Ethan’s POV
She's everywhere, and it's driving me insane.
Her perfume lingers in the hallway outside the locker room, that familiar scent I used to bury my face in when we were seventeen and the world was simple. Her laugh echoes across the gym when one of the assistant coaches says something funny, and the sound hits me like a physical blow every single time. I catch glimpses of her throughout the day—auburn ponytail disappearing around corners, green eyes meeting mine for a split second before darting away—and each one leaves me more wrecked than the last.
The balcony haunts me most of all. The way she looked at me in the moonlight, wanting and terrified in equal measure. The way her hand pressed against my chest, holding me back when every muscle in her body was leaning forward. The crack in her voice when she said she wasn't ready for this to be real.
Real. Like anything about us has ever been fake.
Practice is brutal today, and I throw myself into every drill with a desperation that borders on self-destruction. Suicides until my lungs burn, defensive slides until my thighs scream, three-point shooting until my arms feel like lead. I'm trying to burn her out of my system, sweat out the memory of her body pressed against mine during that dance, exhaust myself into forgetting.
It doesn't work. Nothing works.
She's on the sideline with her clipboard and her perfect posture, that professional mask firmly in place. But I know what's underneath now—I've seen it crack, felt it shatter in my arms. Every time I glance over between plays, she's already looking away too fast, her pen scratching across paper with unnecessary intensity.
She feels it too. She just won't admit it.
"Reyes!" Coach's voice cuts through my thoughts. "Head in the game! Run it again!"
I run it again. And again. And again. My body moves on autopilot while my mind replays the same loop—her breath catching when I pulled her close, the soft gasp when my thigh pressed between hers, the way she said my name like it was being torn out of her.
Practice ends at six, but I linger in the gym, shooting free throws while the team filters out. I'm not ready to go back to my empty apartment and stare at the ceiling, thinking about green silk and city lights and all the things I want to say but can't.
I see her leaving through the side exit, heading toward the parking lot with her bag over her shoulder. My feet are moving before I make a conscious decision, sneakers squeaking against the hardwood as I jog after her.
"Harper, wait."
She pauses in the hallway but doesn't turn around, her shoulders tensing visibly beneath her jacket. "I have somewhere to be."
"No, you don't." I catch up to her, slightly breathless. "You always stay late on Thursdays to do the equipment inventory. You told me that three weeks ago."
"Maybe I finished early."
"Maybe you're avoiding me."
She finally turns, and the look on her face confirms everything I suspected. Exhaustion, frustration, something desperate lurking beneath the surface that she's fighting hard to suppress. "Ethan, please. I can't do this right now."
The equipment closet is three feet away, door slightly ajar. I don't think—just grab her wrist and pull her inside before she can protest, kicking the door shut behind us.
"What are you—"
"Tell me I'm imagining this." I crowd her against the metal shelves, not touching, just close enough that I can feel the heat radiating off her body. "Tell me you don't feel it."
Her breathing goes ragged, chest rising and falling too fast. Basketballs and spare jerseys surround us, the cramped space forcing an intimacy that neither of us can escape. "Ethan—"
"You said you can't kiss me because it would make things real." I lean closer, my hands braced on the shelf behind her head, caging her in without contact. "That means you want to."
"Wanting something doesn't mean it's smart."
"Since when do you care about smart?" I drop my voice lower, watching the effect it has on her—the way her pupils dilate, the way her tongue darts out to wet her lips. "You're the girl who jumped off the rope swing into the quarry on a dare. Who snuck out of her parents' house at midnight to watch meteor showers with me. Since when is Harper Calloway afraid of anything?"
"Since I learned what happens when I'm not." Her voice wavers, cracking at the edges. "Since I learned that wanting you leads to getting destroyed."
The words hit me like a fist to the chest, and I feel something shift in the air between us. She's not just talking about attraction anymore—she's talking about history, about pain, about the wreckage I left behind three years ago when I walked away.
"I'm not going to destroy you." I mean it with every fiber of my being. "Not this time."
"You don't know that."
"I know I've spent three years regretting every second I wasn't with you." My voice comes out rougher than I intended, raw with honesty I've been holding back. "I know I've never stopped thinking about you, dreaming about you, wanting you so badly it feels like a physical ache. I know that walking away from you was the worst mistake I've ever made, and I'm not stupid enough to make it twice."
Her hand comes up to press against my chest—the same gesture from the balcony, palm flat over my heart. But this time she doesn't push me away. Just holds me there, feeling my heartbeat thunder beneath her fingers.
"Your heart is racing," she whispers.
"It always does around you."
"Ethan..." My name sounds different in her mouth, softer, less guarded than before.
"I know you're scared." I let one hand drop from the shelf, fingertips brushing her jaw without quite touching. "I'm scared too. But I'm more scared of never knowing what we could have."
She closes her eyes, and I watch the battle play out across her features—desire warring with self-preservation, want fighting against fear. Her hand stays pressed to my chest, neither pulling me closer nor pushing me away.
"Not here," she finally breathes, so quiet I almost miss it. "Not yet."
"But someday?"
She doesn't answer. But she doesn't say never either, and right now that feels like everything.
Her eyes open, meeting mine in the dim light of the closet, and something passes between us—understanding, maybe. Or promise. The acknowledgment that whatever walls she's built, I'm slowly chipping away at them.
"I should go." Her voice steadies, the mask sliding back into place. "Someone might see us."
I step back, giving her space, even though every instinct screams to pull her closer. She slips past me toward the door, her shoulder brushing my chest, and the contact sends electricity crackling down my spine.
She pauses with her hand on the doorknob, not looking back. "This doesn't change anything."
"It changes everything." I keep my voice steady even though my pulse is racing. "You just don't want to admit it yet."
The door opens, spilling hallway light into the darkness, and she's gone. I watch her walk away through the crack—perfect posture, measured steps, professional distance firmly restored. But I saw what was underneath. I felt her heart racing against my chest, felt her lean into my touch before her mind caught up with her body.
I'm going to break through those walls if it kills me.
The door swings shut, leaving me alone in the equipment closet surrounded by basketballs and the lingering scent of her perfume. My hand presses against my chest where hers rested, and I swear I can still feel the warmth of her palm.
She didn't say never. She said not yet.
And not yet means someday is still possible.