Chapter 175
Emily's POV
"Dead serious." Ethan reached up with his free hand and cupped my face, thumb brushing over my cheekbone. "Two years ago when Alex bought you that car, I stood in the parking lot and watched you try not to cry, and all I could think was—someday I'm gonna give her something that makes her look at me like that. Something that proves I see her, that I know what she needs even when she doesn't ask for it."
My throat closed up completely, tears burning behind my eyes that I couldn't quite blink away. He'd been carrying this around for two years—this plan, this vision of a future solid enough to put walls around—and he'd waited until now to make it real.
"I know what you're saying," I managed, voice thick with emotion I couldn't quite control. "But you know I'd love you the same if you never gave me anything, right? You don't have to do this to prove something."
"I know." He smiled, soft and sure and absolutely certain. "But I wanted to anyway. Getting to give you this, getting to see your face right now—it makes me happy, Em. Let me be happy about it."
I kissed him before I could find words, pouring everything I couldn't articulate into the pressure of my mouth against his, into the way I fisted my hands in his shirt and pulled him closer. He made a small sound and kissed me back hard enough to blur the rest of the world into irrelevance, one hand tangled in my hair and the other pressed flat against the small of my back.
When we finally broke apart I rested my forehead against his, both of us breathing hard, and let myself feel the full weight of what he'd just given me. Not just a house—a home. A future written in square footage and empty rooms waiting to be filled.
"How much did this cost?" The practical question cut through the emotion, my brain trying to catch up with logistics. "Ethan, I have money. If you need help with the down payment or the mortgage—"
"He doesn't need your help." Alex's voice came from the doorway, wearing expression of amused exasperation. "You know he's one of the best athletes in the country right now, but you don't actually know what that means financially."
I looked at Ethan, who had the grace to look slightly embarrassed. "I'm doing fine."
"He signed a contract last month worth twelve million over three years," Alex continued, completely ignoring Ethan's attempt at modesty. "His endorsement deals alone could cover this mortgage twice over. He's not hurting for money, Emily."
The number hit me like cold water, recontextualizing everything I thought I knew about Ethan's career. I'd known he was successful—had seen the merchandise and the crowds and the way people asked for his autograph—but twelve million dollars was a different category of success entirely.
"You didn't tell me that," I said to Ethan, who shrugged and pulled me closer.
"Didn't seem important. Still doesn't." He pressed a kiss to my temple, easy and casual like we weren't standing in an empty nursery talking about millions of dollars. "The only thing that matters is whether you like the house."
"Like it?" My voice cracked slightly. "Ethan, I love it. I love—" I stopped before the sentence could finish itself, but he heard it anyway in the way his expression softened and his arms tightened around me.
"Good," he said quietly. "Then let's go check out the kitchen before Mason explodes from anticipation."
Downstairs Mason had already found the kitchen and was standing in the middle of it with an expression of absolute reverence, turning in a slow circle to take in the six-burner gas range, the double wall ovens, the industrial-size refrigerator that looked like it belonged in a restaurant. When we walked in he spun toward Ethan with eyes gone bright and slightly damp.
"This is restaurant-grade," he said, voice cracking slightly on the last word. "You built a professional kitchen. For me."
"For us." Ethan moved to stand beside him, gesturing to the expansive granite counters and the overhead rack with space for dozens of pots and pans. "Figured if we're all gonna live here, we should probably have a kitchen that can handle it. Plus you've been talking about wanting to learn to cook properly, so—"
"I love you." The words burst out of Mason like he couldn't contain them, his face flushing immediately as he realized what he'd said. "I mean—as a brother."
Alex made an exaggerated gagging sound from where he'd draped himself against the doorframe, one hand pressed dramatically to his mouth. "Oh my god. That was disgusting. I think I need to leave."
"Shut up," Mason muttered, ears burning red as he very deliberately turned his attention back to examining the range controls.
I crossed to him and wrapped my arms around his waist from behind, resting my chin on his shoulder. "Don't listen to him. It was very cute."
"I wasn't trying to be cute." But he leaned back into me slightly, some of the tension draining from his shoulders. "I just—this is really nice, Ethan. Thank you."
"You're welcome." Ethan caught my eye over Mason's shoulder, something warm and satisfied in his expression. "So we're doing this? Moving in together for real?"
I looked around the kitchen—at Alex still pretending to be nauseous, at Mason cataloging every feature of his new domain with barely contained excitement, at Ethan waiting for my answer with careful hope written across his face. Thought about empty rooms upstairs waiting to become nurseries, about four bedrooms that could be ours individually or shared however we wanted, about a future solid enough to require square footage and mortgage payments and all the mundane permanence I'd spent years avoiding because permanent things could be taken away.
"Yeah," I said, and felt the truth of it settle somewhere deep and unshakeable. "We're doing this."