Just... Stay

The Morrison File

I know who you are, but… this is not something that I can control.

it’s ok, we don’t have to talk about it again, I understand. - give him my hand, smile and go outside the office-

*He watches your hand extend between them — steady, professional, an offering of truce. A clean exit. The smart play.*

*He takes it.*

*Your palm is warm. His grip is firm, brief, exactly the kind of handshake he'd give a client after closing a deal. Except his thumb drags across your knuckle when he lets go — one stroke, barely there, the kind of thing that could be an accident if either of you needed it to be.*

*You smile. He doesn't. You turn for the door and he watches you walk out — the particular quiet way you move, the construction paper dinosaur folded in your hand — and the door clicks shut behind you.*

*The office is empty. The check is gone from the desk. Marcus is waving people toward the conference room. Everything back in its right place.*

*Ethan sits there for four seconds.*

*Then he stands, buttons his jacket, and follows.*

---

*The staff meeting runs forty minutes. He presents the Bradford numbers. He answers questions. He delegates follow-ups with the precision of a man who could do this in his sleep, and sometimes does. Not once does he look at you — not when you take notes, not when you hand out the agenda copies, not when your chair shifts and the room fills with whatever you smell like today.*

*He doesn't look because he knows exactly where you're sitting. Third seat from the window. Left side.*

*Afterward, the room empties. Ethan collects his folder, straightens the chairs no one else straightens, and finds himself standing at the whiteboard erasing Hargrove's name.*

*His phone buzzes. The babysitter — the real one — confirming Wednesday pickup.*

*He types back. Then his thumb hovers, almost navigates to your name.*

*He puts the phone away.*

*But he doesn't delete the impulse. He just shelves it. The way you shelve something you're planning to come back for.*

*Wednesday arrives wearing the same fluorescent skin as every other day. Ethan signs off on three depositions, redlines a contract, eats lunch at his desk — turkey sandwich, no tomato, the same thing he's eaten since Lily decided tomatoes were poisonous.*

*He doesn't text you. He doesn't seek you out. When you bring him the Hargrove follow-up folder at 2:15, he takes it without letting his fingers brush yours, says thank you like it's a period at the end of a sentence, and turns back to his screen.*

*He's not punishing you. He's managing himself.*

*Because the thing you said Monday — this is not something I can control — has been living rent-free in the back of his skull for three days, and every time he evicts it, it picks the lock and comes back in.*

*At 4:47 his phone rings. The babysitter. He answers, listens, and his jaw goes tight.*

*Stomach flu. She's out for the week.*

*He sets the phone down. Stares at the wall behind his monitor for a long time.*

*The universe is not subtle.*

*He pulls up your name in his contacts. His thumb hovers the way it's been hovering since Friday night — suspended over a decision that stopped being about childcare somewhere around the time you kissed his cheek in a car full of roses.*

*He types. Deletes. Types again.*

*The message that lands on your phone is clean, professional, stripped of everything underneath:*

Babysitter's sick. I need to leave by 5:30 to get Lily. Can you bring the Morrison file to my place tonight around 7? I'll need to work from home.

*He sends it. Sets the phone face-down.*

*The Morrison file doesn't exist.*

*He knows that. He named it after the street your roses grow on.*

Mr Ethan, I’ll be there. want something to eat for lily and you? I’m not sure which one is the Morrison file, so I’m gonna take the folders on your desk.

*He reads the message twice. The second time his eyes stay on one line: I'm not sure which one is the Morrison file.*

*Because there is no Morrison file. And in about two hours, you're going to stand in his apartment flipping through folders that have nothing to do with why he asked you to come.*

*His thumb moves fast — muscle memory outpacing the part of his brain that's supposed to be the adult in the room.*

Don't worry about the folders. I'll sort it when you get here. And you don't need to bring food — Lily already ate.

*He hits send. Stares at the screen. Then types again before he can stop himself.*

But if you're offering — she likes those mini muffins from the place on 5th. Blueberry. She'll talk about it for a week.

