The house didn't feel empty when I woke up.
That was the first thing I noticed—before routine, before thought. The air felt shared, as if another presence had settled into the space overnight and hadn't left yet. Nothing was out of place. Nothing looked unfamiliar.
And yet, my body felt alert in a way that didn't belong to morning.
I stepped into the kitchen and saw Ethan standing by the counter, sleeves rolled up, pouring coffee with unhurried precision. The light from the window traced the sharp line of his profile, grounding him in the space like he had always belonged there.
He looked up.
"Morning," he said.
The word was neutral, calm. Still, my focus narrowed without permission, my attention locking onto him for a second longer than necessary.
"Morning," I replied, keeping my tone even.
My aunt moved easily between us, unfazed. "You're both early," she said, placing plates on the table. "Ethan has meetings later, so he'll be around today."
Around.
The word settled in my chest heavier than it should have.
Ethan took the chair across from me—not beside, not far. A measured distance. Deliberate.
I concentrated on my plate, but awareness kept tugging at the edges of my attention. The way he listened more than he spoke. The way his gaze lifted occasionally, never lingering, but never absent either.
It wasn't staring.
It was checking.
As if he was making sure I was steady.
I told myself it meant nothing.
He was my aunt's son. Family. Familiar.
That should have been enough to quiet everything.
It wasn't.
After breakfast, I stood to rinse my plate. The sink faced the window. As I reached for the tap, my fingers brushed against a glass already placed there—aligned carefully at the edge, intentional.
I paused.
"That's mine," Ethan said quietly behind me.
I turned slightly. He stood closer than before—not invading, not touching—but near enough that I became acutely aware of my posture, of the space my body occupied.
My breath slowed.
"Sorry," I said, moving the glass aside.
"It's fine."
His gaze dropped briefly—to my hand, to the glass—then lifted again. The pause lasted less than a second.
It was enough.
I finished at the sink quickly, my thoughts tightening into order. This wasn't attraction. It couldn't be. There was no reason for my body to respond to him like this.
I set a rule for myself then—whatever this was, I would not let it grow.
Before leaving for college, I reached for my bag. Ethan stood near the door, keys in hand.
"You heading out?" my aunt asked him.
"Later," he replied. Then, to me, "You?"
"Yes."
He stepped aside to let me pass. No contact. No closeness.
Still, as I walked by, warmth lingered where distance should have erased it.
Outside, the air felt sharper. I walked faster than usual, grounding myself in motion.
At college, the day followed its usual rhythm. Lectures. Notes. Passing conversations.
Ryan met me between classes, his smile easy as he took my hand.
"You're quiet today," he said lightly. "I like that about you. You're always so composed."
The word composed stayed with me.
"I didn't sleep well," I replied.
He accepted that easily, squeezing my hand. Familiar. Comfortable.
And yet, without warning, my thoughts drifted—not toward Ethan himself, but toward the stillness he carried. The way my breathing had slowed around him without effort.
The comparison came uninvited.
Guilt followed immediately.
I shouldn't have been measuring anything at all.
Ryan kept talking—weekend plans, an upcoming test. I listened. Responded. Smiled when appropriate.
Everything was fine.
And somehow, that felt thinner than it used to.
That evening, Ethan's shoes were still by the door when I returned home.
Still here.
"Clara," my aunt called from the living room, "tell Ethan to eat. He's been working nonstop."
I stopped.
Tell Ethan.
As if it were normal for me to interrupt him. To enter his space.
I found him on the sofa, laptop open, posture relaxed but focused. When he looked up, his gaze landed on my face and stayed there.
Not soft. Not searching.
Intent.
"What?" he asked.
"Dinner," I said. "Aunt said—"
"I heard," he replied, closing the laptop slowly.
As he stood and walked past me, his shoulder came close enough that awareness flared again—quiet, controlled, undeniable.
This time, I didn't explain it away.
Because Ethan wasn't leaving.
He was here. In the house. In my routine.
And the most unsettling part wasn't that I noticed him—
It was the quiet certainty that if he stayed, I wouldn't remain unchanged.