Where He Draws the Line
969 Words
For the next few days, Ethan barely looked at her.
He spoke when necessary brief, formal sentences, nothing more. He left early, came home late, ate standing at the counter instead of sitting across from her at the dining table. Every part of him screamed distance.
And yet, even in silence, he filled the house. His scent lingered in the hallways, his voice echoed in memory, his presence clung to her like a shadow that refused to leave.
Maya tried to convince herself she didn’t care. But every time she heard the low rumble of his car in the driveway, her chest tightened.
Avoidance wasn’t absence.
It was war in disguise.
It was on the third morning that she heard raised voices from the study. Ethan’s, low and strained and another, unfamiliar but sharp.
Maya froze halfway down the stairs, the sound of her name stopping her in place.
“…she’s not your responsibility, Ethan,” the other voice said. “She’s nineteen. Let her go live her life. People are already asking questions.”
Her stomach dropped.
“Questions?” Ethan’s tone was dangerously calm.
“Yes,” the man continued. “About why you’ve kept her here for weeks. It’s inappropriate, don’t you think?”
A silence followed heavy and loaded. Maya leaned against the banister, barely breathing.
When Ethan finally spoke, his voice was low enough to make her heart stumble.
“She just buried her father. She has no one else. And you want to talk to me about propriety?”
The man scoffed. “I’m talking about appearances, Ethan. You of all people know how this looks.”
“How it looks?” Ethan repeated, stepping closer she could hear it in his tone, the restrained fury. “Do you think I care what anyone thinks? She’s under my roof because I made a promise to her father. End of discussion.”
“You’ve always had a savior complex,” the man muttered.
“And you’ve always been a coward,” Ethan snapped. “If you’re so worried about what people will say, stay out of it. I don’t answer to you.”
The silence that followed was final. A door slammed, footsteps retreated not Ethan’s.
Maya’s pulse hammered. She stayed where she was, one hand gripping the railing as if it could anchor her. The things he’d said… the way he’d said them…
He’d defended her like she meant more than a promise. Like she was something worth fighting for.
When she finally gathered the courage to move, she found him still in the study. He stood near the window, one hand pressed to the glass, breathing hard as though holding back something heavier than anger.
Maya hesitated at the door. “Ethan?”
He turned sharply, eyes dark. For a heartbeat, he looked ready to yell then the fight drained out of him when he saw her.
“You heard,” he said quietly.
She nodded. “Most of it.”
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. “It wasn’t meant for you to hear.”
“I’m glad I did.”
His gaze flicked up, unreadable. “Why?”
“Because now I know you care.”
He let out a humorless laugh. “That’s the problem, Maya. I care too much.”
“Then why are you avoiding me?” she asked, voice soft but steady. “You act like I’ve done something wrong when all I’ve done is exist in the same house.”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he said. “I’m the one who has to be careful.”
“Careful of what? Of me?”
“Of myself.”
Her heart ached at the honesty in his tone.
“You think distance will make it easier?” she asked.
He met her gaze, and for once, didn’t look away. “It has to.”
She took a tentative step forward. “It doesn’t look easier. It looks like you’re punishing yourself.”
He exhaled slowly, shoulders tense. “Maybe I am.”
“Why?”
“Because every time I look at you,” he said, his voice breaking low, “I remember the line I’m not supposed to cross and how badly I want to.”
The words landed like a blow and a confession all at once.
She swallowed hard. “Then maybe you should stop drawing lines you don’t intend to keep.”
“Maya.” His tone was a warning, but his eyes betrayed him.
“What?” she asked, heart pounding. “You’re the one who said it.”
He turned away sharply, jaw locked, hands curling into fists. “You don’t understand what you’re doing.”
“Then tell me,” she whispered. “Tell me what I’m doing.”
He didn’t.
The silence that followed was thick enough to drown in. Then, almost to himself, he muttered, “This is exactly why they think I’ve lost control.”
“Have you?” she asked.
He finally looked at her and in that moment, she saw it. The restraint, the guilt, the hunger he kept buried under every calm word.
“Yes,” he said softly. “But not the way they think.”
Before she could respond, he moved past her not touching, not speaking just leaving, the scent of his cologne and the ache of his confession trailing behind.
Maya stood there long after he was gone, his words replaying in her head.
Not the way they think.
And she realized he wasn’t fighting her. He was fighting himself.
Later that night, she finds a letter on her desk in his handwriting: “We need to talk. Don’t come looking for me tonight.”
The first line he drew… is about to be tested.
- Writer
