The Grumpy Landlord, page 12
The silence of the house pressed in on me. It wasn't peaceful. It wasn't orderly.
It was a tomb.
And I was the one who had rolled the stone across the entrance.
I stood up.
I wasn't going to sit here and bleed. I wasn't going to let the silence win.
She had run.
Fine.
I was a soldier. I knew how to track.
I walked out of the guest house. I didn't lock the door.
I got back in my truck.
I didn't know where she was. But I knew who would know.
I slammed the door and turned the key. The engine roared to life, sounding as angry and desperate as I felt.
I peeled out of the driveway, gravel spraying like shrapnel.
I was going to find her.
And I was going to beg if I had to.
Runaway Artist
Willow
Charcoal crumbled in my hand.
I swore, dropping the useless black nub onto the pile of ruined sketches littering Riley’s floor.
"That’s the third stick you’ve murdered in an hour," Riley said from the kitchenette. "I’m putting it on your tab."
I didn't answer. I just grabbed another stick.
My hand moved across the paper with a manic, jerky rhythm. Slash. Smudge. Erase. Repeat. I was trying to draw the skyline. I was trying to draw a bowl of fruit. I was trying to draw anything that wasn’t him.
But every line turned into the curve of a jaw. Every shadow became the hollow of a throat. Every smudge of black dust looked like the dark, haunted depth of his eyes.
Ethan.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
We need to talk.
The note was burned into my retinas. Four words. A death sentence.
I pressed the charcoal harder against the paper. The tip snapped.
"Dammit!"
I threw the sketch across the room. It fluttered down, landing face up. It wasn't a skyline. It was Ethan’s back, the way he looked when he walked out of the kitchen this morning. Cold. Distant. Leaving.
"Okay, that’s enough."
Riley walked over and kicked the sketch aside with a silver-tipped boot. They were wearing a silk kimono over ripped jeans, holding a mug of herbal tea that smelled like grass and judgment.
"You need to stop," Riley said. "You’re spiraling. And you’re getting charcoal dust on my vintage rug."
"I’m working," I snapped. "Artists work through pain."
"You’re not working. You’re throwing a tantrum on paper."
Riley sat down on the floor opposite me. They took a sip of tea, watching me over the rim with sharp, kohl-lined eyes.
"You’ve been here for twelve hours, Willow. You haven't eaten. You haven't showered. You just keep drawing the same brooding jawline over and over again."
"It’s a very distinct jawline."
"It’s Ethan’s jawline."
I flinched.
"Don't say his name."
"Why? Is he Voldemort? Will he appear in a puff of sterile smoke if I say it three times?"
"He hates me," I whispered. The fight drained out of me, leaving me hollow. "I ruined everything, Riley. The gallery. His reputation. His peace."
"Marian ruined the gallery," Riley corrected sharply. "Ethan... well, Ethan is a big boy. I think he can handle a little reputation damage."
"You didn't see him this morning. He was... ice. He looked at me like I was a mistake he couldn't wait to erase."
I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my charcoal-stained arms around my legs.
"He left a note. 'We need to talk.' You know what that means. It means 'Get out.' It means 'This was fun, but you're too much work.'"
"Or," Riley countered, "it means 'We need to talk.'"
"Please. Men like Ethan don't talk. They give orders. And the order was clear."
I looked at the pile of sketches. A hundred versions of him. None of them capturing the way he had looked at me last night. The reverence. The heat.
"I promised Sadie I wouldn't hurt him," I said, my voice cracking. "And look what happened. I dragged him into a public brawl with the town socialite. I slept with him when he was clearly... vulnerable. And now the whole town is whispering that he's cracking up because of me."
"So you ran away?"
"I removed the problem."
Riley set the mug down. Hard.
"You ran away," they repeated. "Because you're scared."
"I am not scared!"
"Bullshit. You're terrified. You're terrified because for the first time in your chaotic, nomadic life, you found a place you wanted to stay. And that scares the hell out of you."
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat.
Riley leaned forward.
"You love him."
It wasn't a question.
I looked down at my hands. They were black with dust. Dirty.
"Yes," I whispered. "I love him. And that’s why I have to go."
"That is the stupidest logic I have ever heard, and I deal with conceptual artists for a living."
Riley reached out and grabbed my wrist. Their grip was surprisingly strong.
