The Grumpy Landlord, page 17
I knew that growl.
The driver's side door flew open.
Ethan.
He didn't check for traffic. He didn't grab a coat. He just jumped out into the storm.
He was still in his scrubs. They were soaked instantly, plastered to his broad chest. His hair was wild, dark with rain, water streaming down his face.
"Willow!"
His voice tore through the wind. It wasn't the calm, controlled voice of the surgeon. It was raw. Terrified.
I froze.
Part of me wanted to run to him. To throw myself into his arms and let him warm me up.
But another part—the part that had listened to Marian, the part that felt like a burden—held me back.
He ran toward me. His boots slammed against the pavement.
He stopped two feet away. He looked frantic. His eyes were wide, searching my face, checking for injuries.
"What are you doing?" he shouted over the rain. "I've been looking for you for an hour! You weren't answering your phone!"
"I forgot it," I lied. It was in my bag, buried under sketchbooks.
"You're freezing. You're shaking."
He reached for me. His hands were outstretched, ready to grab my shoulders.
I took a step back.
"I'm fine," I said. My voice was lost in a clap of thunder.
"You are not fine! It's a monsoon out here! Get in the truck."
"No."
He blinked, water dripping from his lashes.
"What?"
"No," I repeated, louder this time. "I don't want to get in the truck. I don't want to go back to the quiet house and wait for you to decide if I'm too much trouble to keep around."
"Trouble? Willow, what are you talking about?"
"I'm talking about us, Ethan! Or whatever this is."
I gestured between us. My hand was shaking, and not just from the cold.
"I can't do it anymore. I can't be the thing you tolerate. I can't be the splash of color you look at when the gray gets too heavy, only to be put away when the real work starts."
"Is that what you think you are?"
"It's what I am!" I cried. "Look at you! You save lives. You hold the world together. And I... I paint pictures of flowers that don't exist. I make messes. I break things."
I wiped the rain from my eyes, furious that I was crying again.
"I slashed the painting," I confessed. "The one of the garden. I destroyed it because I felt like a fraud compared to you."
Ethan went still. The rain hammered against his shoulders, but he didn't flinch.
"You slashed it?"
"Yes. Because it didn't matter. None of it matters."
"It matters to me!"
He closed the distance between us. He didn't grab me. He just stood there, a wall of heat and intensity in the freezing storm.
"I came home to an empty house, Willow. Do you know what that felt like? It felt like the air had been sucked out of the room. It felt like the silence was back, and this time, it was permanent."
"You left," I accused. "Two days ago. You walked out and you didn't look back."
"I was empty," he rasped. "I told you. I had nothing to give you."
"I didn't need you to give me anything! I just needed you to be there! I needed you to let me hold you while you were empty!"
I poked him in the chest. My finger sank into the wet fabric of his scrub top.
"That's the deal, Ethan. That's the partnership. You don't get to hide when you're hurting. You don't get to protect me from your darkness because guess what? I'm not afraid of the dark. I have plenty of my own."
The wind howled around us, whipping my hair into my face. I pushed it back, staring up at him.
"I want to be loved," I whispered, my voice breaking. "Not managed. Not handled. I want to be loved for the mess. For the paint on the floor. For the noise. I want you to look at me and see a partner, not a patient."
Ethan stared at me. The water streamed down his face, looking like tears, though I knew he wasn't crying. He was too strong for that.
"I don't see a patient," he said.
"Then what do you see?"
"I see the only thing that makes sense."
He ran a hand through his wet hair, gripping the back of his neck. He looked tortured.
"I was running toward you," he said. "Tonight. In the storm. I wasn't running away from the hospital. I was running to you. Because I realized that if I didn't get to you, if I didn't see your face, the darkness was going to win."
"But you hesitated," I said. "You always hesitate."
"Because I'm terrified!" he roared.
He grabbed my shoulders then. His grip was hard, desperate.
"I am terrified that I am going to ruin you. I am terrified that my edges are too sharp and I'm going to cut you. I am terrified that one day you're going to wake up and realize that color doesn't belong in a coffin."
"It's not a coffin," I said. "It's a home. We made it a home."
"You made it a home," he corrected. "I just... inhabited it."
He let go of me. He stepped back, looking down at his hands.
"You deserve better, Willow. You deserve someone sunny. Someone who doesn't have ghosts standing in the corner of the bedroom."
"I don't want sunny," I said furiously. "I want you."
"Why?"
"Because you're the frame," I said. The realization hit me hard, knocking the wind out of me. "I'm the chaos, Ethan. I'm the paint. I'm the movement. But you... you're the structure. You're the canvas. Without you, I'm just spilling over the edges. With you, I make sense."
I shivered violently. The cold was seeping into my bones.
"But if you can't handle the spill... if you can't handle the mess... then let me go. Let me walk to Riley's. Let me leave."
I turned away.
I took a step.
"No."
The word was a broken sound.
I stopped.
I heard a splash. A heavy thud against the wet pavement.
