I didn't know Ethan was coming to the school.
No one told me directly. It wasn't announced to me like a headline. I only heard it the way small things become big — through fragments.
In the corridor, two students passed me, whispering with excitement.
"Did you hear? Ethan Carter is here."
"The Ethan? The guest lecture guy?"
"He used to study here. They said he was the best."
The name tightened something in my chest before my mind caught up.
Ethan.
I stopped walking for a second, pretending to check my phone. My pulse had already shifted — not fast, not panicked — just sharpened, as if my body had recognized a change in the air.
I told myself I didn't care.
Then I walked toward the lecture hall without thinking about why.
The door was half open. I stood outside, invisible in the crowd, and saw him at the front of the room.
Ethan wasn't wearing anything flashy — just a dark shirt, sleeves rolled, the same controlled simplicity. But in this setting, he looked different. Not the quiet presence in my aunt's kitchen.
Here, he looked… anchored.
He spoke calmly, without trying to impress, and somehow that made every word hold weight. Students leaned forward. Even the teachers looked attentive, smiling like they were proud to have him back.
I watched the way he held eye contact when someone asked a question — steady, patient, never rushed. I watched the way he listened, as if he actually respected the room.
It did something to me.
Not admiration. Not exactly.
Something lower. Warmer. More dangerous.
A female teacher stepped closer to him after the lecture ended, laughing softly at something he said. She touched his arm lightly — not romantic, just casual familiarity — and the sight hit me like a sharp, unwanted spark.
I didn't move.
I didn't react outwardly.
But inside, my chest tightened with irritation I couldn't justify.
Why should that bother me?
Ethan wasn't mine.
He wasn't anyone's.
And yet the idea of someone else standing close to him, claiming his attention so easily, made something turn inside me.
Jealousy, I realized with a cold clarity.
Sharp. Silent. Undeniable.
I turned away before my expression could betray me.
The library felt like the only place in the school where my thoughts didn't echo back too loudly. I slipped inside, choosing a table near the window, far from the main aisle. My books lay open in front of me, but the words didn't settle.
I tried to read.
I tried to act normal.
But my mind kept replaying the sight of Ethan at the front of the room — admired, respected, listened to. He didn't chase attention, and that made it gather around him anyway.
I hated how much I noticed.
I hated how easily my body responded — the quiet warmth, the tightening focus, the way my breath kept falling out of rhythm.
I wrote a few lines of notes just to force my hand to move.
Then the chair across from me scraped softly.
I looked up.
Ethan stood there, a book in his hand, gaze calm.
For a second, neither of us spoke.
The library was too quiet for silence to feel harmless.
"I didn't know you'd be here," I said, the words leaving my mouth before I could soften them.
"I didn't plan it," he replied. "They asked last minute."
He didn't sit immediately. He hesitated — as if measuring the moment — then pulled the chair out and sat across from me, the same deliberate distance he always kept.
Not close enough to touch.
Close enough to feel.
I forced myself to look back down at my book.
It didn't help.
The awareness of him across the table was worse than closeness. His presence pressed into the space like heat trapped behind glass — visible, contained, impossible to ignore.
"You always liked the library," he said.
I glanced up, caught off guard. "You remember that too?"
Ethan's gaze held mine for a beat longer than necessary.
"Yes," he said quietly.
The word landed like a hand on my throat — not tightening, not hurting — just claiming space.
I looked away first.
I hated that I did.
A few minutes passed. Paper turned. Pens moved. The library continued as if nothing was happening.
But my body stayed alert, aware of his smallest movements — the way he leaned back slightly, the way his fingers rested on the edge of the table, the way his eyes lifted occasionally to check if I was still there.
Not staring.
Checking.
The same thing I had noticed at home.
I shifted in my seat, trying to ground myself.
Ethan's voice came again, quieter. "You look tired."
"I'm fine," I replied, too quickly.
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if he didn't believe me.
The silence that followed felt intimate in a way words couldn't match.
Then my phone vibrated.
A message from Ryan: Where are you?
I stared at it for a second, then stood up, gathering my books.
"I have to go," I said.
Ethan didn't ask where.
He simply watched me — calm, unreadable.
Outside the library, Ryan was waiting near the corridor, leaning casually against the wall as if he owned the space. When he saw me, his face softened immediately.
"There you are," Ryan said, and reached for my hand.
I let him take it.
Not because I wanted to prove anything.
Because it was familiar.
Because I was suddenly aware of Ethan behind me, even without turning around.
Ryan's gaze dropped briefly to my books. "Studying?"
"Yes."
He smiled. "You've been busy lately."
Before I could answer, I heard footsteps behind me — measured, unhurried.
Ethan.
I didn't turn fully. I didn't need to.
Ryan did, though. His expression remained polite, curious.
"Hey," Ryan said, friendly. "You're Ethan, right? Everyone's talking about your lecture."
Ethan stopped a few feet away. The distance he kept was sharp now — not casual, not comfortable.
"Yes," Ethan replied.
His voice was calm, but something in the air tightened.
Ryan smiled, still easy. "You're my girlfriend's cousin?"
The word girlfriend felt like it struck the space between us.
Ethan's gaze moved to me — quick, controlled — then away.
"No," he said evenly. "Aunt's son."
The correction was small.
But it carried weight.
Ryan laughed lightly. "Right, right. Family. Nice to meet you."
Ethan nodded once, offering nothing more. Not warmth. Not friendliness. Not jealousy anyone could accuse him of.
Only restraint.
And somehow, that restraint felt sharper than anger.
"Clara," Ethan said quietly.
Just my name.
I looked at him.
His eyes held mine for a moment — deep, steady — as if he wanted to say something and chose not to.
Then he stepped back, creating distance with precision.
"I'll see you later," he said.
Not a question. Not an invitation.
A statement that sounded like control.
He turned and walked away.
Ryan squeezed my hand. "He's… intense," he murmured, amused.
I didn't answer.
Because my heart was doing something it shouldn't have been doing — tightening, pulling, aching — not because Ethan left, but because he left like he had chosen it.
Like distance was his weapon.
And the most dangerous truth pressed itself into my thoughts as I watched his back disappear into the crowd:
Ethan didn't come closer.
He never crossed the line.
But every time he stepped away, it felt like he took something with him.
Something I hadn't agreed to give.