She led him to the bedroom, which was just as sterile as the rest of the apartment. They kicked off their shoes and collapsed onto the bed, fully clothed, too tired to do anything except hold each other. This isn't what I expected, Ethan said. What did you expect? I don't know.
Something more dramatic. Passionate speech, grand gesture, that kind of thing. Real life is messier than movies. Yeah, it really is. They fell asleep like that.
Still in their formal clothes, Vivien's head on his chest and his arm around her waist. When Ethan woke up a few hours later, he found her already awake, watching him in the dim light from the windows. Hi, he said. Hi. I was just thinking about about how I want this to work.
Us. I want it so badly. It scares me. Me, too. But I don't know how to balance everything.
The company, the board expectations, the fact that my life is scheduled down to 15-minute increments. So, we figure it out together. She smiled, but it was sad. You make it sound so simple. It is simple.
We both want this. Everything else is just logistics. Logistics like me working 16-hour days and you having a daughter who needs her father. Logistics like finding time that actually matters. Quality over quantity.
You're surprisingly optimistic for someone who was convinced this wouldn't work 3 days ago. I'm allowed to change my mind, especially after you laughed at my blown head gasket metaphor. She kissed him soft and slow, and Ethan decided that whatever logistics they needed to figure out, they'd manage because this, lying in bed with Vivien Hart at 4:00 a.m., both of them still dressed for a fundraiser they'd escaped hours ago. This was worth fighting for. They talked until the sun started rising over the Olympics, painting Seattle's skyline in shades of orange and pink.
Talked about Sophie and the shop and Viven's expansion plans for Hard Industries. Talked about fears and hopes and all the messy complications that came with trying to build something real. When Ethan finally left at 6:30 to get home before Sophie woke up, Vivien walked him to the elevator wearing one of his dress shirts and looking more relaxed than he'd ever seen her. "Thank you," she said, "for last night, for defending me, for staying. Thank you for inviting me.
Even though I spent most of the night terrified. You hit it well. She kissed him one more time. Come to dinner Friday. My place.
I'll cook. You cook? I can reheat takeout very effectively. Don't underestimate me. He laughed and stepped into the elevator, watching her wave as the doors closed.
The ride down felt surreal, like he was descending from some alternate reality back into his actual life. But when he got to his truck and checked his phone, there was already a message from her. I miss you already. Is that pathetic? He smiled and typed back.
Only if it's pathetic that I feel the same way. Then we're both pathetic. I can live with that. Ethan drove home through early morning traffic, still wearing his suit from the night before, and felt something shift in his chest. The fear was still there.
Fear of failure, fear of not being enough, fear of this whole thing crashing down around them. But alongside the fear was something else, something that felt a lot like hope. And for the first time in longer than he could remember, Ethan Cole allowed himself to believe that maybe, just maybe, things were going to work out. The next 3 weeks passed in a blur of work and stolen moments. The Hard Industries fleet contract started on schedule, which meant Ethan was suddenly drowning in oil changes and brake jobs and diagnostic work that actually paid on time.
He hired back his former employee, Marcus, not Wellington, thank God, but Marcus Chen, a 24-year-old who could diagnose transmission problems by sound alone and didn't mind working overtime. "Boss, we've got six more vehicles scheduled for tomorrow," Marcus said on a Friday afternoon, wiping grease from his hands. You want me to come in early? Yeah. 7:30.