I turned back.
Ethan was on his knees.
Right there in the middle of Main Street. In a puddle. In the pouring rain.
Dr. Ethan Rourke. The stoic surgeon. The man of iron and ice.
He was on his knees, his hands hanging at his sides, looking up at me with an expression of such raw, unguarded devastation that it broke my heart into a million pieces.
"Don't go," he begged.
His voice was a whisper, but it carried over the storm.
"Please. Don't go."
I stared at him. My hands flew to my mouth.
"Ethan..."
"I surrender," he said. "I give up. I can't fight it anymore. I can't fight you."
He reached out a hand. Palm up. Rainwater pooled in the cup of his palm.
"I will take the mess," he vowed. "I will take the paint on the table. I will take the cat digging up the roses. I will take the noise and the drama and the chaos."
He swallowed hard.
"I will take the fear. I will let you see the ghosts. I will let you hold me when I'm empty."
He looked at me with eyes that were burning blue fire.
"Just don't leave me in the gray. Please, Willow. Don't leave me alone."
The rain soaked him, plastering his clothes to his skin, making him look vulnerable and smaller than I had ever seen him.
He wasn't protecting himself anymore. He had torn down the fortress. He had lowered the bridge.
He was offering me everything.
I didn't think. I didn't weigh the pros and cons.
I ran.
I crashed into him.
I fell to my knees in the puddle, wrapping my arms around his neck. The water splashed up, cold and dirty, covering us both.
"I'm not leaving," I sobbed into his neck. "I'm never leaving."
His arms came around me. He crushed me to his chest. He buried his face in my wet hair, holding on like I was the only thing keeping him from drowning.
"I love you," he choked out.
It was the first time he said it.
"I love you," I said back. "You big, stupid, grumpy idiot. I love you."
He pulled back. He framed my face with his wet hands. He looked at me like I was a miracle.
Then he kissed me.
It tasted of rain and salt and forever. It was cold and hot and messy and perfect.
We knelt there in the street, tangled together in the storm, while the thunder rolled overhead like applause.
"Let's go home," he whispered against my lips.
"To the guest house?"
"No," he said. "To our house."
He stood up, pulling me with him. He didn't let go of my hand.
He led me to the truck. He opened the door and lifted me inside, not caring about the mud or the water.
He got in the driver's side. He looked at me one last time before starting the engine.
"I'm going to ruin the upholstery," I warned, shivering.
Ethan smiled. A real, crooked, beautiful smile.
"Good," he said.
And as he drove us home through the rain, I knew that whatever storms came next, we would weather them. Together.
Safe Harbor
Ethan
The house was warm.
It was a stark, jarring contrast to the freezing rain that had just soaked us to the bone. I locked the front door behind us, the click of the deadbolt echoing like a gunshot in the silent hallway.
We dripped on the hardwood. Puddles formed around our boots, dark and spreading.
I didn't care.
I looked at Willow. Her hair was plastered to her skull, dark curls dripping water down her neck. Her lips were blue. She was shivering, a violent tremor that rattled her small frame.
"Upstairs," I said.
My voice was rough.
She nodded, wrapping her arms around herself. She looked exhausted. Worn thin.
I scooped her up.
She gasped, instinctively clutching my wet shoulders.
"I can walk," she chattered.
"I know."
I carried her anyway. I needed the weight of her. I needed the physical proof that she was here, in my arms, and not walking alone on a dark road in a storm.
I took the stairs two at a time.
I walked straight into the master bathroom. I set her down on the bathmat.
"Don't move."
I turned on the taps. I twisted the hot water handle as far as it would go. Steam rose instantly, curling into the air, fogging the mirror.
I grabbed the jar of bath salts Sadie had forced on me last Christmas. Lavender and eucalyptus. Something designed to calm the nervous system.
I dumped a handful into the rising water.
The scent hit the air, cutting through the smell of wet wool and ozone.
I turned back to Willow.
She was watching me. Her hazel eyes were wide, unguarded.
"You're shaking," she whispered.
I looked at my hands. They were trembling. Not from the cold. From the adrenaline crash. From the terror of almost losing her.
"I'm fine."
I stepped closer to her.
"Let's get you out of these."
I reached for the hem of her sodden sweater. My fingers brushed the cold skin of her waist. She sucked in a breath.
I lifted the heavy, wet wool over her head. I tossed it into the corner.
Her t-shirt followed.
She stood before me in her bra and jeans, her skin pale and goose-fleshed.
I knelt.
My hands went to the button of her jeans. The denim was stiff, soaked through. I worked the button free. I pulled the zipper down.
I peeled the wet fabric down her legs. She stepped out of them, one foot at a time, her hand resting on my shoulder for balance.
I took off her socks.
I stayed on my knees for a moment, looking at her bare feet on the fluffy white rug.
I had knelt in the rain to beg her to stay. I was kneeling now to serve her.
It felt right. It felt like the only position that made sense.
I stood up.
I unclasped her bra. I slid her panties down her hips.
