Ethan's penthouse was silent when he unlocked the door that evening. The echo of his own footsteps felt louder than usual. He had grown used to Sally's presence, even if it was perfumed arguments and her self-absorbed rants, at least the apartment wasn't empty.
Now it was.
He dropped his briefcase by the door, loosened his tie, and scanned the living room. Her shoes were gone. The silk scarf she often tossed carelessly on the armchair was missing too. A faint irritation pricked his chest.
He pulled out his phone and dialed.
"Number you are trying to call is switched off," the robotic voice informed him. He tried again. Same result.
Ethan let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Typical Sally."
He headed into the bedroom, peeling off his shirt as he went. The day had drained him—the constant meetings, the mask of composure he had to wear as ColeTech's unseen captain, and Sally's earlier tantrum at the office. For once, he wanted silence. But in that silence, another face filled his mind.
Martha.
Her fire, her boldness, the way her eyes cut into him when she spoke. He remembered the coffee shop where she had confronted him before, her laughter that sounded unfiltered, nothing like the rehearsed giggles he was used to.
He found himself craving that authenticity tonight.
After a quick shower, he slipped into a dark polo shirt and jeans, casual yet sharp. He tousled his hair with his fingers in the mirror, exhaled slowly, then off he went. His body moved before his doubts could catch up.
---
Martha was exactly where he expected her to be, tucked in her favorite corner of the Brooklyn café, her laptop open, a half-empty mug of cappuccino beside her. The glow from the screen reflected off her glasses. She was typing furiously, her lips pressed together in determination.
Ethan stood there for a moment, just watching her. Something about the way she immersed herself in her work, unpretentious and focused, stirred something deep in him.
"Don't just stand there like a stalker," Martha said without looking up, sensing his presence.
He chuckled, sliding into the seat across from her. "You always know when I'm around."
"I have instincts." She glanced up finally, her expression guarded but softening slightly when she met his eyes. "What are you doing here? Shouldn't you be at some volunteer work?"
"Skipped that," he said, leaning back. "I was hoping to see you instead."
Her eyebrows arched. "Smooth. But you know I'm busy."
"I can see that," Ethan said, nodding at her laptop. "But even warriors need to eat. Have dinner with me."
Martha hesitated. "Ethan, I'm not exactly in the mood for—"
"Don't think," he cut in gently. "Just say yes."
Something in his tone, the mixture of confidence and vulnerability, made her pause. Finally, she sighed, closing her laptop. "Fine. But don't expect me to wear something different."
He grinned. "You're perfect as you are."
---
The restaurant he took her to gleamed with chandeliers and golden accents, the kind of place where waiters moved like shadows and glasses clinked softly in the background. Martha's eyes widened as they stepped inside.
"Ethan, this place is ridiculous," she whispered, tugging at his arm. "Do you know how much a glass of water here probably costs?"
He smirked, leading her to their reserved table. "Relax. I got a bonus at work. Figured I'd spoil myself."
Martha narrowed her eyes at him. "Bonus, huh? And what exactly do you do again?"
"Finance," he lied smoothly, though a flash of guilt flashed through him. "It's boring. You'd fall asleep if I explained."
The waiter handed them menus bound in leather. Martha flipped through hers and groaned. "Ethan, these prices—one entrée is what I spend on groceries for a week."
He leaned forward, eyes glinting with mischief. "Then consider this your groceries for the month, in one delicious meal."
She tried to glare at him but burst out laughing. "You're impossible."
Over appetizers and wine, the atmosphere softened. Martha spoke passionately about her online work—how she wanted to use her platform to keep people accountable, how exhausting it was to fight the tide of corporate spin. Ethan listened, captivated. He admired her fire, but part of him winced—she had no idea who she was dining with .
By the time dessert arrived, they were both laughing easily, leaning closer across the table, the rest of the restaurant fading into the background.
When the bill came, Martha tried to peek. Ethan slid it out of sight, placed his black card inside, and said simply, "I've got it."
"You didn't have to—"
"I wanted to." He held her gaze, and something unspoken passed between them.
---
As they stepped outside, the cool night wrapped around them. Ethan shoved his hands into his pockets, unsure for once of his next move.
Martha tilted her head, studying him. "You're quieter than usual."
"Just thinking." He hesitated, then asked, "Would it be crazy if I said I don't want the night to end yet?"
Her lips curved into a teasing smile. "Depends. Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting?"
He gave a half-smile. "I'm asking if I'm invited over."
She bit her lip, torn. Part of her screamed that this was dangerous—that letting him in would blur lines she had drawn for her own protection. But the warmth in his eyes disarmed her.
Finally, she whispered, "Alright. But don't judge my apartment. It's Brooklyn.
"I'll like it," he said simply.
---
Martha's apartment was small but alive. Potted plants lined the window sills, shelves brimmed with books and candles, and a faint scent of lavender lingered in the air. Ethan took it all in, smiling.
"This is… you," he said softly.
Martha shrugged, tossing her bag on the couch. "It's cramped."
"It's real," he countered. "I like real."
Their eyes met, and the air between them thickened. She stepped closer, close enough for him to smell her perfume, something light and floral.
"You're staring," she said quietly.
"Can't help it," he replied, his voice husky.
The first kiss was tentative, testing. Then it deepened, her hands clutching his shirt, his arms circling her waist. The tension that had been simmering for weeks finally snapped, replaced by fire.
Clothes fell, one piece after another, until they stumbled into her bedroom. Their laughter gave way to gasps, to whispers of names, to the language of skin on skin. Ethan kissed every inch of her like he was memorizing her, while Martha surrendered with a mix of passion and disbelief.
For her, this wasn't supposed to happen, he was a mystery, a storm, someone she barely knew. Yet with him, she felt more alive than she had in years.
For him, this was more than lust. This was escape, connection, a dangerous sweetness he couldn't afford but craved anyway.
When it was over, they lay tangled in sheets, breathless. Martha traced circles on his chest, while Ethan stared at the ceiling, trying not to think of Sally, of secrets, of the empire he kept h
idden.
For tonight, there was only her.
And for the first time in a long while, Ethan Cole felt almost… human.