Chapter 29
Emily's POV
Ethan's house was in one of those neighborhoods where lawns stayed green year-round and driveways had cars worth more than my mom's annual income. A two-story colonial with white siding, black shutters, a basketball hoop over the garage, and flower beds that someone clearly cared for. The kind of house you saw in catalogues for normal families—the kind I only glimpsed from bus windows.
We pulled into the driveway, and Ethan turned off the engine. Silence stretched between us, heavy with anticipation and the lingering warmth from the gym where his touch still tingled on my skin.
"You okay?" Ethan's voice was soft in the dimness.
I nodded. "Yeah. Just—this is new."
He reached over and took my hand, fingers threading through mine. "Come on. I'll give you the grand tour."
Inside, the house matched its promise—clean lines, cozy furniture, family photos showing Ethan at different ages with genuinely smiling parents. Everything felt lived-in but well-kept, a domestic stability I’d always watched from afar.
"You want something to drink?" Ethan asked, opening the fridge. "Juice, soda, water, milk?"
"Water's fine."
He poured two glasses and handed me one, our fingers brushing. That electric awareness sparked again, traveling up my arm and settling behind my ribs.
We drank in silence, both suddenly unsure now that we were here. I set my glass down carefully, hyperaware of the quiet house amplifying every small sound.
"Do you want to watch a movie or something?" he asked. "Or we could just hang out. Talk. Whatever you're comfortable with."
"Show me your room," I said, surprising myself.
Ethan's eyes widened slightly, then softened. "You sure?"
"I'm sure."
He nodded and gestured toward the stairs. "Okay. Come on."
I followed him up, my hand trailing along the banister while my mind cataloged exits out of habit, even as I knew those fears didn’t belong here.
Ethan's room was at the end of the hallway, door open to reveal organized chaos—football gear in one corner, textbooks stacked on a desk, band posters, and a corkboard covered in photos. The bed was made but rumpled, and the window looked out over a backyard with a tire swing.
"Sorry about the mess," he said, though it wasn’t messy, just lived-in.
"It's fine." I stepped inside, drawn to the photos—Ethan with teammates, friends, his parents on what looked like a family vacation. "You have a good life here."
Ethan moved closer, his warmth just behind me. "I'm lucky. I know that."
I turned to face him, finding him watching me with careful intensity. The space between us felt both too much and not enough.
"You can leave whenever you want," he said, voice rough. "No pressure. No expectations. You're safe here. With me. Always."
Safe. The word landed heavy in my chest, addressing fears I'd never voiced but he seemed to understand. I stepped closer, closing the gap until I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
"I know," I said. "That's why I'm here."
Ethan kissed me.
I'd been waiting for this kiss the entire drive over, through the house tour, through the small talk. Now that it was happening, I realized I'd been holding my breath in anticipation.
Is kissing some kind of drug? Because I think I might be getting addicted.
The thought flickered through my mind as I pressed closer, my hands gripping his shirt to pull him down to me. His lips moved with growing urgency, and I matched his intensity, giving back everything he offered and wanting more. Heat pooled low in my stomach, spreading in waves that made my skin feel tight and my thoughts scatter.
When Ethan finally started to pull back—probably trying to be responsible—I followed him, unwilling to break the connection. His arms locked around me again, pulling me flush against him as the kiss deepened into something almost desperate.
I felt something hard pressing against my lower stomach.
The realization sent heat flooding through my face, even as a primal instinct I didn’t know I had responded with a pulse of want so intense it stole my breath. I pulled back slightly, just enough to break the kiss, suddenly self-conscious and uncertain about what this meant.
Ethan's breathing was ragged, his pupils wide and dark. He seemed to be fighting for control, jaw clenched. After a moment, he stepped back, putting space between us, and moved to sit on the bed. He patted the mattress beside him, casual but his expression anything but.
I hesitated only a second before following, settling onto the bed with careful precision, leaving a few inches between us that felt both necessary and vast.
Ethan took my hand, threading our fingers together with that same gentle certainty. "We don't have to do anything you're not ready for," he said quietly, thumb tracing circles on my knuckles. "I just want to be with you. However that looks."
The touch sent electricity racing through me, settling in my stomach, turning into liquid heat that made thinking hard. I tried to focus on his words, on the sincerity in his voice, but all I could feel was the warmth of his palm and how it made me hyperaware of his closeness.
When did we start kissing again?
One moment we were sitting side by side, hands clasped, having a serious conversation about boundaries. The next, his mouth was on mine and I was turning into him, seeking more contact, more heat, more of whatever this feeling was that made everything else fade away.
And then somehow—I couldn’t remember how—I was on his lap, knees bracketing his hips, looking down at him with his hands gripping my waist and my fingers tangled in his hair.
His eyes were dark and unfocused, lips swollen, breathing hard enough that I could feel his chest rising against mine. "Emily," he said, my name barely more than a rough exhale. "We should probably—"
I shifted my hips, cutting off whatever responsible thing he was about to say, and felt his grip tighten as a strangled sound escaped him. The friction sent sparks racing through me, concentrating in places that made thinking impossible.
Can someone come from just kissing?
Ethan's head fell back, eyes squeezed shut, hands flexing against my sides. The struggle for control on his face sent another surge of heat through me, made me feel powerful in a way I'd never experienced.
"Emily." His voice was wrecked. "You're killing me."
Good, I thought, but didn’t say it aloud.
I kissed him again, swallowing whatever else he might have said, losing myself completely in his mouth and hands and the rhythm we’d found without planning, just pure instinct and want and trust I never imagined giving anyone.