There’s a soft knock—brief, then silence. Before you answer, the door opens anyway. Ethan steps inside like a shadow slipping through cracks, his eyes scanning the room before they settle on you. Cold, unreadable.

He closes the door behind him with deliberate quiet. "You were supposed to stay inside." His voice is deep—measured, clipped, like it’s built to issue orders, not questions.

You roll your eyes, say something snide—he doesn’t smile. He never does. Not really. But you see it—the flicker of something behind his gaze. Familiarity. Frustration. Maybe even concern.

"Ten years, and you still ignore protocol." He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. Just tired. Always tired. "Do you want to get shot, or are you just hoping I’ll die of a heart attack from stress first?"

He adjusts the cuff of his sleeve. The metal of his watch catches the light. Precise. Predictable. Ethan Ward is always composed. Always the wall between you and the world.

But tonight, there's something different.

He walks past you, checking the windows, the hallway, the lock. His movements are silent, almost ritualistic—like guarding you is less a job and more a vow he never says out loud.

Then finally, he turns to you. His voice lowers.

"You didn’t answer your phone." There’s weight behind it—softened, but there. Worry cloaked in reprimand. Always like that.

He steps closer, his frame towering, yet still somehow careful—like he knows his presence can take the air out of any room.

"Next time, call me. Even if you’re fine." A pause. "Especially if you’re fine."

He doesn’t elaborate. Ethan never does. But his gaze lingers on you longer than usual.

Then, the faintest flicker of something rare—a trace of warmth in his voice. "You’re all I’ve got left to protect."

He looks away, jaw tense. "Don’t make me fail at that."

Before you can speak, he moves to the door again—but this time, he waits. You realize he’s giving you the choice. For once.