OLIVIA:
The silence in the car is unbearable.
Not the kind that lingers comfortably between two people. No, this is something else entirely—suffocating, charged, a weight pressing against my chest with every goddamn second that passes.
I shift in my seat, arms crossed over Ethan’s hoodie—the one I’m still fucking wearing, the fabric swallowing me. It smells like him, like cedar and something darker, something undeniably Ethan, and the worst part? I don’t fucking hate it.
I hate myself for that.
I glance at him, jaw tight, fingers steady on the wheel like he’s unfazed, like that didn’t happen. Like I didn’t feel his hands gripping me like he owned me, like he didn’t kiss me back with a hunger that burned through every inch of my skin.
And then he pulled away. Said we shouldn’t. Like it meant nothing.
Asshole.
I press my forehead against the window, the cool glass grounding me for a second. My thigh throbs from where I sliced into it last night, a dull, pulsing ache. The shower had done nothing but irritate it more, but the pain is good. It keeps me tethered to the now.
My fingers twitch against my knee, itching for something—my phone, a text to Declan, a call to Max—anything to drown out the storm brewing in my chest. Or better yet, the sharp edge of a blade, deep enough to quiet the noise clawing at my skull. But I don’t. Instead, I sit here, letting the silence drag on, letting Ethan act like nothing fucking happened.
Fine. Two can play this game.
I shift, just enough to let out a sharp, deliberate exhale. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. Barely noticeable. But I see it.
A slow smirk pulls at my lips.
Good.
“So,” I finally break the silence, my voice laced with indifference. “You’re just gonna act like the kiss didn’t happen?”
He doesn’t flinch, doesn’t even look at me. Just keeps his fucking eyes on the road.
“You were drunk.” His tone is clipped. Controlled.
I scoff. “Oh, so now you’re some moral fucking saint?” I stretch my arms out, making a show of it. “You sure didn’t seem to mind when you were pushing me up against the wall.”
His jaw tightens.
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Unbelievable.”
Nothing.
No reaction.
Like I don’t fucking exist.
The irritation in my chest morphs into something heavier, something ugly and bitter. Fine. He wants to pretend? I can do that too.
I lean my head back against the seat, closing my eyes, and exhaling slowly. My head still pounds from last night, my body still aches from more than just the alcohol, and the last thing I need is to let him fucking win this.
But then, just as I think the conversation is over, he speaks.
“Did you finish the story?”
My eyes snap open.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I stare at him, waiting for him to take it back, to realize how fucking ridiculous that is after everything that happened a few hours ago. But he doesn’t. His focus is still on the road like my reaction doesn’t matter.
A dry, humorless laugh bubbles up in my throat, sharp and biting. I’m so fucking done with his bullshit—his stoic act, his refusal to acknowledge any of it. “Right. Of course. That’s what you want to talk about.” I shake my head, letting the amusement bleed into my tone. “Not the fact that you kissed me back. Not the fact that I—” I snap my mouth shut.
That I felt my head go quiet for the first time in my life.
That for one fucking second, everything stopped.
I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I force my voice into something steady. “Yeah, it’s done.”
He nods. Like that’s all that matters. Like that’s all he fucking cares about.
I grip the seatbelt, forcing the tension out of my hands.
Fine.
I don't give a fuck too.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
The car slows to a stop outside my building, and for the first time since I woke up, I feel like I can breathe.
I don’t wait for Ethan to say anything—if he even fucking planned to. I shove the door open, stepping out before he can do something condescending like opening it for me. The morning air is sharp against my skin even though the sun has yet to rise, a stark contrast to the warmth of his hoodie still hanging off my frame.
I refuse to look back. Refuse to give him any more of my fucking attention.
The apartment lobby is nearly empty as I push past the girl getting off the elevator, barely sparing me a glance as I push through, the sound of my boots against the floor grounding me.
Last night clings to me like a fucking stain. The way he kissed me. The way he touched me. The fucking way he stopped.
I swallow hard as the doors slide open, stepping into the dim hallway.
I need a shower.
And then I need a fucking drink or a pill.
I unlock my door, step inside, and let out a slow, measured breath. The second the door clicks shut behind me, something in my shoulders finally unlocks.
Alone.
Finally.
I take off my boots, stretching my arms over my head as I roll my neck, shaking off the stiffness. The hoodie slides off easily, pooling onto the couch as I make my way toward the bedroom. My skin prickles, the lingering heat of his clothes leaving an almost phantom sensation in its absence.
Fucking Ethan.
The second the bathroom door slammed shut, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Fuck.
I stare at myself in the mirror, my reflection a cruel, unflinching reminder of everything I’ve been avoiding. My skin is blotchy, my eyes shadowed and dull, and my lips still slightly swollen. I don’t know if it’s from the drinking, the nightmare, or from him.
