Chapter 77
Ethan's POV
I hadn't slept in three nights.
Every time I closed my eyes I saw Emily's face—the way she'd looked at me when I walked away, like I was killing something between us with every step I took backward. The way her mouth had opened like she wanted to say something that might change everything, then closed again because we both knew there was nothing left to say.
I kept replaying that moment in an endless loop, searching for the exact second where I could have chosen differently, where I could have swallowed my pride and my hurt and just stayed.
But I hadn't stayed. I'd left. I'd been the one to say the words that ended it, and now I was sitting in my truck outside her apartment building at seven in the morning like some kind of stalker, my hands shaking on the steering wheel while I tried to convince myself this was a good idea.
It wasn't. I knew it wasn't. But I also knew I couldn't keep existing in this state where every breath felt like I was inhaling broken glass, where food tasted like ash and the space beside me in bed felt so empty I had to stay on the couch just to avoid acknowledging it.
I'd tried to give her space. Tried to respect the decision I'd made even though every cell in my body was screaming at me to take it back. I'd lasted sixty hours—two full days and three endless nights—before I broke, before I got in my truck at six in the morning and drove here with no plan beyond the desperate need to see her face.
I forced myself out of the truck. My legs felt unsteady as I crossed the street, like I'd forgotten how to walk properly, and my heart was pounding so hard I could feel it in my throat.
The stairs creaked under my feet. Each step brought me closer to a confrontation I wasn't prepared for. I didn't know what I was going to say. Didn't have a speech prepared or a strategy for winning her back. All I had was this raw, desperate need to undo what I'd done, to somehow convince her that I could be enough even though I'd already proven I couldn't.
I reached her floor and walked down the hallway to her door. I knew her door code, but using it now felt like a violation, like I'd be forcing my way into a space I no longer had the right to enter uninvited. So I knocked instead, the sound seeming too loud in the quiet morning, and I held my breath waiting for a response.
Nothing. No footsteps. No sound of movement from inside.
I knocked again, harder this time, and heard something that might have been furniture scraping against the floor. Then footsteps, slow and hesitant, approaching the door but not opening it.
"Emily?" My voice came out rough, barely recognizable. "It's me. It's Ethan."
A long silence followed, and I pressed my palm flat against the door like I could reach through it and touch her. "Please," I said quietly. "I just need to talk to you. Just for a minute."
More silence. Then I heard the lock turn. The door opened a crack and she appeared in the gap, her face pale and her eyes wide with something that looked like shock or fear or maybe just exhaustion. She was wearing an oversized shirt that hung off one shoulder, and her hair was tangled like she'd just woken up.
But she was there. She was real and solid and right in front of me. The relief that flooded through my chest was so intense it almost brought me to my knees.
"Ethan," she said, and her voice cracked on my name. "What are you doing here?"
"I made a mistake." The words tumbled out before I could stop them, raw and desperate. "I shouldn't have left. I shouldn't have said those things. I was angry and hurt and I wasn't thinking clearly, and I've spent the last sixty hours wishing I could take it all back."
Something flickered across her face—surprise, maybe, or hope—but then her expression closed off again and she glanced back over her shoulder into the apartment. "You should have called first," she said quietly.
"I did call. You didn't answer." I took a step closer, pressing my advantage while she was still standing there looking at me with those eyes that made me want to promise her anything. "Emily, please. I know I fucked up. I know I have no right to show up here like this after what I said. But I can't—" My voice broke and I had to stop, had to swallow hard against the tightness in my throat. "I can't lose you. I won't survive it."
Her eyes glistened with tears and for a second I thought she might reach for me, might pull me inside and tell me everything was going to be okay. But then she looked back over her shoulder again. When she turned back to me her expression had shifted into something that looked almost like grief.
"You can't be here," she said, and the finality in her voice made my stomach drop.
"Why not?" I could hear the desperation creeping into my tone but I didn't care anymore. I didn't care about pride or dignity or any of the things that had seemed so important two days ago. "Just tell me what I need to do. Tell me how to fix this. I'll do anything, Emily. I'll give you all the space you need. I won't push about your work. I won't ask you to choose between your career and me. I'll just—I'll figure out how to be okay with whatever you can give me. I'll learn. I swear I will."
She closed her eyes and a tear slid down her cheek. Seeing her cry made something crack open in my chest. "It's not about that," she whispered.
"Then what is it about?" I reached out instinctively, wanting to touch her, wanting to wipe that tear away. But she flinched back slightly and my hand fell to my side. "Just talk to me. Please. Whatever it is, we can work through it. We can—"
"I slept with him." The words came out flat and emotionless, like she was reporting a fact about someone else's life rather than confessing something that was currently tearing my world apart. "I slept with Alex."