The Ghost Between Us
1651 Words
Aria's POV
The penthouse was quiet at night.
Too quiet.
Aria lay on the edge of the king-sized bed, cocooned in blankets she hadn't yet claimed as her own, staring at the ceiling like it might answer questions she was too afraid to ask out loud.
What the hell am I doing here?
What she should be doing was sleeping. Resting. Starting fresh.
But all she could think about was Ethan.
Not tonight's version of him—the man who'd stood stiffly at the door, issuing rules like laws passed down from a high tower. Not even the version she saw at gallery events: all poise, all precision.
No. She kept seeing fragments. Pieces of a different man. One no one else remembered.
Or maybe... one no one else ever knew.
Then....
She was eight when she first met Ethan Ward.
He was twenty-two, freshly minted from business school, back in New York for what her father called "an apprenticeship" but what everyone else knew was code for grooming a successor.
He'd arrived at a family dinner wearing a navy-blue suit that didn't quite fit yet. A little too crisp. A little too stiff. And a look in his eyes that said I don't belong here either.
She'd been in the kitchen hiding behind the island, legs crossed under her like a little witch in leggings and a crayon-stained t-shirt, eating dry cereal straight from the box.
He saw her first.
"You're not supposed to be in here," he said.
She didn't flinch. Just shoved another handful of Frosted Flakes in her mouth and blinked up at him like he was an exhibit.
"You're new," she said.
"I am."
"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else."
That made him pause. Then—surprisingly—smile. "You're not wrong."
Now...
That smile. That same smile. Tired, private, crooked on just one side.
She hadn't seen it in years. Not since she was sixteen and he'd let her tag along to an art fair upstate. He'd spoken little, but watched her sketch in silence, sometimes tossing her a protein bar without comment like that was the closest thing to affection he knew how to give.
He'd never treated her like a kid.
He never really treated her like a girl either.
Until recently.
Until tonight, maybe.
There'd been something in the air between them. She felt it. The tension. The awareness. The exact moment his eyes dropped to her mouth—brief, sharp, involuntary.
He'd caught himself quickly, but not quickly enough.
And the worst part? It didn't shock her.
Because lately, she'd been watching too. Noticing things she shouldn't.
The way he rolled his sleeves with brutal precision. The rasp in his voice when he was tired. The lines around his mouth that deepened when he was irritated, which was often.
She couldn't stop herself.
Even now, lying in the dark, she pictured him two doors down. Alone in his room. Maybe reading. Maybe showering. Maybe sprawled across his mattress with that same clenched restraint he wore like armor.
She pulled the blanket tighter.
Because this wasn't a crush. It hadn't been for a long time. And that terrified her more than anything.
Then...
Fifteen.
She was fifteen when she realized she hated Ethan Ward.
Not really. Not hate. But something sharp enough to feel like it. Because he'd shown up to her gallery debut—her first real art showing—dressed in all black, hands in his pockets, gaze moving over her work with unreadable calm.
And then he said it: "You're talented, but you haven't bled for it yet."
She'd flushed all the way to her ears. Spun on her heel. Locked herself in the supply room and cried.
He'd knocked once. Slid a folded napkin under the door. It read, in sharp ink: Even geniuses get rejected. Don't make rejection the only thing you feel worthy of.
She still had it. Still hated him for being right.
Now...
A soft sound snapped her out of memory.
A door creaked. Somewhere down the hall.
Aria slid out of bed, her bare feet whispering across the cold floor. The penthouse was dim, the only light coming from the city's glow bleeding through the walls.
She didn't know why she moved toward the kitchen. She told herself she wanted water. That it had nothing to do with the idea of maybe running into him.
But the second she turned the corner—there he was.
Ethan stood by the open fridge, shirtless, sweatpants slung low on his hips. A glass in one hand. His hair slightly damp like he'd just gotten out of the shower.
He looked like something out of a fever dream.
Her breath hitched.
He didn't see her at first.
She watched him lift the glass, drink slowly. His chest rose and fell in the soft light, shadow clinging to every ridge of muscle. He looked heavier at night—less sculpted by ambition, more human. Real.
