Chapter 5
1365 Words
Luna woke slowly, sunlight slipping through the half-closed blinds in soft golden stripes across the bed. For the first time in weeks—maybe months—her sleep had been deep, dreamless, peaceful. No racing thoughts, no replays of blue eyes or forbidden what-ifs. Just quiet.
She lay there a moment, breathing in the faint cedar-and-soap scent that clung to the T-shirt she still wore. Ethan’s scent. Wrapped around her like an invisible blanket. Maybe that was why she’d slept so well. Or maybe it was simply the safety of being in a place that didn’t demand anything from her.
Three days of lockdown. Three days here.
She sat up, stretched, and decided: if she was going to be stuck, she might as well be useful.
She padded to the attached bathroom, showered quickly under the rainfall head (so much better than the hostel trickle), towel-dried her hair, and twisted it into a loose high bun. No joggers this time—just the oversized gray T-shirt, the hem skimming the tops of her thighs. Bare legs. Bare feet. Bold in a way she rarely allowed herself to be.
In the kitchen she moved quietly, opening cabinets until she found flour, eggs, sugar, milk. Pancakes. Simple. Comforting. She whisked the batter, humming under her breath, the domestic rhythm soothing her nerves.
She was flipping the first golden disc when she felt the air shift.
Ethan appeared in the doorway, hair still sleep-rumpled, wearing a plain black T-shirt and gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips.
He stopped short.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said quickly, voice rough from sleep.
Luna jumped anyway, spatula clattering against the pan. “It’s okay. I… thought I’d make breakfast. As a thank-you.”
He stepped closer, eyes flicking from the pancakes to her bare legs, then back up—polite, but not fast enough that she didn’t notice. Heat crawled up her neck.
“You didn’t have to,” he said, softer. “But they smell incredible.”
They ate at the island—pancakes stacked high, syrup dripping, coffee steaming between them.
Conversation started small. Family.
“I’m second-born,” she said, cutting into her stack. “Older sister who’s basically perfect, younger brother who’s chaos in human form.”
Ethan smiled faintly. “I have a younger sister. That’s… pretty much it.”
The way he said it—clipped, final—closed the door before she could knock. She didn’t push.
Instead she asked about the house. He told her he’d bought it two years ago, fixed it up himself on weekends. She told him about her mum’s kitchen back home, how the smell of stew always meant someone was loved.
Easy. Safe.
Until his phone rang.
He excused himself to the living room. Luna stayed at the island, washing plates, but she could hear his voice—low at first, then shifting. Commanding. Precise. “No, push the timeline. We’re not waiting on approvals that won’t come. Get it done by EOD tomorrow.”
Boss tone. Not professor tone.
When he returned, she tilted her head. “That didn’t sound like a teaching call.”
He rubbed the back of his neck, sheepish. “Teaching’s… part of it. Consulting pays the mortgage.”
She nodded, filing that away. Another layer.
He didn’t elaborate. Instead he walked to the sound system, scrolled through his phone, and blues guitar filled the room—slow, soulful, old-school.
Luna started humming along without thinking.
Ethan turned, surprised. “You know this one?”
She laughed. “My brother and cousins blast these at every family gathering. I’m early twenties, you’re late twenties—we’re not that far apart.”
He chuckled. “Fair.”
Then, quieter: “Dance with me?”
She blinked.
He held out his hand.
She took it.
They moved to the open space between the couch and the coffee table. No real steps—just slow swaying, bodies close but not quite touching. His hand settled lightly at her waist. Hers rested on his shoulder. Their eyes locked.
The music wrapped around them like smoke.
Luna felt it—the shift. The air thickening with something sweet and heavy. His thumb brushed the small of her back, once, accidental. Her breath caught. His gaze dropped to her mouth for half a second, then returned to her eyes.
Everything slowed.
And then—unexpected, inevitable—Ethan leaned in.
His mouth found hers.
Soft at first. Tentative. A question.
She answered by rising on her toes, pressing closer.
The kiss deepened instantly. Hungry. Passionate. His hand slid up her spine, fingers threading into the base of her bun, tilting her head so he could take more. She opened for him—tongue meeting tongue, soft moan escaping into his mouth. He tasted like coffee and want and something darker, something that had been waiting.
Her hands fisted in his shirt. His other arm banded around her waist, pulling her flush against him so she could feel exactly how much he wanted her.
It was electric.
Different.
She’d kissed boys before—quick, fumbling, forgettable. This was a current running through her veins. Every nerve lit up. Her body arched instinctively, seeking more friction, more heat.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Ethan’s forehead rested against hers.
“s**t,” he whispered, voice wrecked. “I shouldn’t have—”
He stepped back. Hands dropping. Eyes shadowed with guilt.
“I’m sorry,” he said hoarsely. “I’ll… give you space.”
He walked out of the room fast.
Luna stood frozen in the middle of the living room, lips tingling, heart slamming against her ribs.
She touched her mouth with trembling fingers.
Happy.
Terrified.
Alive.
That kiss had felt like coming home and falling off a cliff at the same time.
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**Ethan’s POV**
He’d liked her from the first tutoring session.
Those hazel-brown eyes—piercing in their quiet way, flecked with green when the light hit them right. The way she listened like every word mattered. The reserved boldness—never loud, but never invisible. Cute. Dangerous.
During the holidays he’d told himself it would fade.
It didn’t.
He’d thought of her on Christmas morning while opening presents he didn’t care about. Thought of her on New Year’s Eve when the fireworks went off and everyone cheered and he felt alone in a room full of people. Thought of her every time he walked past a bookstore and remembered how she’d lit up at the book-club flyer.
He’d gone running yesterday to burn her out of his system.
Instead he’d found her unconscious on the sidewalk.
Carried her home.
Watched her sleep—peaceful, vulnerable, impossibly beautiful.
Given her his shirt.
And now—now—she was wearing it, bare legs flashing every time she moved, making pancakes in his kitchen like she belonged there.
When she swayed to the blues, humming the melody he’d loved since he was sixteen, something snapped.
He kissed her.
Couldn’t stop himself.
And she kissed him back—fierce, open, perfect.
The taste of her, the feel of her body molding to his, the soft sound she made when his tongue touched hers—it was better than any fantasy he’d tried to bury.
Then reality crashed in.
Student.
Professor.
Boundaries.
He pulled away. Apologized. Fled to his room.
Locked the door.
And spent the rest of the day sitting on the edge of his bed, head in his hands, replaying every second.
The way she rose on her toes.
The way she tasted like syrup and longing.
The way she looked at him—like she saw him, really saw him.
He wanted to go back out there. Wanted to pull her into his arms again. Wanted to apologize properly, then kiss her until neither of them could think straight.
Instead he stayed inside.
Silent.
Yearning.
Across the house, in the guest room, Luna lay curled on her side, fingers pressed to her still-swollen lips.
Neither of them left their rooms.
The house was quiet.
But inside their heads, the noise was deafening.
Both of them thinking the same thing:
- Writer
