8:06 p.m. — Havenwood Bistro, Downtown
They had just received the wine. Ethan had poured her glass first. Always deliberate.
Sienna smiled faintly and said, "I've been wanting to talk about everything before it gets… complicated."
Ethan leaned forward. "Already is."
That's when the shadow appeared near their table.
Blake.
White dress shirt, sleeves rolled. Tan watchband. Hands in pockets like he owned the air around him.
"Sienna," he said warmly, eyes flicking to Ethan with that same practiced calm.
Sienna stiffened. "Blake…? What are you—"
"I saw your car outside," he said casually. "Didn't expect to run into you. But…" (he turned to Ethan) "…maybe this is a good thing. I hate unfinished business."
Ethan didn't move. "Then finish it."
Blake smirked slightly. "I just wanted to make sure there's no hard feelings. Sienna and I have history. She's been through a lot. I've seen her darkest and her brightest."
"That's a lot of light for someone you let go," Ethan said smoothly.
Blake's eyes flickered.
Sienna interjected. "Blake. This isn't the time."
But Ethan held up a hand. Calm. He kept his tone clinical.
"I got your message," he said. "If you were trying to warn me off, I appreciate the effort. But I don't take advice from men who confuse comfort with value."
Blake narrowed his eyes, voice cooling. "She chose me once for a reason."
Ethan stood slowly, gaze unwavering. "And she's here tonight for a reason too."
Sienna stood between them now. She didn't touch either of them. Just spoke, voice clear.
"Blake. You don't get to drop by and stake a claim you already walked away from. You broke things. You don't get to re-enter the story because someone else started turning the page."
There it was.
A rupture.
Blake stood still for a moment.
Then gave a faint, ironic smile.
"I guess we're rewriting things then. Good luck."
And he left.
Sienna exhaled.
Ethan didn't touch her hand—but his energy wrapped around her like a shield.
No need to say we won.
She felt it.
---
Aftermath
9:42 p.m. — Ethan's Apartment, Uptown District
The elevator ride was silent.
Not heavy—just... full. Like both of them were still replaying the conversation in their heads, word by word, frame by frame.
Ethan's keycard slid through the lock. A soft beep, then the magnetic click of the door opening.
Inside, the lights were low. The apartment smelled faintly of bergamot and cedarwood. Everything was neat, but not obsessive. Books stacked in precise corners. Two whiskey glasses already set on the counter.
He never liked coming back to chaos.
Sienna stepped in slowly, her heels soft against the hardwood floor. She didn't speak immediately. She was still carrying the tension in her shoulders—like her body hadn't been given permission to relax yet.
Ethan poured two fingers of whiskey. Handed her one glass.
She took it, eyes lingering on his for a moment longer than necessary.
"You knew he might show up," she finally said, voice low.
Ethan didn't flinch. "I didn't know. I was just prepared if he did."
She nodded, swirling the amber liquid slowly. "You didn't lose your temper. Even when he tried to bait you."
"I don't perform for other men."
Her lips curved slightly. "That's rare."
He took a slow sip, then leaned against the kitchen counter.
"I wasn't there to prove anything to him. I was there to watch you."
That made her pause.
She placed the glass down gently, almost too carefully.
"You think I failed a test tonight?" she asked, her voice tighter now, defensive.
Ethan shook his head. "It wasn't a test. But it was a mirror."
Sienna folded her arms. "And what did you see?"
He set his drink down.
"Someone caught between the past and the present. Someone who hasn't fully chosen yet—but is tired of being chosen for."
The silence after that was sharp. Not hostile—just exposed.
Sienna looked away, toward the large window overlooking the skyline. The lights of the city flickered faintly on the glass, like static in the night.
"When he left," she whispered, "I broke down for two weeks straight. Not because I missed him—because I couldn't believe I let someone see that version of me and still leave."
Ethan stepped closer, not touching her—just anchoring her with presence.
"And now?"
She turned, slowly, her eyes softer.
"Now I feel like if I don't let someone see me fully, I'm the one leaving."
The words hit differently.
Honest.
Naked.
Ethan didn't respond right away. Instead, he lifted his hand—slowly, deliberately—and brushed a strand of hair behind her ear. Not possessive. Just... grounding.
"I don't need you to be over him," he said quietly. "I just need to know you're not still holding space for him."
She inhaled sharply, eyes locked on his.
"I'm not."
"You sure?"
She didn't blink. "Yes."
A pause.
Then—finally—he leaned in. Not fast. Not needy. His forehead rested lightly against hers. They stayed there, motionless, for a long breath.
No kiss. Not yet.
Just presence.
Heat. Electricity.
Emotion like a tide that hadn't broken yet—but was pulling every nerve toward the edge.
"You're not an echo of him," she whispered.
"And you're not my second choice," he murmured back.
Another breath.
Then they parted—by a few inches only. Both still tethered.
---
10:03 p.m. – The Couch
Sienna sat cross-legged, blanket over her thighs, glass of water in hand. Shoes off. Hair slightly undone.
Ethan sat across from her, elbow resting on the backrest, watching her.
Not like a man who wanted to devour her.
But like a man who had already begun memorizing her.
"You ever think," she said suddenly, "that some people from our past only show up again to test if we've actually healed?"
Ethan nodded. "Sometimes the test isn't about them—it's about whether we still need to explain ourselves."
She tilted her head. "Did you ever have someone you never got closure with?"
He thought for a moment.
Then: "No. I became the closure."
That made her quiet.
And slowly—almost shyly—she shifted closer.
Not into his arms.
But beside him.
Their shoulders touched.
And that was enough.