And then his eyes met hers.
They froze.
***
Ethan's POV
He couldn't sleep.
Not for lack of comfort — the bed was custom-built, the mattress firmer than most people liked but perfect for him. The room was climate-controlled, his routine executed down to the minute, as always.
And yet. His chest was too tight. His brain wouldn't shut off. Or rather—she wouldn't shut off.
He rubbed a hand over his face and sat up, exhaling roughly.
Two hours ago, Aria had stood just feet away in the guest suite doorway, flinging barbed remarks like knives, her mouth curled into a knowing smirk that made his blood run in two directions at once.
He could still smell her perfume in the hallway.
Ethan threw on a pair of sweatpants, grabbed a glass from the kitchen cabinet, and opened the fridge.
Cold light spilled over him, cutting through the dark.
He hated this.
The lack of control. The awareness.
He never used to notice the way she moved. Never used to care how she laughed or dressed or walked around like the world owed her a dare. He'd been older. Wiser. Disconnected.
But she was twenty-two now.
And worse—she knew it.
Then...
She was eight the first time he heard her say something she wasn't supposed to know.
"You look like you'd rather be anywhere else," she'd said, perched on the kitchen floor like a forest creature, cereal dust on her cheeks, her little legs swinging like she had nowhere better to be.
He'd blinked. Smiled before he could help it.
She saw too much, even then.
Back then, she was just his mentor's daughter. His boss's shadow. He didn't have the time or the bandwidth to think about her beyond the occasional polite nod at family events.
But over the years... she sharpened.
She started dressing like trouble. Started looking him in the eye like she was collecting evidence. Her laugh got darker. Her silence deeper. She became the kind of girl you noticed.
Even when you weren't supposed to.
Now...
He sipped his water and closed the fridge.
Then he froze.
She was there.
Backlit by the hallway's dim glow, her frame small and steady—legs bare under a sleep shirt, hair down her back like ink spilling over moonlight. She wasn't hiding. Just standing there.
Watching him.
Their eyes met.
Heat. Instant. Immediate.
Not lust — not just lust. Something heavier. Something he'd spent years stuffing down under layers of logic, age, duty, and fear.
***
Seconds passed like years.
Then he broke the silence, voice low. Rough. "Can't sleep?"
She could barely find her voice. "Guess not." She was staring. Not like a girl with a crush. Like a woman who knew. Knew what her presence did to him. Knew that this was not a one-sided fire. Knew exactly how long he'd been pretending not to notice her, and how close he was to failing.
Goddamn it.
He set the glass down. Didn't move closer. Didn't look away.
For a second, everything fell quiet again—except for the sound of the city humming below them, and her own pulse pounding in her throat.
Then he said it forced himself not to step forward. If he moved, this changed.
Too soft. Too dangerous.
"Go back to bed, Aria." A warning. A plea. A prayer.
Her heart cracked open. Because his voice didn't sound like a warning. It sounded like a man asking himself who he was trying to protect more—her, or himself.
She nodded slowly. No quip. No smirk. Just a quiet withdrawal — like she knew that if she stayed even one more second, something would snap.
And she was right.
She went back to bed but sleep wouldn't come.
Not with the ghost of his voice echoing in her ears. And not with the truth sliding slowly into place: She hadn't just wanted him recently. She'd been waiting for this moment her entire life.
The moment she disappeared, Ethan gripped the edge of the kitchen counter hard enough to make his knuckles go white.
This wasn't a new problem.
He remembered the first time he saw her at seventeen — walking down the stairs in a silk dress, lips stained wine-dark for her father's gala. He'd looked away so fast his neck ached.
She'd caught him. And smiled.
She'd been smiling like that ever since.
And now... now she was here. Living under his roof. Sleeping two doors down. A walking temptation soaked in history and secrets and the kind of connection no sane man would touch.
But he wasn't sure how long his sanity would hold.
Because there was a ghost between them now.
Not just the child she used to be. Not just the mentor-student dynamic they were supposed to uphold.
No.
The ghost was everything unsaid.
Everything forbidden and everything he wanted.
- Writer
