring, that flicker of something curling at his mouth.
Promise. Warning. Claim.
That night, I lay in bed wide awake.
"I already have it."
Those four words looped in my head until the ceiling felt like it was caving in. I should've been scared. I should've brushed it off as a bad joke.
But deep down, I knew better.
Ethan Blackwood wasn't joking.
He never joked.
And that was the night I realized—
He wasn't my brother's friend.
He was the shadow I would never escape.
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I thought distance would save me. High school ended. Jason and Ethan graduated. I told myself it was over. They'd both move on, I'd finally be free of that stare, that shadow pressing against my skin. But freedom never came. Because Ethan Blackwood didn't disappear.
He followed.
Of course, not directly—that's what I told myself at least. He got into one of the top engineering programs at the same university Jason was heading to. I was a freshman that year, chasing fashion design, finally trying to carve my own path.
Different major. Different buildings. Different crowd. It should've been enough. But Jason and Ethan were still inseparable. Which meant… he was still close. Always close. The first time I saw him again on campus, my stomach twisted.
It was early September, still hot, and I was rushing across the quad with sketchbooks pressed to my chest. Jason was waiting near the fountain with Ryan and—of course—Ethan.
He looked different. Older. Sharper.
Gone was the lanky boy who'd haunted my teenage years. In his place stood a man who looked carved from shadow and muscle, black t-shirt clinging to a chest that hadn't skipped a single day at the gym. His hair was darker, shorter, jaw sharper. Even his eyes seemed deeper, darker, like they knew too much.
And when those eyes found me across the quad, they locked.
As if the years between hadn't even existed.
Heat rushed to my face. My chest tightened.
Jason waved me over, grinning like an idiot. "Li! Over here!"
I nearly turned and ran. But my feet betrayed me. They carried me forward, right into the orbit I swore I'd escaped. The café was crowded, noise bouncing off every wall. Jason joked loudly, Ryan chimed in, the two of them carrying the whole conversation while I picked at a croissant.
But Ethan didn't talk. He didn't laugh.
He just stared.
Again. Always.
Finally, his voice cut through, low and unyielding.
"You're late."
My head snapped up. "I wasn't even invited."
Jason rolled his eyes. "Ignore him. He thinks he's everyone's father."
But Ethan didn't look at Jason. His gaze stayed on me, steady, sharp, as if he was daring me to challenge him.
My throat tightened. My pulse raced.
And that was when it hit me: Ethan wasn't just watching.
He was memorizing.
Every movement. Every glance. Every breath.
Studying me like I was his personal subject.
That night in my dorm, I tossed and turned, unable to shake the weight of his eyes. His voice. That word—late—like he had some right to dictate where I went and when.
It wasn't just a look. It was a promise. A warning. And maybe… a claim.
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The library was quiet. Too quiet.
Jason had wandered off to print something, Ryan was grabbing snacks, which left me alone at a table covered in my sketches.
Except… I wasn't alone.
I felt him before I saw him. That unmistakable gravity that pulled the air tighter, made every hair on my arm stand on end.
Ethan slid into the seat across from me, his laptop already open. He didn't say hello. He didn't need to.
His eyes flicked over my sketches, then to the half-empty coffee cup beside me.
"You always order vanilla," he murmured, typing something I couldn't see.
I blinked. "Excuse me?"
"Your coffee. Vanilla latte. Every time."
I froze. He leaned back, tilting his head just slightly.
"You read here every Tuesday and Thursday. You take the back table because you like the window light. You sketch for exactly forty minutes before you lose focus."
My chest constricted. "How—"
His fingers stilled on the keyboard. His eyes locked with mine, colder, deeper.
"I pay attention."
I swallowed hard. "That's… creepy."
A ghost of a smirk touched his lips. "It's protective."
"Protective?" I laughed, nervous, sharp. "From what? The evil librarians?"
His gaze didn't waver. Didn't soften.
"From everyone who looks at you like they deserve you. They don't. They don't know you like I do."
The words slammed into me like ice water. My skin prickled, my throat dry.
I wanted to argue. To call him insane.
But part of me… part of me couldn't breathe.
Because he meant it. Every syllable.
And it wasn't a joke. It was a warning. It was a claim.
Later that week, I walked home alone. Campus was quiet at night, just the buzz of lamps and the crunch of leaves under my boots. I'd stayed too long in the studio, and my dorm felt miles away. Halfway there, the sensation hit me. That pressure. That heat. That feeling of being followed.
I whipped around—nothing. Empty sidewalks, dark corners. My pulse raced, but I forced myself forward. Faster. Keys tight in my fist. When I reached my door, relief flooded me. I dug for my ID—then froze. There, on the ground by the door, lay my phone. The same phone I thought I'd lost hours earlier. Neatly placed. Screen faced up. Waiting. My breath stuttered. My hand shook as I picked it up. I hadn't told anyone it was missing. No one should've known.
Except… him.
Inside my dorm, I locked the door, back pressed against it, heart pounding.
"Was it him?" I whispered into the empty room.
But deep down, I already knew.
Somewhere in the dark, Ethan Blackwood was watching—
And he always would be.
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WINTERBEARPLEA