I woke with Ethan already inside me.
Not his touch.His presence.
It lingered beneath my skin like a slow, restless flame, impossible to ignore. I stared at the ceiling, my breath uneven, my thoughts scattered in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
Ethan is still here.
The realization sent a quiet heat through me, unwelcome and undeniable. I was Clara — composed, careful, the kind of girl who kept her feelings under control. Yet my body had spent the entire night aware of him: the sound of his steps in the hallway, the memory of his voice, the way the house had felt different simply because he was in it.
Nothing had happened.
And that was what made it worse.
I got out of bed, trying to shake the sensation, but it followed me like a shadow. Each movement felt slightly too deliberate, as if my body was waiting for something it didn't want to admit it needed.
Footsteps echoed outside my room.
Slow.Unhurried.
Ethan.
My pulse responded instantly, sharp and traitorous. I hadn't even seen him yet, but every part of me was already aware of where he was, how close he was, how the air itself seemed to adjust around him.
I stepped into the hallway just as he was fastening his watch, jacket resting against his shoulders. When he looked up, something passed between us — not a smile, not a look — just a quiet recognition that made the space feel suddenly smaller.
"Morning," Ethan said.
The word slid into me far too easily.
"Morning," I replied, hating how soft it sounded.
I should have looked away.
I didn't.
There was something dangerously attractive about the way he carried himself — controlled, distant, as if he were always holding something back. Being near him felt like standing beside a locked door I wasn't supposed to want to open.
And yet every part of me leaned toward it.
"I'm heading out," Ethan said calmly. "There's something I need to pick up."
"I was going anyway," I heard myself say.
The words left my mouth too quickly, as if some part of me had already decided before I could stop it.
He nodded once, and that small agreement sent a ripple of heat through me that made no sense at all.
We walked out together without another word.
The morning air was cool, but I felt warm — too warm — aware of how close he was beside me, of the way his steps matched mine without effort. Every time our arms came close, my body reacted, anticipating something I refused to name.
At the corner store, the silence between us grew heavier. Not awkward. Charged.
"You don't like crowds," Ethan said quietly.
I glanced at him. "You remember that?"
"Yes."
The ease of his answer unsettled me. Being remembered like that felt far too intimate, far too close to being known.
At the counter, the cashier looked at us and smiled in a way that made my stomach tighten. No words were spoken, but the implication lingered anyway.
Ethan felt it too. I saw it in the way his jaw tightened briefly, in the way he hesitated before stepping aside. He didn't correct the assumption. Neither did I.
Outside, I slowed my pace without meaning to. He slowed with me.
"You were admired," I said lightly, needing to break the silence.
He looked at me for a moment. "Admiration isn't the same as connection."
The words struck something deep inside me, resonating in a way I didn't want to examine too closely.
On our way back, a woman called his name.
"Ethan!"
She approached with a smile that was warm, familiar. I watched the way she looked at him — with ease, with something that felt like history.
"You're back," she said. "The school's been asking about you. The students still talk about your lectures."
Something sharp twisted in my chest.
I hadn't expected it.
Jealousy.
The word surfaced before I could push it away.
"I'm only here briefly," Ethan replied, polite but distant.
"You should come by," she insisted. "They'd love to see you."
His gaze flicked to me for the briefest second — not asking, not inviting — just acknowledging.
That glance did more to me than her words ever could.
As we walked away, the silence between us felt tighter.
"You were popular," I said.
He exhaled slowly. "That's not what matters."
"What does?"
He didn't answer.
And the absence of an answer made my pulse quicken.
Back at the house, I put the bags down too quickly, needing space. Air. Something solid to hold onto.
Later, Ryan called.
"You sounded distant today," he said. "Everything okay?"
"Yes," I replied.
"With him?" he asked, half-joking, half-not.
The question hit too close.
"Don't imagine things," I said.
"I'm not," Ryan replied, but his tone wasn't entirely convincing.
After the call ended, I sat in the dark longer than necessary, my thoughts restless. I hadn't done anything wrong.
So why did I feel like something inside me had shifted?
That night, the house was quiet again.
I lay in bed listening to distant movement — a door closing softly, footsteps passing down the hallway. Ethan didn't stop at my door. He never crossed the line.
But my body stayed awake, alert to his nearness, aching with awareness I hadn't invited.
And that was when I understood the truth I had been avoiding:
The danger wasn't that Ethan might come closer.
It was that every time he chose distance, it made me want him more.
If you'd like, we can move straight into Chapter 11 — where Ethan enters the school setting and the romantic tension rises even further.