Chapter 155 I'm Only Afraid of Losing You
Olivas POV:
I used to pretend birthdays didn’t matter.
When I was little, mine always fell on a weekday. They always said the same thing:
“I’m tired, Liv. We’ll celebrate this weekend.”
But the weekend always came and went.
There was always an excuse.
Or someone forgot.
Or someone snapped at me for “being dramatic” when I asked if we were still doing my birthday.
When I was nine, I decorated my own cupcake. One candle. No song.
My stepmom told me I was “acting spoiled” for wanting a picture.
By eleven, I learned the trick:
Don’t bring it up. Don’t expect anything. Don’t want anything.
If I didn’t hope for a birthday, I couldn’t ruin my own day.
So later—so many years later—after Ethan had already pulled me apart and put me back together more times than I could count, the sheets still warm from us, my legs still trembling faintly under the covers, I lay half-draped across his chest, too exhausted to keep my eyes open.
The room felt thick with leftover heat.
My breathing was slowing.
His heartbeat was still a heavy thud beneath my ear.
I was drifting—floating in that hazy, blissed-out fog—when the clock passed midnight and the mattress shifted behind me.
An arm slid around my waist.
Strong. Possessive. Pulling me back against the body that had just ruined every last bit of my strength.
His breath brushed the back of my neck, still uneven from earlier.
Then my cheek.
“Happy birthday, Reddy,” he murmured, voice rough from hours of use, low and warm enough to yank me right out of my drowsy afterglow.
Before I could answer, something cool touched my throat.
I blinked up—confused, unfocused—when something cold touched my throat.
I shot upright. My fingers brushed metal—smooth, heavy, unmistakably expensive. A thick white-gold chain entirely circled in diamonds. The bedside lamp caught them, and light exploded across the room.
My breath caught. “My birthday isn’t even here yet.”
“It is now.” Ethan stretched back on one elbow, watching me with a slow, satisfied curve of his mouth. “I couldn’t be here for Labor Day. So I’m giving you another birthday instead.”
My eyes blurred before I could stop it. A stupid burn, a stupid ache. I pressed my lips together, but the tears slipped free anyway.
“Hey.” Ethan immediately cupped my face, wiping them with his thumbs. “What is it? You don’t like it?”
I shook my head fast. “No—I love it. I just…” My voice wouldn’t cooperate.
He pulled me into him again, kissed the corner of my eye, then lower, tracing down my cheek like he was memorizing the shape of me.
By the time he pulled back, the hurt had faded into something warm and dizzy and almost sweet.
---
I woke at ten, groggy and warm. I padded downstairs barefoot, hair messy, still half in a dream.
Ethan was on the couch, phone to his ear. Something the person said made him laugh.
The moment he heard my footsteps, he turned. His mouth pulled upward.
He hung up. “Come here.”
I walked over, crossing my arms to hide the way my heart was doing stupid things. “Who was that? You were smiling pretty hard. Some woman?”
He blinked. Then laughed—low and rough. “You’re jealous?”
Blood rushed to my cheeks. “No. I just—said something.”
He slid his arm around my waist, pulled me onto his lap, and brushed his thumb across my mouth. “I like you jealous.”
I smacked his shoulder lightly. “I wasn’t.”
“I was.” He caught my wrist gently. “I was very jealous. There. Problem solved.”
“Don’t you have work today?” My face was still burning.
“Sweetheart,” he said, amused, “you can’t treat your man like a workhorse.”
“You’re not that different from a stud.”
Ethan froze.
Then burst out laughing—deep, sudden, uncontrollable.
My whole face went up in flames. “I—I didn’t mean— Just forget—”
He leaned in, caught my earlobe between his teeth, and murmured, “You were complimenting me.”
I made a strangled noise and pushed at his chest. He caught my wrists, kissed my knuckles, and finally let me go.
“Go change,” he said. “I’m taking you out.”
“Where?”
“Steakhouse. Then a night cruise on the Hudson.”
I was already halfway up the stairs by the time he finished the sentence.
Behind me, he laughed softly.
---
Upstairs, instead of changing, I sat at my vanity, pulled out a pink sticky note, and stared at it.
Then I wrote:
1. Walk across the Brooklyn Bridge under one umbrella with Ethan.
2. Walk along the Hudson River so the wind blows my hair onto his shoulder.
3. Go through the Coney Island haunted house holding his hand the entire way.
It was ridiculous. Cheesier than a teenage diary. But I wanted it.
Because I knew—I felt it in my bones—if I didn’t do these stupid little things now, I wouldn’t get another chance.
When I came back down, I handed it to him silently.
He unfolded it, eyes narrowing with interest. “What’s this?”
“Three things I want to do with you. In New York.”
He smiled. “Only three? Because I can think of at least thirty.”
I hit his arm again. “Focus.”
He pointed to the first line. “Why the umbrella?”
So I told him.
“About that magazine story I read when I was thirteen,” I said. “It was about a girl who died young… and the boy who didn’t realize he loved her until she was gone.”
Ethan’s brows drew together.
“She used to walk across the Brooklyn Bridge every morning to get to school. Same route, same view. And on the day she died, it poured in New York. The boy took an umbrella and walked that whole bridge—again and again—like he was trying to follow every step she ever took.”
I let out a small breath.
“The magazine cover was just his silhouette in the rain, umbrella tilted, the bridge fading behind him. It was the first tragic love story I ever read, so it stuck with me. I always wanted to go to New York after that… just to walk that bridge once.”
Ethan frowned. “My girl’s living a long life. Eighty more years. Minimum.”
My chest tightened again, hot and painful.
He moved to the next line. “The Hudson River?”
I nodded. “When I was a kid, I used to watch this late‑night talk show. There was one segment about a couple walking by the Hudson—she had long curls, a polka‑dot dress, very 90s, very cinematic. The wind kept blowing her hair across the guy’s shoulder, and he didn’t move it. He just let it stay there.” I smiled. “I thought it was the prettiest thing I’d ever seen.”
Ethan’s mouth curved as he pulled me onto his lap again. “I want that. Your hair blowing all over my shoulder.”
My cheeks went hot again.
Then he touched the last line. “And the haunted house?”
I looked at him, shy and teasing at the same time. “Are you scared?”
He tipped my chin up, his hand warm against my throat. “I’d walk through hell with you. Still holding your hand.”