Chapter Five - Distance That Burns
615 Words
For the next three days, Claire buried herself in busywork.
She left for the office earlier than usual, came home later, invented reasons not to linger in the kitchen or sit on the couch with him. She even started locking her bedroom door at night—something she hadn’t done in years.
She told herself it was necessary. That kiss had been a slip—heat and exhaustion tangled up in the wrong moment. If she ignored it, if she put space between them, it would fade.
But it didn’t.
Every time she closed her eyes, she felt the press of his mouth, the way his thumb had tilted her face, the low growl of his voice when he’d said, You feel it too.
And worse—her body remembered. The way her thighs had pressed together, the heat that had bloomed when his hands kneaded her shoulders. Twice she woke with damp sheets, breathless and ashamed, her body betraying her in ways she couldn’t admit.
So she avoided him.
Ethan, for his part, didn’t push. Not outright. But he was there—always there.
He lingered in the kitchen doorway when she grabbed coffee in the mornings, silent but watching her with that unreadable expression. He texted her while she was at work—little things, casual things, but threaded with meaning.
Did you sleep?
You left early today.
Thinking about you.
She ignored most of them. Still, her chest tightened every time his name lit up her screen.
One evening she came home to find him sprawled on the couch, long legs stretched out, a book balanced on his stomach. He didn’t move when she walked in, didn’t speak. Just lifted his eyes to hers, slow and deliberate.
Her pulse stuttered. She looked away quickly, muttering something about paperwork, and fled to her room.
It became a pattern—her retreat, his steady patience.
Until Friday night.
She was in the kitchen rinsing wineglasses when he came up behind her. Not too close, but close enough that she could feel the heat of him at her back, the faint scent of soap and cedar drifting over her shoulder.
“You’re avoiding me,” Ethan said simply.
Her hand froze on the stem of the glass. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It’s not ridiculous.” His tone was calm, but there was steel under it. “You’ve been running since the kiss.”
She spun around, glass in hand, heart hammering. “That kiss was a mistake. I was tired, and you—you caught me off guard. It doesn’t mean anything.”
His eyes locked on hers, dark and unflinching. “It meant something to me.”
Her throat tightened. “Well, it didn’t to me.”
The lie hung between them, heavy as a storm.
Ethan stepped closer, slow and deliberate, until her back pressed against the counter. He didn’t touch her. He didn’t have to. His nearness was enough to make her breath catch.
“You can lie to yourself, Claire,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “But you can’t lie to me. I know what you felt. I felt it too.”
Her chest heaved. She gripped the counter so hard her knuckles whitened. The kitchen smelled of lemon soap and simmering tension.
And then, just as suddenly, he stepped back. His eyes softened, though his jaw stayed tight.
“I’ll wait,” he said. “But not forever.”
He left her there, trembling, the sound of his footsteps fading down the hall.
Claire closed her eyes, tears pricking the corners. She hated him for being right. She hated herself more for wanting him still.
- Writer