She was naked. Vulnerable. Beautiful.
"Get in," I said.
She stepped into the tub. She hissed as her cold skin hit the hot water. She sank down, the water rising to her chin.
"Oh god," she moaned. "That feels..."
"Good?"
"Like being born again."
I watched her for a second. The water lapped against her collarbone. Her hair floated around her face like a dark halo.
I started to turn away. I needed to get out of my own wet clothes. I needed to let her warm up.
"Ethan."
I stopped.
"Join me."
I looked back.
The tub was large—a soaking tub meant for two, though I had never imagined anyone but me in it.
"It's tight," I said.
"I don't mind tight."
Her eyes held mine. There was no hesitation in them. No fear.
I stripped.
I kicked off my boots. I peeled off the wet scrubs. I left them in a pile on the floor, a heap of blue and gray that belonged to a man I wasn't sure I knew anymore.
I stepped into the water.
It burned. A good burn.
I sank down behind her. I pulled her back until her spine rested against my chest.
She fit.
She fit perfectly between my legs, her head resting in the crook of my shoulder.
I wrapped my arms around her. My skin was hot against hers.
We sat there in silence. The only sound was the rain hammering against the roof and the soft lap of water as we breathed.
I picked up the sponge. I soaped it up.
"Lean forward."
She obeyed.
I washed her back. I moved the sponge in slow, circular motions. I washed away the rain. I washed away the day.
I traced the line of her spine. I felt the tension slowly leaving her muscles.
"You came for me," she whispered.
"I will always come for you."
I dropped the sponge.
I used my hands.
I slid my soapy hands over her shoulders, down her arms. I cupped her breasts, feeling the weight of them, the nipples hardening against my palms.
"Ethan," she breathed.
She turned in my arms.
The water sloshed over the side.
She straddled my lap. Her knees pressed against my hips. Her face was inches from mine.
Steam rolled off our skin.
She looked at me. Really looked at me. She studied the lines around my eyes, the scar on my jaw, the wet hair plastered to my forehead.
"You look sad," she said.
"I'm not sad."
"You are. Your eyes... they're heavy."
I closed them.
"I'm just... relieved."
"Open them."
I opened them.
"I'm here," she said. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."
She leaned in and kissed me.
It was soft. Tender. It tasted of rainwater and salt.
But beneath the softness, there was a current. A pull.
My hands slid down her back to grip her hips. Her skin was slick, warm velvet.
"Willow," I groaned against her mouth.
"Make me forget," she whispered. "Make me forget the cold."
I kissed her harder. Deeper.
I lifted her hips. I positioned her.
She sank down onto me.
The water displaced, rising around us.
I filled her. Completely.
She gasped, throwing her head back. Her neck arched, a long, elegant line of white throat exposed to the steam.
I buried my face in the curve of her neck.
It wasn't fast. It wasn't the frantic, desperate collision of the paint scene.
This was slow.
It was a tide coming in.
I moved inside her. A steady, rhythmic pressure. I wanted to memorize her. I wanted to imprint this feeling onto my DNA so that the next time the darkness came, I would have this light to fight it with.
"Look at me," I commanded.
She lowered her head. Her eyes locked onto mine.
Hazel and gold.
"I see you," I rasped. "I see all of you."
"I know," she whimpered. "I feel you."
She moved with me. She wrapped her legs around my waist, pulling me deeper.
The water swirled around our joined bodies. The heat was suffocating, intoxicating.
I reached between us. I found the slick pearl of her desire.
She cried out, her nails digging into my shoulders.
"Ethan, please."
"I've got you."
I held her gaze. I watched the pleasure take her. I watched her pupils blow wide, swallowing the color. I watched her lips part in a silent scream.
She unraveled.
I felt her tighten around me, pulsing, milking me.
It broke me.
I let go. I let go of the control. I let go of the soldier.
I poured myself into her. A guttural roar tore from my throat, echoing off the tile.
I collapsed against her, my forehead resting on hers. Our heavy breathing mingled with the steam.
"I love you," I whispered.
The words felt huge. Dangerous.
"I love you," she breathed back.
We stayed like that until the water turned tepid. Until our skin pruned and the steam dissipated.
I didn't want to move. I wanted to stay in this suspended reality where nothing existed but us.
But she shivered.
"Time to dry off," I murmured.
I helped her out of the tub. I wrapped her in a towel. I wrapped myself in another.
We walked into the bedroom.
The rain was still falling outside, but it sounded distant now. A threat that couldn't reach us.
I pulled back the duvet.
We climbed in. Naked. Clean.
I pulled her against me. My back to her chest, her arm thrown over my waist. Or maybe the other way around. We were a tangle of limbs.
"Ethan?"
"Hmm?"
"Tell me."
I stiffened.
"Tell you what?"
"About the ghosts."
I opened my eyes. The room was dark, lit only by the streetlamp filtering through the blinds.
"Willow..."
"You said you'd let me in," she whispered. "You promised."
