By the time they reached the house, the sun had begun to set.
Amelia didn't notice.
She'd fallen asleep somewhere along the last stretch of road—her body finally giving in to exhaustion she'd been fighting for days. Her head had drifted toward the center of the car, her hand resting loosely on the seat between them.
Ethan pulled into the driveway and turned off the engine.
He didn't move.
He sat there for a long moment, watching her breathe. The rise and fall of her chest. The way her lips parted slightly. The way her fingers twitched, as if she were reaching for something in a dream.
She's beautiful, he thought. And she has no idea.
He should wake her. Should open his door, walk around, help her inside.
But he didn't want to.
He wanted to sit here, in the fading light, and pretend that the world outside didn't exist. That there were no men looking for her. That her father hadn't sold her to save his own skin. That Victoria's jealousy wasn't a threat waiting to happen.
He wanted to pretend that she was here because she chose to be.
But that wasn't true.
Not yet.
Ethan opened his door, walked around to her side, and opened hers carefully. Cold air slipped into the car, and Amelia stirred, murmuring something he couldn't understand. Her eyes didn't open.
"Amelia," he said quietly.
No response.
He leaned in, unbuckled her seatbelt, and slid one arm beneath her knees, the other behind her back. She was lighter than he expected—or maybe she simply fit against him in a way that made the weight feel like nothing.
She shifted, her cheek pressing against his chest, and her fingers curled loosely into the fabric of his shirt.
Even in sleep, she knew exactly who was holding her.
Ethan carried her up the steps, his pace unhurried. The front door was unlocked—he'd left it that way, a risk he normally wouldn't take, but tonight he didn't care.
He pushed it open with his shoulder and stepped inside.
The house was still. Warm. The air carried the faint scent of vanilla and something woodier—his, or maybe hers now too.
He didn't turn on the lights. He didn't need to. The moon through the windows cast everything in shades of silver and shadow.
He walked through the living room, past the dark outlines of furniture, toward the staircase. Halfway there, he hesitated.
Too far.
Too many stairs.
He didn't want to let go yet.
So he didn't.
He turned instead, walking to the large couch by the unlit fireplace. He lowered her onto the cushions slowly, carefully, as if she were something breakable.
Her head barely touched the throw pillow before her eyes fluttered open.
"Ethan…?" Her voice was thick with sleep, confused, soft.
"You fell asleep," he said simply.
She blinked, looking around. "How… we're inside?"
"You were comfortable. I didn't want to wake you."
Amelia pushed herself up on her elbows. And that's when she realized how close he still was.
He had one knee on the edge of the couch, one hand braced against the back of it. His body was a quiet wall around her, blocking out everything except him.
Neither of them moved.
The silence returned, but it wasn't the same as before. This one was heavier. Fuller. The kind of silence that held everything unsaid.
"You carried me," she whispered.
"I did."
"Why?"
Ethan looked at her for a long moment. In the dim light, his eyes were unreadable and yet entirely too honest.
"Because you needed to be carried."
Amelia's breath caught.
She should have looked away. Should have said something light, something dismissive, something that would push him back to a safer distance.
But she didn't.
Her hand lifted slowly, almost of its own accord, and her fingers touched the side of his jaw. His stubble was rough beneath her fingertips. His skin was warm. Warmer than she expected.
He didn't pull back.
"Ethan…" His name came out different this time. Not a question. Not a protest.
An admission.
His hand moved from the back of the couch to her waist, fingers pressing gently into the fabric of her dress. He didn't pull her closer. He simply held her there, as if asking permission without words.
"You should tell me to stop," he said quietly.
"I should," she agreed.
Neither of them moved.
"Amelia." His voice was lower now, rougher at the edges. "If you don't want this—"
She silenced him.
Not with words.
With her hand sliding to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair, pulling him down toward her.
And then she kissed him.
It wasn't gentle. It wasn't tentative. It was the kind of kiss that happened when two people had been circling each other for too long, saying everything except what mattered.
Ethan answered immediately.
His hand tightened at her waist, and his other hand came up to cradle the back of her head, tilting her just slightly, deepening the kiss. She tasted like the faint sweetness of whatever she'd had at the office, and beneath that, just her—warm and real and finally.
Amelia made a small sound against his mouth, and something in him unraveled.
He pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, both of them breathing unevenly, the space between them barely a whisper.
"Still want me to stop?" he asked.
She laughed softly, breathlessly.
"I stopped wanting that the moment you carried me inside."
His smile was faint, almost private, as if it was meant only for her.
Then he kissed her again.
Slower this time.
Deeper.
And when her arms wrapped around his neck and pulled him down beside her on the couch, he went willingly.
No walls left.
No distance.
No more words for a while.
Outside, the night carried on.
Inside, for the first time, it felt like home.