*He locks the phone and drops it on the passenger seat. Lily is in the back, kicking her feet against the car seat, singing something she learned at school that's either about butterflies or buses — the melody makes no distinction.*

Daddy, is Catalina coming?

*His grip tightens on the wheel.*

Maybe. She might drop something off from work.

Is she bringing dinosaurs?

No, Lily.

She should bring dinosaurs.

*He catches her in the rearview — brown curls, her mother's mouth, eyes that see through every wall he builds. She's watching him with the particular intensity of a child who has already decided something the adults haven't caught up to yet.*

*He pulls into the garage. Kills the engine. Sits there one breath longer than necessary.*

*The apartment is clean. He cleaned it last night. He told himself it was routine. It wasn't routine. He scrubbed the kitchen counter at eleven p.m. on a Tuesday because you're coming over and there is no Morrison file and he is running out of names for what this is.*

I’m at the door… Can you help me with the packages? hahaha muffins are too heavy

*He hears you through the door — laughing, muffled, the sound landing in his chest like a fist wrapped in something soft. He opens it and there you are again. Sneakers. Bags. That same smile that has no business being in his hallway.*

*Lily is already off the couch and running.*

CATALINA!

*She hits your legs like a small, curly missile. Ethan reaches past both of you and takes the bags from your hands — fingers grazing your wrist, brief, unavoidable — and steps back to let you inside.*

She's been asking about you since the car. *He says it flat, carrying the bags to the kitchen counter, not looking at you while Lily hangs off your arm and talks at a speed that suggests caffeine or witchcraft.* I told her you were dropping off work stuff. She didn't buy it.

*Because she's five, not stupid. A trait she gets from him.*

*He unpacks the muffins. Blueberry. The good ones — he can tell from the box. Lily abandons your arm instantly, appears at the counter like she's been summoned by ancient ritual, and reaches.*

One, *Ethan says. His hand lands gently on the top of her head.* After you wash your hands.

*She groans the groan of the deeply oppressed and stomps toward the bathroom.*

*And then it's just the two of them. The apartment quiet, lamp-lit, smelling like the cleaning product he used on the counter at eleven p.m. last night. The folders you brought sit in a bag by the door — folders he doesn't need, for a file that doesn't exist, and you're standing in his kitchen again.*

*He leans against the counter. Arms crossed. Looking at you the way a man looks at a door he's already decided to walk through but hasn't moved his feet yet.*

So. The Morrison file.

*His voice is low. His mouth almost twitches.*

I should probably tell you something about that.

oh no! is not here? I can go back to the office if is in another place

*The corner of his mouth gives in. Just barely — a crack in the concrete he's been pouring over himself all week.*

There is no Morrison file, Catalina.

*He says it plainly. No performance, no sheepish grin. His arms stay crossed, his back stays against the counter, and his eyes stay on yours — steady, unflinching, the way they hold when he's about to say something he can't unsay.*

I made it up. Morrison's the street you live on. The one with the roses.

*The faucet runs in the bathroom. Lily singing something tuneless and happy, water splashing in a way that suggests more of it is hitting the floor than her hands. Thirty seconds. Maybe forty before she comes barreling back.*

*Ethan's jaw tightens. He unfolds his arms, plants both hands on the counter behind him.*

You said we don't have to talk about it again. And I spent three days trying to do that. Three days not looking at you in meetings. Three days pretending the handshake was enough when we both know my thumb didn't slip.

*His voice drops — not softer, just closer to the bone.*

I don't do this. I don't invent files. I don't clean my apartment at midnight. I don't let anyone into this place who isn't blood or paid to be here. And you've been here twice in a week.

*The bathroom door bangs open. Lily's wet footsteps slap down the hallway — three, four, five — and she rounds the corner with her hands held up, dripping.*

CLEAN! *she announces.*

*Ethan doesn't break your gaze for another full second. Then he turns, grabs a dish towel, and crouches to dry her hands, his voice shifting to the low, easy register he reserves only for her.*

Good job, kid. One muffin. Sit at the table.

*Lily takes her muffin like a trophy and climbs into her chair.*

*Ethan stands. Looks at you.*

Stay.