It started with an argument.
It always did.
"You can't just waltz in here and decide you know what's best for her," Becky snapped, tossing her phone onto the coffee table. "You're not her father."
Ethan stood near the window, his arms crossed, jaw tight. Rain streaked the glass behind him, and the grey light cut sharp angles into his face. "And you think I don't know that?"
"You act like it," Becky said, rising from the couch, her voice rising with her. "Like you're in charge of both of us. Like you're the adult in the room and I'm some wild kid who needs taming."
Ethan looked at her for a long second. "Sometimes you are."
That landed like a slap.
Her cheeks flushed. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're scared half the time and covering it with sarcasm."
"And I know you're emotionally constipated and hiding behind floor plans."
He almost laughed—but didn't. "This isn't about us, Becky."
Her eyes burned. "Everything's about us, Ethan. Every glance, every silence, every breath in this goddamn apartment has become about us."
He said nothing. Just stood there, the air between them tightening like a wire stretched too far.
"I tried to keep it together," Becky whispered. "I tried to pretend I didn't feel this weird, impossible... pull. But then you covered me with a blanket like I meant something. You made me tea like we were normal. You see me when no one else does."
Ethan swallowed. His voice was rough. "You're not a secret, Becky."
"Then why do we live like we are?"
A beat.
She stepped closer, heart hammering in her chest.
He didn't move.
"Tell me you haven't thought about it," she said quietly. "About what would happen if lines were crossed."
"Don't."
"Why?"
"Because once it's said, it can't be unsaid."
Their faces were inches apart now. The storm outside thundered low, as if echoing the chaos in her chest.
"I don't want to unsay it," she breathed.
She could smell his skin—clean, like rain and cedar and something entirely him. His lips parted slightly. His hands clenched at his sides like they were fighting their own war.
He leaned in—just slightly, just enough for her to feel the whisper of his breath on her lips.
Becky's eyes fluttered shut.
A heartbeat passed.
Another.
Then—
He stepped back.
Abruptly. Sharply. Like he'd been burned.
"I can't," he muttered, turning away.
Becky's eyes snapped open. The room tilted.
"Ethan—"
"You're twenty-two."
"So?"
"You're my wife's daughter."
"I'm not a child."
"That's not the point," he said tightly. "It doesn't matter what you are. It matters what this is. It matters that it's wrong."
She stared at him, feeling like she'd been slapped and spun and abandoned all at once.
"Then maybe you shouldn't have made me feel like I mattered," she said.
"I didn't mean to."
"But you did."
He looked pained. "I know."
They stood in silence.
The storm outside roared louder now, like the sky was screaming for them.
Becky turned away first.
She walked down the hall, her fists clenched, her throat thick.
She didn't cry.
Not until she shut her bedroom door and pressed her back against it.
Not until the ache in her chest cracked wide open.
---
The next day was excruciating.
Becky avoided the kitchen. Ethan left early.
Her mom was still gone—meetings out of town, probably oblivious to the emotional wildfire erupting in her home.
Becky spent most of the day in her room, trying to focus on coursework, on anything but Ethan.
But his voice haunted every page.
That near kiss pulsed through her like static.
By evening, she ventured out for a glass of water, barefoot and in leggings, hair pulled into a messy knot. The penthouse was dim, lit only by the city's glow outside the windows.
She paused when she saw Ethan sitting alone on the balcony.
The sliding glass door was open an inch. A breeze slipped through.
He was drinking something—maybe whiskey—staring out over the skyline like the answers were hidden in the buildings.
She should've walked away.
But something pulled her forward.
She stepped onto the balcony.
He didn't turn.
"I'm not sorry," she said.
He closed his eyes.
"Not about almost kissing you. Not about the fact that I feel something I shouldn't."
Ethan set his glass down slowly. "You should be."
"Why?"
"Because this can't go anywhere."
"I'm not asking it to."
He turned to her finally. "Then what are you asking?"
She stepped closer. "That you stop pretending you don't feel it too."
He didn't deny it.
And that was worse than any rejection.
Because it meant the feelings were real.
And still impossible.
"You think I haven't been haunted by every look you give me?" he asked, voice low. "You think I haven't wanted to stop myself from seeing you as... more than I should?"
"Then stop lying."
"I'm trying to protect you."
"I don't need protection. I need truth."
He looked at her, expression carved with restraint.
"I want you," Becky whispered. "And it's wrong. But I do."
He reached for his glass again—this time not to drink, but to steady his hands.
"I wish I didn't," he said quietly.
Becky's heart twisted.
"But I do too."
The wind picked up, whipping a strand of hair into her face.
She stepped back, nodding.
That was all she needed.
Not a kiss. Not a touch.
Just that confession.
She walked away before the ache devoured her.
---
Later that night, Ethan stood outside her door.
He didn't knock.
He didn't speak.
He just stood there, fists in his pockets, head bowed.
Then he walked away.
Inside, Becky stared at the door.
And cried.
---