Episode - 3
1122 Words
Olivia POV
Morning light slips through the curtains, but the bed beside me is cold.
Ethan is already gone.
That alone isn’t unusual. What unsettles me is the silence—no note, no text, no coffee brewing downstairs. The house feels watched… not empty.
When he finally returns late morning, his movements are careful, controlled. Too controlled.
“Did you sleep?” I ask
“Yes,” he answers.
I know that’s not true.
There’s a faint bruise on his knuckles. He notices me staring and subtly hides his hand in his pocket.
“Ethan,” I begin.
“I’m fine,” he cuts in gently, but firmly.
“Please don’t start.”
That hurts more than his absence.
At breakfast, he sits closer than usual, his knee pressed against mine.
Possessive. Grounding. As if proximity alone can fix whatever broke last night.
“I thought I heard something outside,” I say casually.
His jaw tightens for a fraction of a second.
“You didn’t,” he replies.
And that’s when I realize—
he’s not lying to me.
He’s deciding what I’m allowed to know.
Ethan POV
She noticed.
Of course she did.
I watch her from across the table, every expression catalogued. Olivia senses cracks before they show. That’s why I have to be careful now.
The bruise on my hand throbs—a reminder to never hesitate again.
When she mentions the noise, my body goes rigid. She can’t know how close it was. How fast I had to act.
I lean in, lowering my voice. “You’re safe. That’s all that matters.”
It’s not reassurance.
It’s a warning—to myself.
Later, when she leaves the room, I pull out my phone.
One missed call.
One message.
“This was a reminder.”
I deleted it immediately.
I look toward the hallway where Olivia disappeared and swear silently—
Whatever this turns into,
she will never pay the price.
Even if I have to become the thing I hate most.
Olivia POV
The house feels different after that.
Not dangerous. Just… tense. Like something sharp hidden under calm water.
Ethan stays close for the rest of the day. Too close. If I move to the kitchen, he follows a moment later. If I sit, he chooses the chair beside me, not across. His hand finds mine constantly, as if he’s checking whether I’m still here.
“You’re hovering again,” I say lightly.
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “I told you. I like standing.”
I let it go.
In the afternoon, I step outside to water the plants. The air feels heavy. Quiet. I sense him before I see him—watching from the doorway, arms crossed, alert.
“You don’t trust the neighborhood now?” I tease.
“I trust you inside,” he answers.
That’s not the same thing.
That evening, while I cook, he leans against the counter, eyes fixed on me. Not my hands. Not the food.
Me.
“Ethan,” I say gently, “you’re staring.”
“Making sure you’re okay.”
I turn to face him. “I’m not fragile.”
“I know,” he says immediately. “That’s not why.”
There’s something unspoken between us now—thick, pressing, waiting to be named.
Later, when we lie in bed, he doesn’t fall asleep right away. His arm is locked around my waist, firm enough to be protective… not painful, but intentional.
“You won’t disappear, right?” he asks suddenly.
The question startles me.
I twist slightly to look at him. “What kind of question is that?”
His eyes stay on the ceiling. “Just answer.”
“I’m here,” I say softly. “I chose you. I’m not going anywhere.”
Only then does his grip loosen.
He kisses my hair, slow and grounding.
“Good.”
But I stay awake long after his breathing evens out.
Because for the first time since we got married, I’m not wondering if Ethan loves me.
I’m wondering what he’s afraid of losing.
° ° ° ° °
For the first time all day, Ethan sleeps peacefully.
His breathing is slow, even—one arm draped over my waist like an anchor. Whatever weighed him down earlier… it’s gone. At least for tonight.
I can’t sleep.
Moonlight slips through the curtains, catching on something dark near his hand. I shift carefully, lifting his arm just enough to see it.
His knuckles.
Bruised. Split. Healing—but not old.
My heart tightens.
I slip out of bed quietly and return with the ointment from the bathroom. I sit beside him, taking his hand in mine. Even in sleep, his fingers curl instinctively, possessively.
I apply the ointment gently, barely touching. As if afraid I’ll wake something darker than sleep.
His grip tightens suddenly.
“Olivia…” he murmurs.
I freeze.
His eyes open slowly, unfocused at first. Then they soften the second they find me.
“What are you doing?” he asks, voice low with sleep.
“I saw your hand,” I whispered. “It looked painful.”
He exhales, relaxing again. “You shouldn’t worry.”
I met his gaze. “I already do.”
He pulls me closer until I’m half on top of him, his injured hand resting carefully against my back. “I’m okay,” he says. “You don’t have to fix everything.”
“I know,” I say softly. “But I want to take care of you too.”
Something shifts in his eyes—something vulnerable, unguarded.
He brushes his thumb along my cheek.
“You make it easy to forget the world.”
“And you make it hard for me to sleep,” I smile faintly.
He chuckles quietly and presses his forehead to mine. “Come here.”
I settle against him fully now, his arms wrapping around me—firm, protective, but gentle. His lips brush my temple, then my cheek, unhurried.
“You’re safe,” he murmurs.
I look up at him. “So are you.”
His kiss this time is slow, intimate—less hunger, more promise. A kiss meant to anchor, not consume. I melt into it, feeling his heartbeat steady beneath my palm.
He deepens it just slightly, one hand cradling my face, the other holding me close—as if afraid the moment might slip away.
When we finally pull back, he rests his forehead against mine.
“Sleep,” he whispers. “I’ve got everything handled.”
I close my eyes.
Not because I believe him completely—
but because for this moment, in his arms, I want to.
- Writer
