Slow Burn

Chapter Eight

Ethan is already at the corner café, of course. Leaning against the wall, all calm and impossible in a way that makes me feel like someone pressed “pause” on his life. He waves when he sees me, just a small lift of the hand, as if to say you’re here, good enough. I want to roll my eyes. I do. But instead, I end up smiling, which is dangerous, really.

“Hey,” he says when I reach him, casual, like we’re not the only two people capable of making my chest do that stupid, fluttering thing.

“Hey,” I reply, looking at the ground. My backpack feels heavier than usual, but it’s probably just me.

Natalie swoops up behind me, yanking my arm. “Ashley, Ethan’s here!”

“Yes, Natalie, I noticed,” I mutter, though part of me enjoys how her squeals echo over the pavement. Lila is behind her, Charlie’s arm thrown over her shoulder.

Ethan’s expression doesn’t change when they approach, but I notice a tiny smirk tug at the corner of his lips. He’s already assessing, cataloging, and probably silently judging us all.

“Charlie,” Ethan says, tilting his head like he’s expecting something weird.

Charlie grins, unbothered. “Yeah, this is him. Definitely insane, in case you were wondering.” He leans closer to Lila, whispering. “Crazy in a fun way.”

Ethan laughs softly, but not like anyone expects—there’s something sharp and unexpected in it. I watch Charlie frown, like Ethan just read his mind.

“You’re… a piece of work,” Charlie mutters, shaking his head.

“I get that a lot,” Ethan replies, completely unbothered. “But I assure you, it’s deliberate.”

Lila rolls her eyes, muttering under her breath about Charlie being dramatic. She doesn’t notice me staring at Ethan too long, but I do. His laugh lingers in my chest longer than it should, like it belongs there.

We end up sitting outside the café, all four of us crammed into a corner. Natalie’s babbling about a new series she’s obsessed with, Charlie’s pointing out random things he finds hilarious, Lila’s fussing with her notebook. Ethan sits quietly at first, leaning back, observing everything with those impossible eyes that make me want to take notes on him.

Finally, he turns toward Lila. “You’re the one who has OCD, right?”

She freezes, pencil mid-air. “What? How—”

“I know things,” he interrupts, as if that explains everything. “I notice patterns. You leave your pens in a certain order, you tap your foot twice before writing, and you sketch tiny stars in the margin even when you’re angry.”

Lila blinks at him, half impressed, half horrified. Charlie bursts out laughing.

“See? Crazy,” he says, pointing at Ethan. “You know what I mean. He’s like… unhinged, but in a precise, scary way.”

Ethan glances at me, eyebrow raised. “He’s wrong,” he says calmly.

Charlie laughs even harder. Lila groans. Natalie is wide-eyed, like she’s watching a magic trick.

I lean back, pretending I’m not fascinated, but of course I am. I am always fascinated. I can’t help it.

⸻

By the time we leave the café, the air smells faintly like coffee, chocolate, and autumn leaves. Natalie insists on taking a detour through the small park nearby, her arms flailing as she reenacts a scene from her favorite series. Charlie grumbles, complaining about “extra steps” and the possibility of tripping, while Lila giggles and follows, holding Charlie’s hand like she’s tethering a wild animal.

Ethan falls into step beside me. The sun casts long shadows across the cracked pavement, stretching our silhouettes in strange directions. I want to say something clever, but instead, I let my hoodie swallow my face.

“You’re quiet today,” he observes.

“I’m not,” I mutter, though I know I am.

“You are,” he insists, lightly nudging my shoulder with his. “Quiet people are worse than loud people. At least loud people pretend to care about something.”

I scoff but can’t bring myself to speak. He’s right. I don’t pretend about anything. I’ve perfected the art of apathy. But with him, it’s… complicated.

Charlie suddenly stops, tugging at Ethan’s sleeve. “Seriously, you’re insane. I mean, you have no chill, do you?”

Ethan doesn’t flinch. “I have equilibrium,” he says evenly. “You just don’t recognize it.”

“You’re terrifying,” Lila mutters, but it’s affectionate.

Ethan glances at her, just for a second, and something soft passes through his expression. A c***k, maybe. I don’t know. I blink and it’s gone.

⸻

We reach the little stone bench by the lake. The water reflects the dying light, golden and soft. Natalie sprawls across it, dangling her legs, giggling about some plot twist she can’t stop thinking about. Lila sits beside her, fidgeting with a bracelet, while Charlie leans against a tree, throwing glances at Ethan like he’s trying to decode a puzzle.

Ethan sits next to me. Close but not touching. Dangerous. I pretend to scroll through my phone, but I’m aware of every movement he makes, the subtle shift of his shoulder, the way his eyes track the ripples on the water.

“You notice too much,” he murmurs.

“I don’t,” I say automatically, looking away.

“You do,” he corrects. “You notice patterns, movements, moods. It’s obvious.”

I feel my ears heat up. I want to disappear. I want to punch him. I want to laugh. I want to crawl into the lake and float away.

“Charlie says you’re insane,” Lila whispers to him.

“I prefer ‘unconventionally perceptive,’” he replies.

Lila shakes her head, clearly torn between exasperation and amusement. Natalie squeals again, bouncing in her seat. Charlie sighs, throwing his arms up in defeat.

I want to tell him to stop, to go away, to leave me alone, but I can’t. Not yet.

⸻

The sun dips below the horizon, casting long shadows over the bench. We start walking back, the park quieter now. Lila and Charlie trail behind, Natalie jumps ahead, pretending to be a superhero.

Ethan falls into step beside me again. I notice the small things—how he tilts his head when he listens, how his gaze sweeps across the path ahead, how he notices everything but says almost nothing.

“You’ll write about today,” he says suddenly.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ll blog it. I know you will.”

I stop walking. Look at him. “How do you know that?”

“Because you always do,” he says, casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

I glance down at my bag, my hoodie, my stupid messy hair, and want to crawl into a hole. “I… maybe.”

He smirks. “Maybe is better than never.”

I want to tell him to go away, but a part of me—ridiculous, unwanted, entirely unnecessary—wants to remember him. Every word, every glance, every tiny laugh.

By the time I reach home, the sky is almost black. I collapse onto my bed, laptop open, fingers hovering over the keys. My blog waits for me, ready to swallow my thoughts.

I write:

Ethan notices everything. He laughs softly at things no one else sees. Charlie says he’s crazy. Lila says he’s gentle. Natalie says he’s impossible. And I… I can’t stop noticing.

I pause. My fingers hover, then type another line:

I hate that I like noticing. I hate that I care. But I do.