Chapter 70: Flickers of Hope Ethan POV

I woke to the faint sound of Sophia shifting on the couch, the blanket rustling as she adjusted it in her sleep. I rubbed my eyes, swinging my legs off the bed, my bare feet hitting the cold hardwood with a soft thud. I grabbed a t-shirt from the dresser, pulling it over my head with a quick tug, then shuffled to the kitchen, the morning light filtering through the blinds.

I flipped on the coffee maker, the machine gurgling as it heated up, grabbing two mugs from the cabinet, setting them on the counter with a clink. "She stayed," I muttered, running a hand through my hair, tugging at the messy strands as I leaned against the sink, watching the coffee drip into the pot.

Sophia stirred, sitting up, her hair tangled as she rubbed her face with both hands. "Morning," she said, her voice groggy, folding the blanket with a slow sweep of her arms.

"Morning," I replied, pouring coffee into the mugs, the steam curling up as I grabbed the sugar jar, scooping a spoonful into hers. I walked over, my hand brushing hers as I handed her the mug, her fingers warm against mine, lingering a beat too long.

"Thanks," she said, taking a sip, her lips curling slightly as she set it on the coffee table, brushing crumbs off her sweater.

I sat across from her, sipping my own coffee, the bitterness grounding me as I watched her adjust the pillow behind her back. "Sleep okay?" I asked, setting my mug down, my fingers tapping the handle.

"Yeah, fine," she replied, pulling her phone from under the blanket, scrolling with her thumb. "You?"

"Same," I lied, grabbing a coaster from the stack, sliding it under my mug with a scrape. Her pulling back last night—right when I’d leaned in—still stung, a quiet ache in my chest. I cleared my throat, picking up a pen from the table, twirling it between my fingers. "You don’t owe me anything, Soph," I said, my tone weary, my eyes flicking to hers.

She looked up, setting her phone down with a soft tap, her hands folding in her lap. "I know, but I feel like I do," she said, her voice soft, tugging at her sleeve. "You’re here because of me."

I shook my head, tossing the pen onto the table, the clatter sharp in the quiet. "I’m here because of Victor—Argus was his target, not yours."

"Still," she insisted, grabbing her mug again, cradling it in her hands. "I dragged you into this mess."

I stood, pacing to the kitchen, grabbing a bag of bagels from the counter, ripping it open with a tug. "You didn’t drag me—I jumped," I said, slicing one with a knife, the blade scraping the cutting board. "Stop blaming yourself."

She followed me, leaning against the counter, brushing her hair back with her fingers. "Hard not to," she said, grabbing a plate from the stack, sliding it toward me. "You lost everything."

I dropped the bagel halves onto the plate, grabbing a jar of cream cheese, twisting the lid off with a pop. "Not everything," I replied, spreading it with quick swipes, handing her half. "I’ve got ideas left."

She took it, biting into it, crumbs falling onto the counter as she chewed. "Ideas?" she asked, brushing them away with her sleeve.

"Yeah," I said, walking to the table, grabbing a notebook from a pile of papers, flipping it open with a flick of my wrist. "Tech doesn’t stop—Victor can’t take that from me."

She sat beside me, peering at the blank page, her elbow brushing mine. "What kind of ideas?"

I grabbed a pencil, sketching a rough outline—a sleek device, lines curving into a prototype shape. "New stuff—better than Argus’s old junk," I said, my pencil scratching the paper, my hand steadying as I added details. "Portable, efficient—something they can’t steal."

She sipped her coffee, setting it down with a clink, her fingers tapping the table. "You’re starting over? Just like that?"

"Not just like that," I replied, flipping the page, doodling another angle, my pencil shading the edges. "Takes time—but I’ve got nothing else now."

She grabbed a napkin, folding it into a tiny square, her voice softening. "You’ve got me—if you want."

I paused, my pencil hovering over the paper, my eyes flicking to hers—those words sparking something warm, despite her hesitation last night. "Yeah?" I said, setting the pencil down, leaning back in my chair, my arms crossing.

"Yeah," she confirmed, unfolding the napkin, smoothing it out with her palm. "I’m not going anywhere—not yet."

I nodded, picking up my mug, sipping the cooling coffee, my thumb rubbing the handle. "Good to know," I said, grabbing the pencil again, sketching faster, my mind buzzing with lines and circuits, her presence steadying me.

We sat there for a while, her flipping through a magazine she’d grabbed from the table, me doodling designs, the scratch of my pencil mixing with the rustle of pages. I grabbed a stack of old Argus papers from the box by the couch, flipping through them, my fingers brushing the edges.

"Trash?" she asked, glancing over, setting the magazine down with a soft thud.

"Some of it," I replied, pulling out a contract, skimming the fine print with a squint. "Legal crap—nothing I can use now."

She leaned closer, her shoulder brushing mine, peering at the page. "What’s that clause?" she asked, pointing at a line buried in the text, her finger tapping the paper.

I frowned, grabbing my glasses from the table, slipping them on with a quick nudge, reading aloud. "‘All intellectual property developed during tenure transfers upon sale—’" I stopped, my hand tightening on the page, my voice dropping. "Wait."

"What?" she asked, grabbing the contract, flipping to the next page, her eyes scanning.

I snatched it back, my finger tracing the line, my breath catching. "This—it’s a hidden clause. Victor didn’t just buy Argus—he stole my tech outright."