"Listen to me, Willow. You have spent your whole life painting over the cracks. Making things pretty. Running to the next town before anyone could see the mess underneath."
They squeezed my arm.
"But you can't paint over this. And you can't run from it. If you love him, you don't leave him alone in that big, empty house to think he wasn't enough for you."
"He thinks I'm not enough!" I cried. "He thinks I'm chaos!"
"Then prove him wrong. Go home. Fight for your dreams. And fight for him."
I pulled my arm away.
"I can't go back there. He locked the door. Metaphorically."
"Did you try the handle?"
"I..."
"Exactly."
Riley stood up. They smoothed the silk of their kimono.
"I'm going to bed. You can sleep on the couch. But if you're still here in the morning, I'm charging you rent. And my rates are exorbitant."
Riley walked toward the bedroom door. They paused, looking back.
"He defended you, Willow. In front of everyone. He put himself in the line of fire for you. Does that sound like a man who thinks you're a mistake?"
The bedroom door clicked shut.
I sat alone in the studio. The silence hummed with the truth of Riley’s words.
He defended you.
I looked at the ruined sketches.
I picked up a fresh sheet of paper.
I didn't draw a jawline this time. I drew eyes.
Ethan's eyes. Not the cold, steel shutters of this morning. But the eyes from the gallery. The eyes that had looked at Marian DeWitt with cold fury and then looked at me with terrifying tenderness.
You're not a mess. You're an artist.
I switched to a softer charcoal. I shaded the iris. I added the tiny crinkles at the corners that only appeared when he was trying not to smile.
I drew him holding me. The way his large hand had engulfed mine. The way his body had curved around me like a shield.
I drew until my fingers cramped. I drew until the streetlights outside filtered through the blinds, casting long, barred shadows across the floor.
I drew the truth.
I wasn't running because I wanted to save him. I was running because I didn't think I deserved to be saved.
I looked at the final sketch.
It was Ethan. Just Ethan. Looking out from the paper with that raw, open hunger that had unmade me.
I touched the paper.
"I miss you," I whispered to the drawing.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The sound exploded in the quiet studio.
I jumped, clutching the sketchbook to my chest.
Someone was pounding on the front door. Not knocking. Pounding. Like they were trying to break it down.
"Riley!" a voice roared from the hallway. "Open the damn door!"
My heart stopped.
It restarted at triple speed.
Ethan.
I scrambled to my feet. The sketches on my lap flew everywhere, a snowstorm of paper.
Riley’s bedroom door opened. Riley emerged, looking sleepy and annoyed.
"If that’s the police," Riley muttered, "tell them I didn't do it."
"It's not the police," I whispered.
Bang. Bang.
"Willow!" His voice was rough. Desperate. "I know you're in there!"
I looked at Riley. Riley raised an eyebrow and gestured to the door.
"Well? Go get your man."
I walked to the door. My legs felt like jelly. My hands were shaking so bad I could barely grip the lock.
I took a deep breath.
Fight for him.
I threw the bolt. I opened the door.
Ethan stood in the hallway.
He looked like he had run through a war zone.
He was still wearing his scrubs from the hospital—blue pants, a gray t-shirt that was dark with sweat down the center of his chest. His hair was wild, sticking up as if he had been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown, frantically scanning the room over my shoulder before locking onto my face.
He was chest-heaving. Gasping for air.
He looked furious. He looked terrified.
He looked beautiful.
"You," he rasped.
He stepped over the threshold, forcing me to back up. He kicked the door shut behind him with his heel.
The lock clicked.
We were trapped in the small entryway. The air between us crackled, hot and volatile.
"You left," he said.
It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of fact that sounded like an open wound.
"I..." I clutched the sketchbook tighter. "I thought you wanted me to."
"You thought I wanted you to leave?"
He advanced on me. I took another step back, hitting the wall.
He slammed his hands against the plaster on either side of my head, caging me in.
He smelled of antiseptic and sweat and fear.
"I went to the house," he said, his voice low and vibrating with intensity. "It was empty. Your clothes were gone. The painting was gone."
He leaned in close. His nose brushed mine.
"Do you have any idea," he whispered, "what it felt like to walk into that empty room?"
I shook my head. I couldn't speak.
