The new house across the road was a fortress of clean lines and floor-to-ceiling windows. It stood in sharp contrast to Lena's cottage—modest, slightly crooked, sun-warmed, and full of mismatched charm.
Ethan had the bigger house.
But Lena had the home.
He watched her from the balcony most evenings, hidden behind glass or shaded curtains. She didn't seem to notice—or perhaps she did and simply chose not to acknowledge him.
She was always moving. Always humming.
Watering her plants, brushing dust off the porch swing, carrying firewood like it weighed nothing.
She looked… complete.
And it maddened him.
When Ethan had first returned to the city after Fernhollow, he'd tried to bury the restlessness she stirred in him. He drowned in meetings, numbers, deadlines. But Lena's expression—the one she wore that night in the rain when she offered him the guest room without a trace of the girl who once adored him—kept haunting him.
She had changed.
And it made him want to see more.
So he did something he had never done in his life.
He left the city without telling anyone. Bought land. Built a house in a village with no convenience store. And watched her live.
Lena had no idea how long the new owner had been there.
She saw signs—flickers of light at night, the low hum of music, a delivery truck here and there—but no one came to the door.
Until one late afternoon, when she returned from the market and saw him.
Ethan Cross, standing on the edge of his new garden in rolled-up sleeves and designer boots that clearly weren't meant for dirt.
Their eyes met.
And something cracked.
"You moved here?" she asked, voice neutral.
"I had some interest in the land," he replied, casual.
She said nothing. He made no effort to explain further.
"Do you always stare at your neighbors from the window?"
"I stare at you."
Her breath caught.
She turned sharply and walked toward her house.
He didn't follow.
But that night, he left a small bundle of fresh groceries on her doorstep—eggs, flour, a note that simply read: You forgot these at the store.
She didn't remember forgetting.
She also didn't return the basket.
A strange rhythm settled between them.
They didn't speak much. But they shared space.
When she left for town, he sometimes handed her his parcel to post.
When she baked, she sometimes left half a pie on his step.
He never knocked.
She never waved.
But the silence wasn't cold.
It was… tentative.
Like two people circling a fire, unsure if it would burn them again.
Then came the message from her brother.
Lena sat on her porch with the phone to her ear, her eyes wide, her mouth trembling.
Her nephew. The accident. The emergency surgery they couldn't afford.
She hung up in a daze.
She didn't cry—not yet.
She walked slowly to the garden, sat in the dirt, and stared at the marigolds she had planted.
And then… her shoulders trembled.
Her arms wrapped around her knees.
She finally wept.
That's when she heard the thud.
She looked up and saw him—Ethan—jumping down from his yard wall and landing in her garden, panting slightly from the effort.
He was in front of her in seconds.
"What happened?" he asked, voice rough with worry.
She couldn't speak. She could only reach out.
He sat down right there in the dirt.
And she clung to him, sobbing into his shoulder, heart breaking all over again.
Later, when her cries had quieted and she realized she'd left tear stains on his expensive shirt, she tried to pull away.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean to trouble you."
He grabbed her hand.
"Stop doing that."
She blinked.
"Stop pretending you're made of stone. Stop putting up a wall between us."
"I just…" Her voice cracked. "My nephew… they need to transfer him to a better hospital. But they can't afford it."
Ethan stood.
He pulled out his phone.
Made a call.
Within the hour, her nephew was being moved to the best pediatric facility in the country. A team of specialists were already on the way.
She stared at him.
"I don't know how to repay you."
"Then don't," he said. "Just… let me be here."
He offered her a job.
Translation work for his international meetings—most of which happened late at night due to time zones.
She hesitated.
He added, "You can do it from here. At my house. There's better internet."
She hesitated more.
"I'll pay more than market rate," he said.
She agreed.
And just like that, Lena Hart found herself working every evening in the house across the road—quietly, professionally, while he pretended he wasn't watching her from over the rim of his coffee mug.
It was the strangest peace.
And it felt dangerously close to something like home.