I thought courage would feel dramatic, like heat rising in my chest, like something loud and undeniable. Instead, it feels quiet. Cold. Precise. Like winter air that strips everything down to its edges.
I crack the eggs into a bowl, whisking them steadily.
At exactly 7:01, there’s a knock at the front door.
Not hesitant. Not forceful. Just certain.
When I open it, Ethan Brooks stands there, jacket zipped halfway, hair damp from the early Ohio mist, his jaw tight in that familiar way he gets when he’s holding himself back.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
Then his eyes land on my face.
Everything in him shifts.
Not anger first.
Heartbreak.
The anger comes a second later, sharp and rising, but the heartbreak arrives first—and somehow that hurts more than anything that happened last night.
“You should’ve called me sooner,” he says quietly.
I nod. There’s no defense left to give.
He steps inside, closing the door behind him, his gaze flicking briefly toward the staircase. “Is he up?”
“Not yet.”
Ethan studies me for a second longer, then nods once. “Okay. Then we do this your way.”
That matters more than I expected.
Not just that he came—but that he didn’t come to take over.