Ethan felt strangely uneasy standing in front of the large classical house.
Even beneath Whitby's cold evening air, the place carried an unmistakable warmth. Elegant without trying too hard, grand without feeling intimidating, it stood quietly against the snow as though meant to shelter rather than impress.
For a moment, Ethan simply stood there.
The house did not feel cold in the way wealth often did.
No arrogance.
No unnecessary display.
Just warmth.
Quiet confidence.
Something strangely lived-in.
Before he could second-guess himself, the front door opened.
A middle-aged man stood there, polite and composed.
"Mr. Hale, I presume?"
Ethan blinked, briefly pulled from his thoughts.
"…Yes."
The man stepped aside.
"Please come in."
Not far behind him, Missy appeared.
And for a brief moment—
Ethan forgot why he had come.
She looked beautiful.
Effortlessly beautiful.
Soft in a way he had always struggled to explain.
