Grace's POV
I arrived at the sanctuary at 5:30 AM and immediately knew something was wrong.
Ethan's car was there—windows completely fogged up from the inside. And in the dim morning light, I could see the outline of someone sleeping in the backseat.
My anger ignited instantly.
I marched over and banged on the window. Ethan!
Movement inside. The blankets shifted. Then Ethan's face appeared, hair messy, eyes confused and half-asleep.
He opened the door, letting in a blast of freezing air.
Grace? What
How long? I demanded.
What?
How long have you been sleeping in your car?
Understanding dawned. Then embarrassment. He looked away. That's not your concern.
It's February! It's freezing! You could die of hypothermia!
I'm fine.
You're sleeping in a car! I wanted to shake him. Why didn't you say something? Why didn't you ask for help?
Because I don't need help. His voice turned cold, defensive. I'm handling it.
Handling what? Being homeless?
I'm not homeless. I have a car.
That's the definition of homeless!
We stared at each other, both breathing hard, both angry for different reasons.
Why? I asked, my voice breaking. You have money. I've seen your car, your clothes. You bought materials to fix my barn. So why are you sleeping outside in the cold?
Ethan's jaw clenched. For a long moment, he didn't answer.
Then, quietly: Because hotels ask questions. Because I don't want anyone knowing where I am. Because staying invisible is safer than being found.
Found by who?
He laughed, bitter and harsh. You really want to know? Fine. Let me tell you about Ethan Kane, Wall Street criminal.
He climbed out of the car, started pacing in the snow.
I worked on Wall Street. Made millions with a trading algorithm I created—something revolutionary that could predict market movements better than anything else out there. I was twenty-five and on top of the world. His voice dripped with anger. My mentor, my best friend James, told me I was a genius. Said we'd build an empire together.
My stomach sank. I knew where this was going.
He stole it, I whispered.
He stole everything. Ethan's hands clenched into fists. Took my algorithm, repackaged it as his own, launched a company worth billions. When I tried to fight back legally, he buried me. Better lawyers, deeper pockets, zero conscience.
Ethan—
But that wasn't enough for him. When my sister Lily tried to defend me publicly, James's PR machine destroyed her. Called her delusional, unstable, attention-seeking. The stress triggered something in her, she'd always struggled with anxiety, but this... His voice cracked. She tried to kill herself. Spent two months in psychiatric care.
Horror washed over me. Oh God.
That's when I snapped. Ethan's eyes were haunted. I walked into James's office during an investor meeting and broke his nose with one punch. Got arrested in front of everyone. Pleaded guilty because I was guilty. Lost my career, my reputation, most of my money in legal fees.
He stopped pacing, turned to face me.
The car, some hidden savings, and my rage—that's all I have left. That and my sister, who's alive because I finally got her into a good treatment facility. His voice softened. She's healing. Getting better. And I'm here, doing community service, trying to figure out how to be a person again.
Silence stretched between us.
Everything I'd assumed about him was wrong. He wasn't a spoiled rich kid. He was a man who'd lost everything protecting someone he loved.
Just like me.
I'm sorry, I whispered. I'm so sorry that happened to you.
Ethan shook his head. I don't want pity.
It's not pity. It's understanding. I stepped closer. I know what it's like to have someone you trust destroy you. To lose everything and have to rebuild from nothing.
His eyes met mine, and something shifted. The distance he always kept wavered. I saw pain there. Longing. Recognition.
You can't keep sleeping in your car, I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
I don't have a choice.
My heart was pounding. This was crazy. Reckless. Everything I swore I'd never do again.
Yes, you do. The words came out before I could stop them. I have a spare room. In my cottage. You can stay there.
Ethan went very still. Grace
It's just practical, I said quickly, even though my racing pulse said it was anything but practical. You're here every day anyway. The cottage is right here. And it's getting colder.
I can't accept that.
Why not?
Because He stopped. Looked at me. Really looked at me. And I saw something in his eyes that made my breath catch. Want. Fear. The same war I was fighting. Because it wouldn't be appropriate.
Since when do you care about appropriate? My voice came out shakier than I intended. You punched your boss in front of investors.
His lips twitched. Almost a smile. But the tension between us didn't break. If anything, it intensified.
I won't take charity, he said finally.
Then pay rent.
I can't afford
Fifty dollars a month.
He stared at me. That's insulting.
Take it or leave it. I crossed my arms, trying to ignore how close we were standing. Those are my terms. Fifty dollars a month, or you keep freezing in your car.
We stood in the snow, both stubborn, both knowing this was about more than just rent.
This was about trust. About letting someone past the walls. About being brave enough to risk getting hurt again.
Why are you doing this? His voice was rough.
Because someone should have helped me when I needed it, I said honestly. And because you've been showing up. Every day. That means something.
He took a step closer. My heart hammered against my ribs.
This is a bad idea, he said quietly.
Probably.
You don't trust people.
No, I don't.
So why trust me?
Because Thor trusted you. Because Biscuit loved you instantly. Because you fix things without being asked and research rabbit nutrition on your lunch break and you understand what it's like to be broken.
I don't know, I whispered instead.