"It felt like dying," he said. "It felt like the silence came back and swallowed me whole."
"Ethan," I choked out. "The note. You said it was a mistake."
"I was scared!" he shouted. The volume made me jump. "I was terrified, Willow! I woke up with you in my arms and I felt... happy. And that terrified me because I don't know how to be happy. I only know how to survive."
He pulled back slightly, looking down at me with burning eyes.
"So I pushed you away. Because that’s what I do. I secure the perimeter. I eliminate the threat."
He laughed, a harsh, broken sound.
"But you're not the threat. You're the mission."
My heart hammered against my ribs.
"The mission?"
"To live," he said. "Not just survive. To live."
He looked at my hands. At the charcoal stains. At the sketchbook clutched to my chest.
"What is that?"
I hesitated. Then, slowly, I lowered the book. I turned it around.
He looked at the drawing.
It was the one I had just finished. Him. Looking at me with love.
His expression crumbled. The anger drained away, leaving him raw and exposed.
He reached out. His hand trembled as he touched the edge of the paper.
"Is that what you see?" he asked hoarsely.
"It's what I know," I whispered.
He looked from the drawing to my face.
"I tracked you," he admitted. "I called Sadie. She said you weren't there. I drove to every gallery in town. I ran here from the truck because the elevator was too slow."
He cupped my face. His thumbs smeared charcoal dust across my cheekbones. He didn't care.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I'm a coward."
"You're not a coward," I said, leaning into his touch. "You're just... careful."
"I don't want to be careful anymore. I want to be messy. I want the paint. I want the noise."
He pressed his forehead to mine.
"Come home, Willow. Please. Come home and wreck my life. I don't want it if it's perfect."
Tears spilled over my lashes, cutting tracks through the black dust on my face.
"Are you sure?" I asked. "I'm a lot. I lose keys. I spill things. I attract drama like a magnet."
"I know," he breathed. "I'm counting on it."
He kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It was desperate. It tasted of salt and desperation and a second chance I hadn't thought I'd get.
I dropped the sketchbook. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, getting charcoal all over his gray shirt.
He groaned, lifting me up until my feet dangled off the floor.
"Riley," I gasped against his mouth. "Riley is here."
"I don't care about Riley," he growled. "I don't care about anyone but you."
From the doorway of the bedroom, a slow clap started.
We froze. Ethan slowly lowered me to the ground, but kept an arm clamped around my waist like a vice.
Riley was leaning against the doorframe, looking thoroughly entertained.
"Bravo," Riley drawled. "Better than a telenovela. Now, get out of my apartment before you start having make-up sex on my floor. I just had it cleaned."
Ethan looked at Riley. He nodded once. A soldier acknowledging an ally.
"Thank you," he said. "For keeping her safe."
"She kept herself safe, GI Joe. I just provided the tea."
Riley winked at me.
"Go on. Get out of here. And take your trash with you."
They pointed to the pile of ruined sketches on the floor.
Ethan looked at the mess. Charcoal dust. Crumpled paper. Chaos.
He smiled. It was the first real, full smile I had seen on his face in twenty-four hours.
"I'll take it," he said. "All of it."
He grabbed my hand. His grip was tight. Unbreakable.
"Let's go home," he said.
And as we walked out into the cool night air, leaving the safety of the studio for the uncertainty of the future, I knew one thing for sure.
I wasn't running anymore.
Fractures and Fault Lines
Ethan
The adrenaline crashed five miles outside of town.
It left a cold, hollow ache in the center of my chest.
The drive was silent. Not the comfortable silence of two people who understand each other, but the heavy, pressurized silence of a bomb squad waiting for the wire to snap.
Willow sat in the passenger seat. She was staring out the window at the passing tree line, her hands clenched in her lap. The charcoal dust on her fingers stained the knees of her leggings.
She looked small.
She looked like she was already planning her next escape route.
I gripped the steering wheel until the leather groaned under my palms.
I had her back. Physically. She was in my truck. She was breathing my air.
But I could feel her mind drifting. I could feel the doubt radiating off her in waves.
We need to talk.
The note I’d left her this morning. The coward’s way out.
I cursed silently. I had done this. I had built the wall, brick by brick, and now I was surprised she was standing on the other side of it.
