Ethan's POV
Mornings are supposed to feel fresh, full of potential. Mine just feel like déjà vu in a better suit.
By 6:30 a.m., I'm at the kitchen counter, espresso in hand, reading through market reports that all say the same thing: make more money. The city outside my window is already awake — glass towers glinting in the sun, traffic humming like an impatient heartbeat. Somewhere below, people are falling in love, making plans, and living lives that don't revolve around stock performance.
I'm answering emails.
Carl, my driver, shows up precisely at seven, because he's punctual and I pay him well to be. He greets me with his usual calm nod.
"Morning, sir. Same route?"
"Yes," I say, barely glancing up.
He doesn't take it personally. Most people stopped expecting conversation from me years ago.
My calendar is full — meetings, calls, more meetings. I could recite quarterly figures in my sleep, but I couldn't tell you the last time I laughed until it hurt. That's the tradeoff when you're good at what you do: people stop expecting you to be anything else.
By noon, my inbox looks like a battlefield. By five, I've closed two deals, alienated three executives, and ignored half a dozen calls from my mother.
By seven, I've run out of excuses.
---
The Crawford townhouse smells like fresh flowers, wine, and subtle judgment.
"Darling!" my mother beams the moment I walk in, arms open like she's hosting a televised reunion special. "You're late."
"Traffic," I lie automatically.
"Traffic doesn't exist for you," she says, kissing my cheek. "That's what drivers are for."
At the table sits Liam — my stepbrother — lounging like a man who's never had a serious thought in his life. He grins when he sees me, glass of wine already in hand.
"Ethan," he says, "you look like a man who hasn't seen sunlight since the fiscal year began."
"Some of us work for a living," I reply, taking my seat.
He smirks. "And some of us live for a living."
Victoria sighs dramatically, the international sign for my sons exhaust me. "Let's not start the evening with testosterone."
Dinner is an elaborate setup, as usual — candlelight, impeccable table settings, and the faint hum of a hidden agenda.
Halfway through the main course, my mother sets down her fork with surgical precision.
"So," she says sweetly, "when are you going to give me grandchildren, Ethan?"
I nearly choke on my wine. "Excuse me?"
"Don't act surprised," Liam says, laughing. "She brings this up every week."
"I'm thirty, not ancient."
"And still single," Victoria counters, sipping her Chardonnay. "At your age, your father had two children and a mortgage."
"And a stress-induced ulcer," I remind her.
She waves a hand. "Details. You need balance, darling. Someone to share your life with. Someone to make sure you don't die at your desk."
Liam raises his glass. "To not dying alone with spreadsheets!"
"Touching," I mutter.
"Come on," he says, grinning. "You just need to lighten up. Try a dating app."
I blink. "A what?"
"You know," he teases, "those modern things where people pretend to be normal until they meet in person."
"Sounds horrifying."
"It's efficient," he argues. "Think of it like mergers and acquisitions, but with emotions."
"That's the worst analogy I've ever heard."
"Still," my mother says in her most dangerous tone — the one that always wins — "he's right. You work too hard. You need to meet someone before you forget how to smile."
"I smile."
"When?"
I don't answer.
That's how I end up agreeing. Not because I want to, but because it's easier than listening to both of them for another hour.
"Fine," I say. "I'll download it."
Liam cheers like I've just announced my engagement. "Finally! Ethan Crawford enters the twenty-first century."
---
Back home, I pour myself another drink and sit on the couch, staring at my phone.
Downloading a dating app feels absurd. Me, of all people — the man whose assistant has to schedule his personal time — now scrolling through strangers like I'm buying stock.
I tell myself I'm just curious. Research, even.
But then I start swiping.
Profile after profile blurs together — forced smiles, quotes about adventure, bios that all sound like corporate mission statements.
Then I stop.
There's something about her.
She's not posing, not selling herself. Just… smiling, mid-laugh, coffee cup in hand, a bit of sunlight catching her hair. It's the kind of photo that feels like a moment instead of a performance.
And for some reason, I swipe right.
A second later, the words flash across the screen: It's a Match.
I stare at it longer than I probably should. Normally, I'd close the app and move on. But I don't.
Something about her lingers.
---
Days pass.
Between board meetings and reports, I catch myself checking the app. It's ridiculous — I've negotiated billion-dollar contracts without blinking, but the thought of sending one message to a stranger has me hesitating like a nervous intern.
What am I supposed to say? Hi, I'm Ethan Crawford, emotionally unavailable businessman seeking mild chaos?
Every time I think about messaging her, I close the app instead. She doesn't message me either.
After a week, I assume that's that.
But one night, I can't sleep. It's past midnight, my mind buzzing with numbers and noise. I open the app again. Her profile's still there — same smile, same effortless warmth.
Maybe it's the exhaustion, maybe it's the wine, or maybe it's the faint echo of my mother saying, You need to meet someone before you forget how to smile.
Whatever the reason, I type something before I can stop myself.
Me: So, I'm assuming the silence means you're either incredibly mysterious or you've been kidnapped by caffeine addicts.
I hover over the send button for a full minute. Then I press it.
Immediately, i regret it.
It's stupid. Too casual. Too unlike me.
I put my phone face down and lean back on the couch, telling myself it doesn't matter. That it's just one message.
Then my phone vibrates.
She replied.
Her: Would you believe a little of both?
I feel my lips twitch — an involuntary smile, small but real.
And just like that, we're talking.
Her messages are quick, funny, sharp in the best way. She makes me laugh — not the polite chuckle I give in meetings, but an actual laugh that surprises me with how human it sounds.
The conversation flows easily, like we've been doing this for ages. I forget about the time, the deadlines, even the reports waiting on my desk.
When we finally say goodnight, I don't put the phone down right away. I just stare at the screen, rereading her words, wondering how a stranger managed to make my world feel less… quiet.
It's been a long time since anyone did that.
And for once, I don't mind the noise.