The next morning felt… lighter.
Not perfect.
Not magically healed.
Just lighter.
Like the air wasn't pressing down on my chest anymore.
Ethan texted first.
"Are you awake?"
I smiled at my screen.
"Obviously."
"Come outside."
I frowned.
Outside?
I hadn't even brushed properly.
I rushed to the window.
And there he was.
Leaning on his bike.
Black hoodie.
Hands in his pockets.
Looking way too calm for someone who almost had an emotional breakdown yesterday.
I grabbed my slippers and ran downstairs.
"You don't sleep?" I asked as soon as I got close.
He shrugged. "Not much."
But he smiled.
A real one.
And that alone made something warm spread inside me.
"What are you doing here?" I asked.
He looked at me like the answer was obvious.
"I wanted to see you."
Simple.
No drama.
Just that.
I tried not to blush like a teenager.
"Since when are you this soft?"
"Don't start," he warned lightly.
I laughed.
And for a second…
Everything felt normal again.
"Come," he said.
"Where?"
"You'll see."
I narrowed my eyes.
"If you kidnap me, I'll scream."
"You're already screaming every time you see me."
I gasped. "You're not serious."
He grinned and handed me a helmet.
That grin?
Yeah.
That's the Ethan I fell for.
He didn't take me far.
Just to a small rooftop café not too busy.
Quiet music playing.
Morning sun not too harsh.
The kind of place people go when they don't want the world watching.
We sat opposite each other.
No hospital smell.
No beeping machines.
Just coffee and soft wind.
"This is nice," I admitted.
He nodded.
"I needed normal."
I understood that.
Sometimes after heavy moments, you crave simple things.
Food. Sunlight. Laughter.
He watched me for a while.
Not in a creepy way.
Just observing.
"What?" I asked.
"You stayed," he said quietly.
I rolled my eyes. "We've discussed this."
"I know."
He leaned back in his chair.
"But still."
His voice softened.
"You didn't look at me differently after yesterday."
That surprised me.
"Was I supposed to?"
He hesitated.
"Most people don't like messy families."
I reached across the table and tapped his hand lightly.
"News flash. Nobody's family is clean."
That made him smile.
"You don't think less of me?"
"For what? Having parents who made mistakes?"
He didn't answer.
But his shoulders relaxed slightly.
And that's when I realized something.
He wasn't scared of becoming his father.
He was scared of becoming unlovable.
"You're overthinking again," I said.
He gave me a look.
"I always overthink."
"I know."
"And you still like me?"
"Unfortunately."
He laughed.
And God.
That sound?
It felt like victory.
We stayed there longer than planned.
Talking about random things.
Music. Football. Childhood memories.
He even told me about the first time he fell off a bike and cried in front of his cousins.
"I was eight," he defended.
"Still dramatic," I said.
He reached across the table and flicked my forehead lightly.
"You're lucky I like you."
I leaned back.
"Say it again."
He paused.
Eyes locking with mine.
But this time it wasn't playful.
It was serious.
"I like you," he said slowly.
Not loud.
Not grand.
Just steady.
And my heartbeat betrayed me immediately.
"Only like?" I teased softly.
He didn't look away.
"I'm getting there."
That felt more honest than a rushed confession.
And I respected that.
When we left the café, the world didn't feel heavy anymore.
We walked instead of riding immediately.
Hands brushing slightly.
Not holding fully.
Just close.
Comfortable.
Safe.
"This feels good," he said after a while.
"What does?"
"Not running."
I looked at him.
He wasn't talking about the walk.
He meant emotionally.
He meant us.
As we reached the bike, his phone buzzed.
He ignored it at first.
Then it buzzed again.
He sighed and checked it.
His face changed.
Not panic.
Not anger.
Something else.
Concern.
"What?" I asked.
He hesitated.
"It's my mom."
My stomach tightened slightly.
"What did she say?"
He read it again.
Then showed me the screen.
"We need to talk. Today. It's important."
That was it.
Short.
Serious.
No emojis.
No extra words.
Just that.
And suddenly that light feeling?
Shifted.
Not gone.
Just… unstable.
Because we both knew.
That conversation?
Was going to reopen things.
And something tells me…
Not everything his dad said matches the full story.
And when parents tell their versions?
Truth gets complicated.
Ethan locked his phone slowly.
Looked at me.
"Round two?" he muttered.
I tried to smile.
But my chest felt tight again.
Because peace never lasts long.
And this time?
It might not just affect him.
It might affect us.