I turned into the driveway. The gravel crunched under the tires, a sound that usually signaled safety. Tonight, it sounded like judgment.
The main house loomed dark and imposing. The guest house sat in its shadow, empty and cold.
I killed the engine.
The silence rushed in, filling the cab.
"We're here," I said.
My voice was rough. It scraped against my throat.
Willow didn't move to unbuckle. She stared at the dashboard.
"Yeah," she whispered. "We're here."
"Come inside."
"I should go to the cottage. My stuff is... well, my stuff isn't there, but the bed is."
"No."
I opened my door and got out. The night air was biting. It smelled of impending rain and dead leaves.
I walked around the front of the truck. I pulled her door open.
She looked up at me. Her hazel eyes were guarded. The warmth from the studio was gone, replaced by a wary, defensive glint.
"Ethan, I can't just..."
"Can't just what?"
"Pretend."
She unbuckled the belt. It retracted with a sharp snap.
"Pretend that you didn't leave me a note ending things. Pretend that you didn't look at me this morning like I was a disease you needed to scrub off."
The words hit their mark. Center mass.
I reached for her hand.
She pulled back.
"Don't," she said. Her voice shook. "Don't touch me unless you mean it."
"I mean it," I growled.
I reached in and grabbed her waist. I pulled her out of the truck.
Her feet hit the gravel. She stumbled into me.
I caught her. I held her there, pressed against the length of my body. I needed the contact. I needed to ground myself in the reality of her.
"I mean it," I repeated, staring down into her face. "I was scared, Willow. I was terrified."
"So you ran."
"I retreated. There's a difference."
"Not to the person you left behind."
She pushed against my chest. Her hands were flat, palms pressing against my heart.
"You hurt me," she whispered. "You made me feel like... like I was too much. Like my mess was finally too big for you to handle."
"Your mess is exactly what I need."
"Liar."
She shoved harder. She broke my hold.
She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself. She looked at the guest house. Then she looked at the main house.
"I can't do this, Ethan. I can't be your experiment in tolerance. I can't wait for the next time the PTSD gets too loud and you decide silence is better than me."
It was a tomb.
And I was the one who had rolled the stone across the entrance.
I stood up.
I wasn't going to sit here and bleed. I wasn't going to let the silence win.
She had run.
Fine.
I was a soldier. I knew how to track.
I walked out of the guest house. I didn't lock the door.
I got back in my truck.
I didn't know where she was. But I knew who would know.
I slammed the door and turned the key. The engine roared to life, sounding as angry and desperate as I felt.
I peeled out of the driveway, gravel spraying like shrapnel.
I was going to find her.
And I was going to beg if I had to.
Runaway Artist
Willow
Charcoal crumbled in my hand.
I swore, dropping the useless black nub onto the pile of ruined sketches littering Riley’s floor.
"That’s the third stick you’ve murdered in an hour," Riley said from the kitchenette. "I’m putting it on your tab."
I didn't answer. I just grabbed another stick.
My hand moved across the paper with a manic, jerky rhythm. Slash. Smudge. Erase. Repeat. I was trying to draw the skyline. I was trying to draw a bowl of fruit. I was trying to draw anything that wasn’t him.
But every line turned into the curve of a jaw. Every shadow became the hollow of a throat. Every smudge of black dust looked like the dark, haunted depth of his eyes.
Ethan.
I squeezed my eyes shut.
We need to talk.
The note was burned into my retinas. Four words. A death sentence.
I pressed the charcoal harder against the paper. The tip snapped.
"Dammit!"
I threw the sketch across the room. It fluttered down, landing face up. It wasn't a skyline. It was Ethan’s back, the way he looked when he walked out of the kitchen this morning. Cold. Distant. Leaving.
"Okay, that’s enough."
Riley walked over and kicked the sketch aside with a silver-tipped boot. They were wearing a silk kimono over ripped jeans, holding a mug of herbal tea that smelled like grass and judgment.
"You need to stop," Riley said. "You’re spiraling. And you’re getting charcoal dust on my vintage rug."
"I’m working," I snapped. "Artists work through pain."
"You’re not working. You’re throwing a tantrum on paper."
Riley sat down on the floor opposite me. They took a sip of tea, watching me over the rim with sharp, kohl-lined eyes.
