He didn't look at me when he started apologizing.
That was how I knew it was real.
His shoulders were tense, and his jaw clenched. His eyes were fixed on the ground like it might swallow him whole if he stared hard enough. The effortless composure was gone. The quiet elegance that made people stop and look twice was no longer present. This Ethan looked… human. Unarmed.
"I'm sorry," he said, voice rough. "About that day. About how I acted. I was stubborn. I know that." He let out a breath, dragged a hand through his hair, then laughed without humor. "I didn't even have enough to cover the bills."
I opened my mouth to scold him, then closed it again. He kept going, words spilling now, like once the dam cracked, there was no stopping the flood.
"I wasn't thinking straight. I only—" He paused, swallowing. "I didn't want to be a burden. I hate that feeling. I hate needing things. Especially from people who do not know me so well."
Something in my chest softened. Annoyingly. "You passed out," I said instead, folding my arms. "That automatically made you everyone's problem. Congratulations."
His lips twitched despite himself.
"I'm serious," I added. "You don't get to be noble and stupid at the same time. Pick one."
That did it. He laughed—low, warm, and genuine. The sound slid under my skin in a way I was not prepared for.
"I deserved that," he admitted. "But… I do owe you. And I'm going to pay you back. I don't know how yet, but I will."
I shook my head immediately. "Nope. Absolutely not."
His brows furrowed. "Why not?"
"Because," I said, stepping closer, lowering my voice. "I didn't help you so I could invoice you later."
He blinked. Once. Twice…
"Oh." A beat. Then, softer, "You didn't?"
I scoffed, though my lips betrayed me with a smile. "Ethan, please. If I wanted money, I'd have let you collapse dramatically and walked away."
He grinned. Full smile this time. Dangerous. "Wow. So you're saying you saved my life, and you're ruthless."
"Multitalented," I corrected.
We fell into an easy rhythm after that. It was full of sharp remarks, exaggerated sighs, and playful eye-rolls. He teased me for being bossy. I accused him of having a death wish disguised as ambition. Somewhere between the banter, I realized my shoulders had relaxed. My laughter came easier. Talking to him felt… good. Too good, and that annoyed me.
"I still don't get it, though," I said after a pause. "You scared the life out of everyone, including yourself. And yet—" I gestured toward Crossfield, toward the sun, toward him. "You're still here doing this."
His expression shifted—not defensive, not offended. Thoughtful.
"This is my work," he said. "It's what I love. It's how I survive. Sometimes… It's the same thing."
I inhaled slowly. That was the moment I decided to stop pretending.
"I avoided you," I blurted.
He looked at me, surprised. "You what?"
"I avoided you," I repeated, firmer now. "For weeks and months. I took different routes and pretended Crossfield didn't exist. All because every time I saw you back under that sun, acting as if nothing happened, I wanted to scream."
His lips parted, surprised.
"I was angry," I continued. "Angry that you were still working and you didn't slow down. I was angry that I cared enough to notice." I exhaled. "I didn't understand then that this—" I gestured between us. "—This is your passion. That you're not reckless for fun. You're only… trying."
He studied me, quiet for a long moment. "So," he said slowly, "if you were avoiding me… why come now?"
The question hung between us, heavy and electric. I met his gaze, and I didn't look away this time.
"Because I saw something was wrong," I said. "And because pretending I didn't care was exhausting."
Something unreadable flickered across his face. Relief, maybe. Or something warmer.
"Then I'm glad you came," he responded.
So was I.
And that—that right there—was the beginning of the part of our story that refused to stay quiet.
Before I could gather up a response again, he stepped closer. Too close.
His hand found mine. Instinct should have kicked in. Reflex or muscle memory. If it were anyone else—any other man—I would have pulled away immediately. I would've stiffened. Snapped. Told him to watch himself.
But I didn't.
I stood there, still, breath caught somewhere between my chest and my throat. His fingers wrapped around mine as if they belonged there. It was warm, steady, and intentional.
I wasn't angry or uncomfortable. I was… quiet. Present. And that scared me more than anger ever could.
He looked at me then—really looked at me—and said my name like he was anchoring it into himself.
"Thank you, Mira."
My pulse jumped.
"Thank you," he repeated softly, as if the words carried weight. "For staying with me that day. For not walking away when everyone else did." His grip tightened just slightly. "That was the kindest thing anyone has ever done for me. I need you to know that."
The air felt thinner. Charged.
"I'll never forget it," he continued. "I won't take it for granted. Ever." His voice dropped, earnest, almost reverent. "I want to talk to you again. I want to laugh with you. I want to keep this—" he gestured between us—"whatever this is. I don't want to let go of something life placed in my hands at my weakest moment."
Then the breeze shifted.
A loose strand of my hair lifted, brushing across my cheek. Before I could even process it, his fingers rose, slow and careful, tucking it back into place.
The touch was brief. It felt endless. Every nerve in my body woke up at once.
"Okay," I said finally, my voice steadier than I felt. "Okay. We can work on that." I paused. "I won't be angry. I won't avoid Crossfield anymore." I looked at him. "But you have my number now. So at least… we talk."
His face lit up instantly. A boyish grin broke through all that composure. He nodded, swinging his head lightly, like he couldn't quite believe his luck.
"Yeah," he said. "Yeah. We'll talk."
Then his smile faded—a little.
"Something is bothering me," he added, pulling a chair closer and sitting in front of me. His posture changed. Focused. Serious. "And I don't think I'll have peace if I don't ask."
I frowned. "Ask what?"
He leaned forward.
"Why?"
I blinked. "Why… what?"
"Why did you help me?" he asked quietly. "Why that day?" His gaze never left mine. "When everyone avoided me. Even the people I was working with. When no one wanted the inconvenience." His voice softened. "Why the care? The attention? The affection?"
The word landed harder than the rest.
"Why me?"
He held my eyes for a long moment—long enough for the truth to press against my ribs.
And I broke. I looked away. Because I couldn't say it. Because saying it would change everything.
The pull between us surged—stronger than before, undeniable, electric. My body had already answered him. It had answered months ago.
That was when it finally clicked. The anger, the avoidance, and the ache. The reason his presence unraveled me. I hadn't only cared.
I had fallen. At first sight. My body had known it instantly. My heart, stubborn and afraid, had been fighting it ever since. And standing there, I was unable to meet his eyes. But I understood something terrifying and irreversible:
This was no longer a question of if.
It was a battle between my body and my mind.
And for the first time—
I wasn't sure my mind was going to win.