Chapter 4: Things That Shouldn’t Feel Good
Ethan’s POV
The storm outside rolled in without warning—like most things lately.
It was past midnight. The kind of hour where everything was quiet, except your thoughts. The refrigerator hummed. Rain tapped against the kitchen windows. And the only light came from the stove’s faint blue glow.
Ethan stood at the sink, a glass of water in one hand, the other gripping the counter like he needed something solid to remind him where he was.
He hadn't been able to sleep. Again.
Not after Cathy’s visit. Not after the questions she didn’t ask but pressed into his chest like guilt. Not after the way Janina had walked past them earlier, her perfume clinging to the hallways longer than she did.
"Can't sleep?"
Her voice was low, almost apologetic, like she hadn’t meant to interrupt the silence.
He didn’t look. He didn’t need to. He knew it was her.
Janina stepped into the kitchen barefoot, arms wrapped around herself. She wore one of Gregory’s old button-down shirts—blue cotton, a bit too big, the sleeves rolled. She looked nothing like the woman he met months ago. The newness of her had faded. But something else had settled in. A kind of softness. Or sadness. He couldn’t tell which.
"Do I look like I’m asleep?" Ethan answered, his voice sharper than intended.
She ignored it. "The storm woke me."
He looked over his shoulder. “Liar.”
Janina’s lips twitched. “You’re getting good at reading people.”
“Only the ones who don’t say what they mean.”
She moved closer, leaning against the opposite side of the counter, across from him. “That must be exhausting.”
“What?”
“Seeing through everyone.”
He chuckled dryly. “It is. Which is why I avoid most people.”
Janina tilted her head. “So why not avoid me?”
The question hung there. Heavy. Loaded.
Ethan set the glass down. “Because you’re here.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know.”
She let out a breath, the kind that sounded too much like a surrender. “I don’t think I’ve hated anyone more than you when we first met.”
He smiled bitterly. “The feeling was mutual.”
There was silence again, this time warmer. Like something dangerous curled beneath it.
The rain intensified outside. Thunder cracked like a warning.
“I made chamomile,” Janina offered. “Might help you sleep.”
“I don’t drink tea.”
She smirked. “Still stubborn.”
He didn’t answer. Just watched her move. How she reached for the kettle, how she didn’t ask before making a second cup. As if… this was normal. As if they were.
Ethan sat at the small kitchen table. She slid him a mug without a word, then sat across from him.
“I thought love was supposed to fix people,” she whispered after a moment.
“It doesn’t.”
“I know that now.”
He looked at her. Not at the steam rising from the mug. Not at the rain. Just… her.
“You loved him?” Ethan asked.
Her eyes didn’t flinch. “Not at first.”
“And now?”
“I’m trying.”
“That sounds like a lie.”
“It’s survival,” she corrected. “And sometimes they look the same.”
He swallowed, throat tight. “You don’t have to survive here.”
She met his gaze. “Don’t I?”
There it was again. That quiet ache between them. That pull neither of them asked for. That space that used to be made of hate and obligation—and was slowly becoming… something else.
Maybe worse.
Ethan reached out instinctively, brushing his fingers across hers—just to prove she was real. Just to feel something.
She didn’t pull away.
Big mistake.
The touch was barely anything. A second. Maybe less. But it was electric.
Wrong.
Inappropriate.
Unspoken.
He froze. So did she.
Their eyes locked. No more tea. No more storm. Just the pounding silence of this—whatever this was.
Her voice cracked when she whispered, “You shouldn’t… do that.”
“I know.”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
He stood abruptly, chair scraping the floor. “I should go.”
“You should.”
But neither of them moved.
The tension snapped first in his chest. Then in hers.
He turned and left, footsteps retreating fast up the stairs, each one echoing like a warning shot.
Janina stayed, hand still on the table, right where he touched her.
The rain kept falling.
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