"You’ve been here for twelve hours, Willow. You haven't eaten. You haven't showered. You just keep drawing the same brooding jawline over and over again."
"It’s a very distinct jawline."
"It’s Ethan’s jawline."
I flinched.
"Don't say his name."
"Why? Is he Voldemort? Will he appear in a puff of sterile smoke if I say it three times?"
"He hates me," I whispered. The fight drained out of me, leaving me hollow. "I ruined everything, Riley. The gallery. His reputation. His peace."
"Marian ruined the gallery," Riley corrected sharply. "Ethan... well, Ethan is a big boy. I think he can handle a little reputation damage."
"You didn't see him this morning. He was... ice. He looked at me like I was a mistake he couldn't wait to erase."
I pulled my knees to my chest, wrapping my charcoal-stained arms around my legs.
"He left a note. 'We need to talk.' You know what that means. It means 'Get out.' It means 'This was fun, but you're too much work.'"
"Or," Riley countered, "it means 'We need to talk.'"
"Please. Men like Ethan don't talk. They give orders. And the order was clear."
I looked at the pile of sketches. A hundred versions of him. None of them capturing the way he had looked at me last night. The reverence. The heat.
"I promised Sadie I wouldn't hurt him," I said, my voice cracking. "And look what happened. I dragged him into a public brawl with the town socialite. I slept with him when he was clearly... vulnerable. And now the whole town is whispering that he's cracking up because of me."
"So you ran away?"
"I removed the problem."
Riley set the mug down. Hard.
"You ran away," they repeated. "Because you're scared."
"I am not scared!"
"Bullshit. You're terrified. You're terrified because for the first time in your chaotic, nomadic life, you found a place you wanted to stay. And that scares the hell out of you."
I opened my mouth to argue, but the words died in my throat.
Riley leaned forward.
"You love him."
It wasn't a question.
I looked down at my hands. They were black with dust. Dirty.
"Yes," I whispered. "I love him. And that’s why I have to go."
"That is the stupidest logic I have ever heard, and I deal with conceptual artists for a living."
Riley reached out and grabbed my wrist. Their grip was surprisingly strong.
"Listen to me, Willow. You have spent your whole life painting over the cracks. Making things pretty. Running to the next town before anyone could see the mess underneath."
They squeezed my arm.
"But you can't paint over this. And you can't run from it. If you love him, you don't leave him alone in that big, empty house to think he wasn't enough for you."
"He thinks I'm not enough!" I cried. "He thinks I'm chaos!"
"Then prove him wrong. Go home. Fight for your dreams. And fight for him."
I pulled my arm away.
"I can't go back there. He locked the door. Metaphorically."
"Did you try the handle?"
"I..."
"Exactly."
Riley stood up. They smoothed the silk of their kimono.
"I'm going to bed. You can sleep on the couch. But if you're still here in the morning, I'm charging you rent. And my rates are exorbitant."
Riley walked toward the bedroom door. They paused, looking back.
"He defended you, Willow. In front of everyone. He put himself in the line of fire for you. Does that sound like a man who thinks you're a mistake?"
The bedroom door clicked shut.
I sat alone in the studio. The silence hummed with the truth of Riley’s words.
He defended you.
I looked at the ruined sketches.
I picked up a fresh sheet of paper.
I didn't draw a jawline this time. I drew eyes.
Ethan's eyes. Not the cold, steel shutters of this morning. But the eyes from the gallery. The eyes that had looked at Marian DeWitt with cold fury and then looked at me with terrifying tenderness.
You're not a mess. You're an artist.
I switched to a softer charcoal. I shaded the iris. I added the tiny crinkles at the corners that only appeared when he was trying not to smile.
I drew him holding me. The way his large hand had engulfed mine. The way his body had curved around me like a shield.
I drew until my fingers cramped. I drew until the streetlights outside filtered through the blinds, casting long, barred shadows across the floor.
I drew the truth.
I wasn't running because I wanted to save him. I was running because I didn't think I deserved to be saved.
I looked at the final sketch.
It was Ethan. Just Ethan. Looking out from the paper with that raw, open hunger that had unmade me.
I touched the paper.
"I miss you," I whispered to the drawing.
Bang. Bang. Bang.
The sound exploded in the quiet studio.
I jumped, clutching the sketchbook to my chest.
