Chapter 3 Something Is Wrong

Mia’s Perspective 

Ethan runs his life on a schedule so tight you could set a watch by it.

So when I walk in from uni and find him slumped on the sofa instead of cooking dinner like he always does after a day shift, my stomach drops.

Something’s wrong.

He’s leaning forward, elbows on his knees, head buried in his hands. His fingers are twisted in his dark hair, knuckles pale with tension.

“Hey,” I say softly, closing the door behind me. “Everything okay?”

He doesn’t react. Not a sound. Not even a grunt.

I freeze where I am. Two months of living together, and I still don’t fully understand him, but today feels different. He’s not irritated or sharp or quietly brooding. This feels heavier. Rawer.

I’ve seen his emotions before. Anger, mostly. Sometimes, unfortunately, at me. I’ve learned how to move around him, though. What winds him up. What keeps the peace. Cooking, for one.

He likes that routine. It’s the closest thing we have to spending time together, even if we take turns rather than actually cooking side by side.

So no dinner? No chopping, no sizzling pan?

Definitely not a normal day.

I inhale, steadying myself, and drop my keys on the counter. Then I bend to pick up the mail scattered near the door. Usually, Ethan leaves it neatly stacked on the coffee table for me.

One envelope makes me pause. His name. A handwritten address. And beneath it, in block letters.

Spain?

I frown. I didn’t know he knew anyone there. Not my business, I remind myself, though curiosity pricks anyway.

I carry the post over and set it on the table in front of him. Still nothing. No nod. No annoyed look. No acknowledgment at all.

My hand hovers, itching to touch his shoulder. To do something. But Ethan isn’t big on physical contact on his best days. Today, he looks like he might shatter, or snap, it feels risky.

So I just stand there, watching him, tense as someone standing too close to a wild animal. One wrong move and he’ll bite my head off.

I’ve learned that the hard way, times I forgotten bins, broken his mug, tiny mistakes blown out of proportion.

He’s not asleep. I can tell by the stiffness in his shoulders, the tight fists. If he wanted to be alone, he’d be in his room. Not here.

Slowly, I lower myself onto my knees in front of him.

He’s still wearing his boots.

That alone sets alarm bells ringing. Mark never takes a single step past the mat without pulling them off.

“Ethan,” I say quietly, nudging his calf with my elbow. That barely counts as touching… right?

Nothing.

Heat creeps up my neck. I know he’s bad at talking, but being completely ignored stings. I’m not asking for a speech, just something. A word. A sign.

With a frustrated sigh, I push myself up, ready to retreat to my room.

His hand snaps out and closes around my wrist.

I gasp and look down. His head is still bowed, but his grip is firm. Steady.

“Stay.”

One word. Low. Rough. And threaded with something that makes my chest ache.

I glance at the empty space beside him on the sofa. When he doesn’t let go, I sink back down to my knees. His hand drops away, lifeless at his side.

“Do you want to talk?” I ask gently, even though the odds of that happening feel microscopic.

The silence stretches. He doesn’t answer, but he wanted me here. Not to talk. Just… here.

Carefully, I brush my fingers against his hand.

He doesn’t pull away.

Encouraged, I trace my thumb over his knuckles. Small. Gentle.

Comfort, I can do.

He lifts his head.

My thoughts slam to a halt.

“Oh my god.” I clap a hand over my mouth.

His lips are split. One cheek is scraped and swelling, already darkening. His jaw tightens as he notices my reaction.

“I can’t move,” he says quietly.

My heart lurches. I scan him, panic rising, but he’s still in uniform, black fabric hiding everything else.

“What happened?” I rush out. “Where are you hurt? Do I need to call an ambulance?”