Chloe tapped her pencil against the notebook. That’s not friendship. That’s feelings. It’s complicated. You always say that because it always is. Kloe crossed her arms. Do you like her or not? Ethan sat down across from his daughter and tried to figure out how to explain adult emotions to an 8-year-old. I don’t know, he said finally.

That’s a lie. It’s not a lie. I genuinely don’t know. Why not? Because liking someone means risking getting hurt, and I’m tired of getting hurt. Khloe’s expression softened. Is that why you don’t date? Yeah. That’s sad. I know. Aurora is not like mom. Ethan looked up sharply. What? Aurora’s not like mom? Kloe repeated.

Mom left because she wanted something better. Aurora’s here because she doesn’t want anything except to be safe. She pushed the notebook across the table. That’s different. Ethan stared at his daughter, wondering when she’d gotten so perceptive. You’re eight, he said weakly. I’m observant. Clearly, Khloe grinned. So, are you going to tell her? Tell her what? That you like her? Absolutely not.

Why? Because that’s not how adults do things. Then how do adults do things? Ethan didn’t have an answer. Chloe took her notebook back and kept writing. That night, Ethan went back to Aurora’s house. She was sitting on the floor of her living room, surrounded by legal documents, her laptop balanced on a stack of files.

You look like hell, Ethan said. Aurora didn’t look up. Thanks. When’s the last time you ate? I don’t know. Lunch. It’s 9:00. Then lunch. Ethan walked into her kitchen, opened the fridge, and found exactly three things: bottled water, leftover Chinese food, and a container of Greek yogurt that expired 2 weeks ago. You live like a college student, he called out. I’m busy.

You’re going to starve. He reheated the Chinese food and brought it to her on a plate. Aurora blinked up at him. You didn’t have to do that. Eat. She ate. Ethan sat down beside her, scanning the document spread across the floor. What are you working on? Trying to prove the patent forgery. If I can get one document authenticated, the rest of the case falls apart.

Can you prove it? Maybe. There’s a forensic document analyst in Boston who owes me a favor. But getting the original contracts from Damian’s office is impossible. Not impossible, just illegal. Aurora looked at him. What? You said his office has the originals. Where’s his office? Manhattan.

Why? Because I know someone who used to work in corporate litigation. She specialized in discovery. If there’s a way to get those documents legally, she’ll know. Aurora’s eyes widened. You’re serious? Yeah. Who is she? Ethan hesitated. My ex-wife’s lawyer. The one who destroyed you in court? Yeah. And you think she’ll help me? No, but I think she’ll help me if I ask the right way.

Aurora set down her plate. Why would you do that? Because I told you I’d help. Ethan, if you contact her, she’s going to ask questions. She’s going to dig into why you care about this. And if Damen finds out, let him. Aurora’s voice dropped. You could lose custody of Chloe. Not if we win, and if we don’t. Ethan met her eyes.

Then at least I tried. Aurora stared at him like she was trying to solve a puzzle she didn’t have all the pieces for. You’re insane, she whispered. probably. Why are you doing this? Ethan didn’t answer right away. He looked at the woman sitting beside him, surrounded by evidence of someone else’s cruelty, fighting a battle she shouldn’t have to fight alone.

And he realized Khloe was right. It wasn’t friendship. It was something else entirely. “Because you matter,” he said quietly. Aurora’s breath hitched. For a long moment, neither of them moved. Then Aurora leaned forward and kissed him. It wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t perfect. It was messy and hesitant and tasted like Chinese food in desperation.

When she pulled back, her eyes were wide with panic. “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I shouldn’t have.” Ethan kissed her back. This time, it wasn’t hesitant. They broke apart, breathing hard, foreheads pressed together, the legal documents scattered around them like forgotten wreckage. “This is a bad idea,” Aurora whispered. “I know.

We barely know each other. I know. I’m a disaster. So am I. Aurora laughed shakily. What are we doing? Ethan pulled back just enough to look at her. I have no idea. That’s comforting. You want comfort? Get a therapist. You want honesty? You’re stuck with me. Aurora’s eyes filled with tears again, but this time she was smiling.

They sat on the floor of her too big house, holding each other like they were the only solid things left in a world that kept trying to pull them apart. And for the first time in 3 years, Ethan let himself believe that maybe broken people could still build something worth keeping. They didn’t talk about the kiss. Not the next morning when Ethan found Aurora on his porch again with coffee and bagels.

Both of them carefully avoiding eye contact. Not the day after that when Khloe asked why Aurora looked nervous. and Ethan changed the subject so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. Not even three days later when they sat in Aurora’s kitchen going through legal documents and their hands brushed and they both pretended it didn’t send electricity up their spines.

Instead, they fell into a rhythm that felt dangerous precisely because it felt so natural. Ethan would drop Kloe at school, come home, work on motorcycles until noon, then cross the street to Aurora’s house, where they’d spend hours digging through Damen’s case files. Aurora taught him how to read contracts. Ethan taught her how to spot inconsistencies in dates and signatures.

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