Someone was pounding on the front door. Not knocking. Pounding. Like they were trying to break it down.
"Riley!" a voice roared from the hallway. "Open the damn door!"
My heart stopped.
It restarted at triple speed.
Ethan.
I scrambled to my feet. The sketches on my lap flew everywhere, a snowstorm of paper.
Riley’s bedroom door opened. Riley emerged, looking sleepy and annoyed.
"If that’s the police," Riley muttered, "tell them I didn't do it."
"It's not the police," I whispered.
Bang. Bang.
"Willow!" His voice was rough. Desperate. "I know you're in there!"
I looked at Riley. Riley raised an eyebrow and gestured to the door.
"Well? Go get your man."
I walked to the door. My legs felt like jelly. My hands were shaking so bad I could barely grip the lock.
I took a deep breath.
Fight for him.
I threw the bolt. I opened the door.
Ethan stood in the hallway.
He looked like he had run through a war zone.
He was still wearing his scrubs from the hospital—blue pants, a gray t-shirt that was dark with sweat down the center of his chest. His hair was wild, sticking up as if he had been running his hands through it for hours. His eyes were wide, the pupils blown, frantically scanning the room over my shoulder before locking onto my face.
He was chest-heaving. Gasping for air.
He looked furious. He looked terrified.
He looked beautiful.
"You," he rasped.
He stepped over the threshold, forcing me to back up. He kicked the door shut behind him with his heel.
The lock clicked.
We were trapped in the small entryway. The air between us crackled, hot and volatile.
"You left," he said.
It wasn't an accusation. It was a statement of fact that sounded like an open wound.
"I..." I clutched the sketchbook tighter. "I thought you wanted me to."
"You thought I wanted you to leave?"
He advanced on me. I took another step back, hitting the wall.
He slammed his hands against the plaster on either side of my head, caging me in.
He smelled of antiseptic and sweat and fear.
"I went to the house," he said, his voice low and vibrating with intensity. "It was empty. Your clothes were gone. The painting was gone."
He leaned in close. His nose brushed mine.
"Do you have any idea," he whispered, "what it felt like to walk into that empty room?"
I shook my head. I couldn't speak.
"It felt like dying," he said. "It felt like the silence came back and swallowed me whole."
"Ethan," I choked out. "The note. You said it was a mistake."
"I was scared!" he shouted. The volume made me jump. "I was terrified, Willow! I woke up with you in my arms and I felt... happy. And that terrified me because I don't know how to be happy. I only know how to survive."
He pulled back slightly, looking down at me with burning eyes.
"So I pushed you away. Because that’s what I do. I secure the perimeter. I eliminate the threat."
He laughed, a harsh, broken sound.
"But you're not the threat. You're the mission."
My heart hammered against my ribs.
"The mission?"
"To live," he said. "Not just survive. To live."
He looked at my hands. At the charcoal stains. At the sketchbook clutched to my chest.
"What is that?"
I hesitated. Then, slowly, I lowered the book. I turned it around.
He looked at the drawing.
It was the one I had just finished. Him. Looking at me with love.
His expression crumbled. The anger drained away, leaving him raw and exposed.
He reached out. His hand trembled as he touched the edge of the paper.
"Is that what you see?" he asked hoarsely.
"It's what I know," I whispered.
He looked from the drawing to my face.
"I tracked you," he admitted. "I called Sadie. She said you weren't there. I drove to every gallery in town. I ran here from the truck because the elevator was too slow."
He cupped my face. His thumbs smeared charcoal dust across my cheekbones. He didn't care.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry I'm a coward."
"You're not a coward," I said, leaning into his touch. "You're just... careful."
"I don't want to be careful anymore. I want to be messy. I want the paint. I want the noise."
He pressed his forehead to mine.
"Come home, Willow. Please. Come home and wreck my life. I don't want it if it's perfect."
Tears spilled over my lashes, cutting tracks through the black dust on my face.
"Are you sure?" I asked. "I'm a lot. I lose keys. I spill things. I attract drama like a magnet."
"I know," he breathed. "I'm counting on it."
He kissed me.
It wasn't gentle. It was desperate. It tasted of salt and desperation and a second chance I hadn't thought I'd get.
I dropped the sketchbook. I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, getting charcoal all over his gray shirt.
