Why¿

~Sparks and Shadows~

Chapter Three – Part I

Emily stood in the doorway of Michael’s apartment, the key heavy in her hand. The silence inside was brutal, pressing against her chest like a weight.

Everything was as he had left it. His sneakers by the door. A stack of unopened mail on the counter. The faint scent of his cologne clinging to the air. It was unbearable and comforting all at once.

Her aunt had told her not to come alone, but Emily hadn’t listened—until the reality of the task hit her like a wall. She sank onto the couch, fighting the ache in her throat.

“Emily?”

Her head snapped up. Ethan stood in the doorway, his tall frame filling the space. He held a grocery bag in one hand, as if he’d stopped by on some ordinary errand.

Her chest tightened. “What are you doing here?”

“Your aunt called me,” he said gently. “She thought you might need help.”

Of course she did. But part of her wanted to slam the door, to tell him she didn’t need anyone—least of all the man who had begun haunting her thoughts at night.

Instead, she whispered, “You didn’t have to come.”

“I know.” He stepped inside, setting the bag down on the counter. “But I wanted to.”

The apartment suddenly felt smaller with him in it. Too warm. Too full of things unsaid.

Emily stood, wrapping her arms around herself. “I can handle it.”

Ethan’s gaze swept the room—the untouched shoes, the scattered textbooks, the unmade bed visible through the cracked door. He shook his head. “No one should have to handle this alone.”

Something in his tone broke through her defenses. For a moment, she let herself sink into his presence, the steadiness he carried like armor.

“Where do you want to start?” he asked softly.

Emily hesitated, then gestured toward Michael’s desk. “He kept journals. I don’t know if I should read them, or just pack them away.”

Ethan crossed to the desk and lifted one, handling it with care as if it were fragile glass. “Sometimes writing is a window,” he murmured. “It might help you understand him.”

She sank onto the edge of the bed, watching him flip the journal closed without opening it. Respect. That simple gesture unraveled her more than if he had read it aloud.

For the next hour, they moved quietly through the apartment—folding clothes, boxing books, sorting what to donate. It was the most intimate labor she had ever shared with someone. Not physical, not erotic—yet strangely more vulnerable than either.

At one point, she found herself laughing softly when she pulled out an old T-shirt Michael had sworn was “lucky.” The sound startled her—it had been weeks since she had laughed. Ethan’s eyes warmed at the sound, and she quickly looked away, embarrassed.

As evening fell, the last of the boxes were taped shut. Emily dropped onto the couch, exhausted. “Thank you,” she said quietly. “I don’t think I could’ve done this without you.”

Ethan sat beside her, leaving a careful space. “You could’ve. But I’m glad you didn’t have to.”

The silence that followed was thick, not with grief this time but with something else—something heavier, hungrier.

Emily turned her face toward him. His eyes caught hers, steady and searching, and for one dangerous moment, she thought he might kiss her. She thought she might let him.

Her heart pounded, her body tense with the pull between what was right and what she wanted.

But then Ethan exhaled, leaning back, breaking the spell. “You should eat something,” he said. “That’s why your aunt sent me with food.”

Emily blinked, dazed, then let out a shaky laugh. “Of course she did.”

Still, when she followed him to the kitchen and he handed her a plate, their fingers brushed—lightning flashing across her skin.

She didn’t pull away.

And Ethan didn’t either.