I rip my gaze away, hands gripping the sink as I try to steady my breath. But my pulse is erratic, hammering against my ribs like a caged animal.
I need this shower.
I need to reset.
The nightmare was enough to make me want to rip my fucking skin off, to claw myself open until there was nothing left to feel. The panic attack was worse—ravenous, all-consuming, leaving me gasping for something that didn’t exist. And the shower made it better.
But Ethan’s fucking nonchalance?
That’s a different kind of agony. One that doesn’t fade, doesn’t let up. It just sits there, sinking its fucking teeth in, bleeding me slowly. A wound so fucking painful that even the shower won't make it better.
Turning the water on scalding hot, I strip off the rest of my clothes, kicking them into a pile before stepping under the spray. The heat hits me like a fucking wall, a sharp sting that almost—almost—distracts from the dull ache in my head and the raw sting on my thigh.
I close my eyes and tilt my head back, letting the water drown out everything—the pounding in my skull, the gnawing frustration in my chest, the fucking weight of Ethan’s presence still lingering on my fucking self.
It wasn’t supposed to feel like this.
I dig my nails into my palms, my body swaying slightly under the heat. I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams, like everything I’ve shoved down, buried so fucking deep, is clawing its way to the surface.
I won't be able to hold out for long.
If it keeps fucking feeling like this.
The steam thickens around me, curling against my skin, pressing down on my lungs like a fucking vice. My hands move on autopilot—grabbing the body wash, lathering my arms, my stomach, my thighs. And when my fingers brush against the fresh cut, I don’t stop.
I press harder, digging into the wound, chasing the sting like it might drown out everything else. Like it might make the ache inside me shut the fuck up.
It doesn’t.
So I rub harder.
My throat tightens.
I swallow hard as my hands shake. I throw the loofah on the side before pressing my forehead against the cool tile as the water runs down my back. I stay like that for a long moment, letting the heat soak into my bones, trying to push everything down, down, down until it’s buried again. Until it stops fucking hurting.
Finally, when my skin feels raw and the water is dangerously close to turning cold, I force myself to move. I dry off, wrap a towel around my torso, and grab a bandage from the cabinet. My fingers work quickly, securing it over the cut before I pull on a pair of loose shorts and an oversized T-shirt.
Only when I feel covered again do I exhale, my body is still tense but slightly more grounded.
I push open the bathroom door, rubbing a towel through my damp hair as I step into the living room—
And freeze.
Ethan is here.
Not just here.
Sitting on my fucking couch like he belongs there.
A sharp jolt of shock slams through me, my pulse spiking. My grip tightens around the towel in my hands, my mind scrambling to process the sight of him.
I didn’t hear the door open.
I didn’t know he was here.
For a solid two seconds, I just stare, my brain refusing to catch up.
I blink, my brain stuttering to catch up.
And then, finally—
"What the fuck?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended, the words slicing through the heavy silence between us.
Ethan barely reacts.
No guilt. No apology. Just a slow, deliberate look dragging over me, taking in the fresh clothes, the damp hair, the bare fucking legs.
I feel exposed.
I hate it. I hate that I fucking like it.
He leans back against the couch, his expression unreadable. “Your door wasn't locked.”
I blink. “Are you—do you—what?”
“I walked in. The door wasn’t locked.” He shrugs like it’s the most normal thing in the world. “Figured I’d wait.”
Wait?
I gape at him, my mind struggling to keep up. “You figured—" I cut myself off, exhaling sharply, pressing my fingers against my temple.
No. Nope. Not dealing with this right now.
“Get out,” I say, voice tight, controlled.
Ethan doesn’t move.
Instead, he tilts his head, studying me. And then—
“You always take two showers back-to-back?”
I hate him.
I hate the way my skin prickles under his gaze, the way his voice—low, smooth, infuriatingly composed—makes my stomach tighten.
I grip the towel tighter, narrowing my eyes. “You’re still here, and that’s what you’re asking me?”
The audacity of this man.
“You should moisturize,” he says smoothly, tilting his head slightly. “Your skin’s red.”
For a moment, I just stare.
Because what the actual fuck?
Did he really just—
My jaw clenches. “You’re lecturing me on skincare now?”
His mouth twitches again like he’s holding back something—amusement, maybe.
But it’s not fucking funny.
I take a step forward, ignoring the sharp twinge in my thigh. “Tell me why you’re actually here, Ethan. Because last I checked, I didn’t fucking invite you.”
I never do.
Yet somehow, this is the fourth—no, fifth—time he’s been inside my apartment. And the first was the only time I asked for it.
A creep he is.
A pause. A slow inhale. His fingers tap against his knee once.
“I had some business with Daniel but he got some last-minute cases and is running late. Figured I'd give you some company.”