We stared at each other. The space between us felt charged, dangerous. Like standing too close to a fire.
Finally, Ethan spoke. Fifty dollars a month. And I do repairs around the sanctuary to earn my keep.
Deal.
I extended my hand. He looked at it for a moment, then took it.
The moment our palms touched, electricity shot up my arm. His hand was warm, strong, callused from work. He didn't let go immediately. Neither did I.
We stood there, hands clasped, both breathing too fast.
Then Ethan released me and stepped back quickly. I'll move my stuff in tonight.
Okay. My voice came out breathless.
He walked away to start his work, and I stood there in the snow, heart pounding, hand still tingling where he'd touched me.
What had I just done?
That evening, I tried to act normal. Failed completely.
I cleaned the spare room three times. Changed the sheets twice. Kept rearranging the pillows like it mattered.
Maya called. I didn't answer. If I heard her voice, I'd have to admit what I was doing. And I wasn't ready for that conversation.
At seven o'clock, Ethan's car pulled up.
I watched from the kitchen window as he grabbed his belongings. One duffel bag. One box. Everything he owned fit in two containers.
My chest ached.
He knocked on the front door even though I'd told him to just come in. I opened it, and suddenly he was there, filling my doorway, holding his entire life in his hands.
Hi, I said stupidly.
Hi. Was his voice always that deep?
The room's upstairs. First door on the right.
Thanks.
He moved past me into the cottage. The space was narrow. His shoulder brushed mine.
We both froze.
For three heartbeats, neither of us moved. I could feel the heat of him, smell the scent of cold air and something uniquely him. My skin buzzed where we'd touched.
Sorry, he murmured, not sounding sorry at all.
It's fine, I whispered, not moving away.
He looked down at me. Those storm-gray eyes dark, intense. Grace
A crash upstairs made us both jump.
Biscuit had knocked something over in my room.
The spell broke. Ethan moved quickly up the stairs. I stood at the bottom, trying to remember how to breathe.
This was dangerous. So dangerous.
I heard him moving around upstairs. Opening drawers. Unpacking. Making himself at home in my space.
Ten minutes later, he came back down. Found me still standing at the bottom of the stairs like an idiot.
All settled? I asked.
Yeah. He paused. Thank you. For this. I know it's... complicated.
Complicated. That was one word for it.
We're both adults, I said, trying to sound confident. We can handle being roommates.
Roommates. He repeated the word like he was testing it. Right.
But the way he looked at me said we both knew it was a lie.
We stood in my hallway, the evening stretching ahead of us, both pretending this was normal.
Both knowing nothing about this was normal.
I should make dinner, I said finally.
I can help.
So we ended up in my small kitchen together. Moving around each other carefully. Too careful. Every accidental touch felt like lightning.
He chopped vegetables. I cooked. We didn't talk much.
But the silence felt heavy. Aware. Like the air before a thunderstorm.
When dinner was ready, we sat across from each other at my small table. This morning, he'd been sleeping in his car. Now he was in my home, eating food we'd made together, close enough to touch.
This is good, he said, gesturing to his plate.
Thanks.
More silence. But I caught him looking at me. When I looked back, he didn't look away.
What? I asked.
Nothing. Just... thank you. For trusting me enough to let me stay.
Don't make me regret it, I said, trying for lightness.
His expression turned serious. I won't. I promise.
And I believed him. That was the terrifying part.
After dinner, Ethan insisted on doing dishes. I sat at the table, watching his back as he worked at my sink. The domesticity of it felt surreal.
This man had been a stranger a week ago. Now he was in my home. Living here. Sharing my space.
When had my life become this?
I'm going to bed, I announced suddenly, standing up.
Ethan turned, hands still in dishwater. Goodnight.
Goodnight.
I fled upstairs before I did something stupid.
In my room, I pressed my back against the door and tried to calm my racing heart.
He was right there. On the other side of this wall. I could hear him moving in the spare room, footsteps, a drawer closing, the creak of the bed as he sat down.
This was insane.
I'd let a man I barely knew move into my house. A man who made my heart race every time he looked at me. A man who was broken and hiding and sleeping ten feet away.
I climbed into bed but couldn't sleep. Every sound from his room made me hyper-aware of his presence.
Around midnight, I heard him get up. Footsteps in the hallway. The bathroom door closing.
When he passed my door on the way back, his footsteps slowed.
Stopped.
I held my breath.
Was he standing outside my door? Could he hear my heart hammering? Could he feel this thing between us the way I could—this magnetic pull that terrified me?
Five seconds passed. Ten.
Then his footsteps continued. His door closed.
I exhaled shakily.
This was dangerous. Maya was right. Ethan Kane was trouble wrapped in patience and quiet competence and eyes that saw too much.
And I'd just invited him to live in my home.
Tomorrow, we'd wake up under the same roof. Share coffee. Move around each other in the narrow spaces of my cottage. Pretend this was just practical. Just two broken people helping each other survive.
But as I lay there in the dark, listening to him settle in the room next door, I knew the truth.
This wasn't about survival.
This was about something far more dangerous.
And I had no idea if I was brave enough—or stupid enough—to find out what.