Why¿

~The Funeral~ part two

Chapter One – Part II

The reception hall smelled faintly of lilies and coffee. Emily had never understood why funerals needed food, but the tables overflowed with casseroles, sandwiches, and untouched slices of cake. Voices hummed in low sympathy around her, but the noise only made her feel lonelier.

She stood by the window, watching raindrops race each other down the glass. Her reflection looked pale and fragile, the black dress clinging like a shroud. Her eyes were rimmed red, not from lack of sleep but from crying until her body gave up.

“Mind if I stand here?”

Her chest tightened at the voice. She turned slowly. Ethan Walker was there again—impossibly put together, his tie loosened just enough to look human, his gaze steady and disarming.

Emily wanted to tell him no. She wanted to protect the fragile wall she had built around herself. But instead, she stepped slightly aside, giving him room.

“Thank you,” he said softly. His shoulder brushed hers when he moved closer, just enough contact to make her breath stumble.

They stood in silence for a long moment, both looking out at the gray, dripping city.

“I keep waiting for him to text me,” Emily whispered finally, more to herself than to him. “As if this is some kind of sick joke. Like I’ll wake up and he’ll be there again, making fun of my bedhead.”

Ethan’s profile shifted toward her, his jaw tightening. “I know. Grief tricks you like that.”

Her lips trembled. “You’ve lost someone?”

“My mother,” he said simply. No dramatics, no long explanation. Just truth. And that truth settled into her bones like a weight.

She swallowed. “Then you know it never makes sense.”

“It doesn’t.” His voice dropped lower. “But sometimes, you stop needing answers. You just… learn to live with the question.”

The question. The why.

Her eyes burned again, and before she could stop herself, a tear slid down her cheek. Ethan’s hand lifted, hesitated, then gently brushed it away with the back of his finger. The touch was feather-light, respectful, but it sent a shiver down her spine that had nothing to do with sorrow.

She should’ve pulled back. She didn’t.

Instead, she whispered, “You shouldn’t be comforting me. You barely know me.”

He tilted his head, watching her. “Your brother knew me. And he wanted the world for you. Doesn’t that count for something?”

Emily’s throat ached, her voice breaking. “He really talked about me?”

“All the time.” Ethan’s mouth curved, but his eyes stayed serious. “He was proud of you in a way I don’t think you’ll ever fully understand.”

Her chest swelled painfully, and she pressed her fist against her lips to hold back a sob. Ethan shifted closer, his warmth wrapping around her without a single word. His presence was solid, grounding, but there was something else too—an unspoken current buzzing between them.

When she finally looked up, their faces were inches apart. His eyes searched hers, as if asking permission without speaking.

For a dangerous, fleeting second, Emily thought about leaning in. About forgetting the grief, the funeral, the fact that her brother’s coffin was still only a few streets away. She thought about kissing this stranger who felt less like a stranger with every heartbeat.

But then someone called her name across the hall, breaking the spell.

Emily jerked back, cheeks flushed, her pulse racing. “I… I should—”

“Go,” Ethan said gently, his expression unreadable. “Be with your family.”

She nodded, stepping away quickly, almost stumbling in her heels. But as she moved through the crowd, she couldn’t stop herself from glancing back.

He was still there, leaning against the window now, hands in his pockets, watching her as if she were the only person in the room.

And for the first time since Michael’s death, Emily felt something other than grief.

Something dangerous.

Something alive.