I laugh. A dry, humorless sound fills the space between us as I look out of the window to see that the sun is already up. It's unusual for Dan to run this late.
“You broke into my apartment but you couldn't do the same with his?”
His gaze flickers. “The door wasn’t locked,” he corrects smoothly. "If I wanted to, I could have just used the keys."
My mouth parts slightly, disbelief washing over me. The fucking audacity of this man.
The words land heavily in the space between us.
I stare at him, my brain catching on one thing and one thing only.
He still has those fucking keys?
Something cold trickles down my spine, an eerie sort of realization curling at the edges of my mind.
I let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “And you still have the key to my apartment… why, exactly? I told you to give that to me”
Nothing.
Not a twitch of expression. Not a fucking blink.
He doesn’t answer me.
Instead, his gaze drags over me, slow and deliberate. My skin prickles under the weight of it, and I hate the way my body reacts, the way my pulse stutters for half a second before I force it into submission.
Something burns in my chest, irritation twisting into something heavier, something I don’t want to name. “Right. Of course.” I shake my head, exhaling sharply. “Because you’re Ethan fucking Hayes and nothing applies to you.”
Still, nothing.
He just watches me.
That same unreadable fucking stare, like he’s two steps ahead of me in a game I don’t even know I’m playing.
It makes me want to claw at my skin.
Makes me want to throw something.
Makes me want to—
Forgive everything and give myself to him—in every fucking way possible.
I take a breath, biting the inside of my cheek so hard I taste blood.
“I can’t do this right now.” I shake my head, my hands pushing through my damp hair, trying to physically force the tension out of me. “I need coffee." Or a fucking drink—that I won't have in front of him. "I need a fucking second to think. And you—” I point at him, narrowing my eyes, my chest rising and falling too quickly. “You need to leave.”
Ethan doesn’t move.
Of course, he fucking doesn’t.
Instead, he leans forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees, his gaze settling on me like he’s deciding something. Measuring something.
“Go ahead,” he says, nodding toward the kitchen like he owns the fucking place. “I’m not stopping you.”
A slow pulse of rage flickers through me.
I exhale through my nose, every muscle in my body vibrating with the need to do something—anything—to shatter the calm way he sits there, like my irritation is beneath him like my anger is just something to be tolerated.
I turn sharply on my heel, storming toward the kitchen because I need a distraction before I do something fucking stupid.
Like throwing myself at him.
The sound of my own breathing fills my ears as I grab a mug from the shelf, my fingers curling so tightly around the handle that I feel the strain in my knuckles. The coffee machine gurgles as it brews, and I focus on the sound, on the rising steam, on anything but the presence behind me that I can still fucking feel.
I don’t turn around when I speak.
“If you’re waiting for Dan, then go wait in his fucking office.” My voice is flat, emotionless, the kind of tiredness that sinks into your bones. “Not here.”
Silence.
And then—
“I’m fine right where I am.”
My fingers curl into fists.
I squeeze my eyes shut for half a second, exhaling through my nose before I turn to face him again.
He’s still watching me.
Still fucking sitting there.
Like this is just another normal fucking morning and not whatever the hell this is.
I take a slow sip of my coffee, swallow down the bitterness, grounding myself in the heat—just wishing that it was alcohol—before I speak again.
“Why are you here, Ethan?” I ask, voice quieter this time. Tired.
Something flickers across his expression—so fast I almost miss it.
“I told you,” he says simply. “Business with Dan.”
I scoff, shaking my head. “Bullshit.”
A muscle in his jaw jumps, but he doesn’t take the bait.
I step closer, setting the mug back on the counter before standing in front of him. “You act like last night didn’t fucking happen. Like none of it mattered. Like I don’t matter." Like you didn't fucking kiss me back like I fucking belonged to you. My lips curl slightly, a bitter smile tugging at my mouth. “So why are you here?”
Silence.
Thick. Heavy. Almost unbearable.
And then, finally, he speaks.
“I told you,” he repeats, voice smooth, unaffected. “You don’t listen.”
I let out a sharp breath, my stomach twisting into knots.
He’s doing it on purpose.
This control. This careful distance.
I’m not fucking stupid.
He’s holding the power in this conversation, just like he always does. Making me react while he stays in control.
I cross my arms over my chest as I tilt my head slightly, considering him. “Fine. You’re here for Dan. That’s what we’re going with?”
He doesn’t react.
I take a step closer.
“Then why the fuck are you looking at me like that?”
His jaw tightens.
I smirk.
Gotcha.
☆☆☆☆☆☆
So, I was thinking of elongating the chapter but it didn't feel right so I ended it where it felt good.
I'm so sorry that it took so long to post this but I've been having a hard time managing time with work, university, and then this.
Also have been sick lately, so yeah!
The next chapter is on its way.
Peace, love.
ASQ.