Three days.
That's how long it took.
Not for Ethan to find me.
No—he had known where I was from the beginning. I never really left his world. Just stepped outside the parts he let me see.
But it took three days for him to come.
When I opened the door, he stood there—no bodyguards, no black car, no anger.
Just Ethan.
In a grey coat, his shirt slightly wrinkled, like he hadn't slept. Like maybe—just maybe—he'd missed me.
"You look tired," he said softly.
I didn't answer.
He didn't ask to come in. He didn't raise his voice.
He just stood there with that unbearable calm—the kind that made you feel like maybe you were the one being unreasonable.
"I let you go," he said. "You needed space. I gave it."
"Don't pretend that was a gift," I said, my voice brittle. "You let me go because you knew I'd come back."
His jaw flexed. "Did you?"
"No," I whispered.
A silence stretched between us—one that should have been freeing, but instead felt like quicksand.
"I can't breathe with you," I said. "And I can't breathe without you either."
He stepped closer. Slowly. Carefully.
"That's what it's like when two lives are tangled," he said. "When one heartbeat depends on the other."
"That's not romantic," I said. "That's terrifying."
He gave a faint smile. "Only if you try to pull away."
My throat tightened.
"I won't beg you," he added. "But I will remind you of one thing."
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out the ring box—the same one I'd left behind.
"It still fits," he said. "Because I never chose wrong."
And with that, he placed it on the porch railing, turned, and walked away.
Not a word more.
Not a demand.
Not a plea.
Just a quiet declaration that said:
You're still mine. Whether you wear it or not.