Page 33 of Ethan
“I know,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’ve got a crush. It’s embarrassing.”
Before I could respond, Micah trotted off with the cup like he was on a diplomatic mission.
I watched him go, then took off in the opposite direction, sprinting toward the training yard like my life depended on it.
By the time I reached the clearing, Griffin was already warming up, his shirt off and glistening with sweat. He looked up, narrowed his eyes, and barked, “You’re late.”
“Yeah,” I panted, bending over with my hands on my knees. “But for a good reason.”
“You better have been putting out a fire,” Griffin said.
“Sort of,” I muttered, standing up straight. “Coffee emergency.”
Griffin just shook his head. “One day, I’m gonna teach you what a schedule is.”
Despite the grumbling, he didn’t seemtoopissed. And I’d take that as a win.
But the whole time we trained, while I punched and blocked and ran drills until my arms burned, I kept picturing Ethan’s face when he saw that coffee.
Maybe he’d smile. Maybe he’d roll his eyes but still drink it. This wasn’t a grand gesture. It wasn’t pushing or hovering. It was just… showing I cared.
Carter would probably still call it “obvious,” but I didn’t care.
Chapter 8
Ethan
I liked routines.I liked knowing what to expect, having certain habits in place and seeing them fulfilled. It grounded me, gave me something to measure the day against.
When something disrupted that rhythm, it was usually nothing more than a mild inconvenience, an itch I could scratch by figuring out how to work my way around it and settle things back into order.
Sometimes I even liked the challenge. But this?
It’s been two days now. No, three. Three mornings without seeing that infuriating face at eight sharp.
For almost a week, Dean had shown up like clockwork: a smile tugging at his lips, a scrape or bruise he wanted checked, and a cup of coffee in hand.
I tried not to notice anything else, but it was hard to ignore the sharp jaw, the warm eyes that gave away more than they should. Annoyingly handsome. Distractingly so.
Sure, the coffee was always sweeter than I liked, but I’d gotten used to it. Somewhere along the way, I’d even started to look forward to it. To him.
The morning didn’t feel right anymore if I didn’t have that small exchange first—the teasing, the banter, that stupidly sweet coffee warming my hands before I buried myself in the endless pile of paperwork.
But now, now I’d walk into the clinic to find a cup from Vanilla Bean waiting on my desk. Three days in a row.
Micah would leave it there before darting out again, counting a suspicious stack of bills in his hand. I didn’t ask.
I didn’t want to know how or where he got the money, though I had a nagging suspicion who was behind it.
I tapped my pen against the desk, staring at the same journal article on advanced healing techniques I’d opened this morning. Hours later, and I hadn’t absorbed a single word.
Yeah, this particular change in my morning routine, I did not like. Not one bit.
I bit my lip, leaning back in my chair. Enough.
Pulling up the pack’s shared calendar, I scrolled until I found the enforcers’ schedule. All the names, assignments, and patrol rotations were there.
But nothing for the trainees. No listed schedule for them, apparently.