He groaned, lifting me up until my feet dangled off the floor.
"Riley," I gasped against his mouth. "Riley is here."
"I don't care about Riley," he growled. "I don't care about anyone but you."
From the doorway of the bedroom, a slow clap started.
We froze. Ethan slowly lowered me to the ground, but kept an arm clamped around my waist like a vice.
Riley was leaning against the doorframe, looking thoroughly entertained.
"Bravo," Riley drawled. "Better than a telenovela. Now, get out of my apartment before you start having make-up sex on my floor. I just had it cleaned."
Ethan looked at Riley. He nodded once. A soldier acknowledging an ally.
"Thank you," he said. "For keeping her safe."
"She kept herself safe, GI Joe. I just provided the tea."
Riley winked at me.
"Go on. Get out of here. And take your trash with you."
They pointed to the pile of ruined sketches on the floor.
Ethan looked at the mess. Charcoal dust. Crumpled paper. Chaos.
He smiled. It was the first real, full smile I had seen on his face in twenty-four hours.
"I'll take it," he said. "All of it."
He grabbed my hand. His grip was tight. Unbreakable.
"Let's go home," he said.
And as we walked out into the cool night air, leaving the safety of the studio for the uncertainty of the future, I knew one thing for sure.
I wasn't running anymore.
Fractures and Fault Lines
Ethan
The adrenaline crashed five miles outside of town.
It left a cold, hollow ache in the center of my chest.
The drive was silent. Not the comfortable silence of two people who understand each other, but the heavy, pressurized silence of a bomb squad waiting for the wire to snap.
Willow sat in the passenger seat. She was staring out the window at the passing tree line, her hands clenched in her lap. The charcoal dust on her fingers stained the knees of her leggings.
She looked small.
She looked like she was already planning her next escape route.
I gripped the steering wheel until the leather groaned under my palms.
I had her back. Physically. She was in my truck. She was breathing my air.
But I could feel her mind drifting. I could feel the doubt radiating off her in waves.
We need to talk.
The note I’d left her this morning. The coward’s way out.
I cursed silently. I had done this. I had built the wall, brick by brick, and now I was surprised she was standing on the other side of it.
I turned into the driveway. The gravel crunched under the tires, a sound that usually signaled safety. Tonight, it sounded like judgment.
The main house loomed dark and imposing. The guest house sat in its shadow, empty and cold.
I killed the engine.
The silence rushed in, filling the cab.
"We're here," I said.
My voice was rough. It scraped against my throat.
Willow didn't move to unbuckle. She stared at the dashboard.
"Yeah," she whispered. "We're here."
"Come inside."
"I should go to the cottage. My stuff is... well, my stuff isn't there, but the bed is."
"No."
I opened my door and got out. The night air was biting. It smelled of impending rain and dead leaves.
I walked around the front of the truck. I pulled her door open.
She looked up at me. Her hazel eyes were guarded. The warmth from the studio was gone, replaced by a wary, defensive glint.
"Ethan, I can't just..."
"Can't just what?"
"Pretend."
She unbuckled the belt. It retracted with a sharp snap.
"Pretend that you didn't leave me a note ending things. Pretend that you didn't look at me this morning like I was a disease you needed to scrub off."
The words hit their mark. Center mass.
I reached for her hand.
She pulled back.
"Don't," she said. Her voice shook. "Don't touch me unless you mean it."
"I mean it," I growled.
I reached in and grabbed her waist. I pulled her out of the truck.
Her feet hit the gravel. She stumbled into me.
I caught her. I held her there, pressed against the length of my body. I needed the contact. I needed to ground myself in the reality of her.
"I mean it," I repeated, staring down into her face. "I was scared, Willow. I was terrified."
"So you ran."
"I retreated. There's a difference."
"Not to the person you left behind."
She pushed against my chest. Her hands were flat, palms pressing against my heart.
"You hurt me," she whispered. "You made me feel like... like I was too much. Like my mess was finally too big for you to handle."
"Your mess is exactly what I need."
"Liar."
She shoved harder. She broke my hold.
She stepped back, wrapping her arms around herself. She looked at the guest house. Then she looked at the main house.
"I can't do this, Ethan. I can't be your experiment in tolerance. I can't wait for the next time the PTSD gets too loud and you decide silence is better than me."
