Chapter 11
Lisa's POV
It was my first day at the military academy—and somehow, also the day Ethen was returning from Italy. I had no idea what exactly he was doing there, but considering the way Meena rolled her eyes every time she mentioned it, it couldn't have been a typical work trip. Still, the nerd revelation was surprising. For a guy who looked like trouble, he sure liked his books and numbers.
Not that I had time to care much about that this morning. I was too caught up in the excitement—no, the thrill—of finally stepping into something I'd waited for so long. I was up early, dressed in my academy-issued uniform—stiff but empowering. I tied my hair into a sleek ponytail, glanced at myself once in the mirror, and told my reflection, Don't screw this up.
Downstairs, I nearly tripped over two giant suitcases. Meena stood nearby, adjusting the sleeves of a peach-colored dress, long and flowing like she was off to a destination wedding.
"Heyyy... are you going somewhere?" I asked, raising a brow.
She spun around with a sparkle in her eyes. "Lisa! You're finally up! I checked on you last night but you were dead asleep. Anyway, it's mine and Aryan's anniversary today! One whole year. So we're off for a two-day trip."
She paused for a second, her voice lowering in playful warning. "Also... Ethen's landing today. I know he's impossible, but I trust him not to burn the house down. Hopefully."
I smirked. "Have fun. Take pictures. And update me with all your annoying lovey-dovey stuff."
She grinned. "You're my best friend—of course I will." She pulled me into a quick hug, then drew back. "Wait. Isn't it your first day too? You feeling ready?"
"Ready? Sure. Mentally? Who knows. I might fake a faint if the drills get too intense."
She laughed. "You'll crush it."
I smiled—but inside, my stomach churned. I hoped she was right.
[Later – Military Academy Grounds]
The training field was unforgiving. Dust swirled with every step, boots slammed into gravel in perfect rhythm, and instructors barked orders without mercy.
Each round, each lap, each push-up chipped away at me.
I didn't stop.
I couldn't.
People around me began dropping off one by one. Resting. Gasping. But I kept going.
Even when my limbs begged.
Even when the ache in my ribs spread into my lungs.
"Lisa," the coach finally called out. "Enough for today. That's an order."
I nodded, but I didn't stop. Not yet. Not until I felt I'd earned my place.
Another round. Another sprint. My throat burned. My vision blurred.
Still… I kept moving.
Ethen's POV
"How long till we're back, Ryan?" I asked, loosening the top buttons of my black shirt. The private jet hummed around us, low and steady, like the calm after a storm.
"Twenty-five minutes," Ryan answered, glancing at the sleek silver watch on his wrist.
We sat across from each other, two untouched glasses of whiskey between us. I leaned back against the leather seat, one ankle resting over my knee.
"You think the Palermo side will hold their end?" I asked.
"They know better than not to," Ryan said. "After that little reminder we left them in Milan, I don't think they'll go silent again."
I let out a slow exhale, my fingers tapping the armrest. "Still. Keep an eye on Luca. He's too quiet. Men like that always make the most noise when they finally open their mouths."
Ryan smirked. "Already done. Two of our guys are trailing him. You should stop worrying for one night."
"I'll stop worrying when my family stops getting dragged into this mess." My voice had dropped lower.
He tilted his head, studying me. "Speaking of which… you sure she's still safe?"
"Yeah," I said, but my mind was already home. "Meena's out of town, so Lisa's probably annoying herself into a headache trying to do too much."
Ryan laughed. "She's like her brother."
I smiled faintly. "Unfortunately."
The light above signaled our descent. I braced myself—not for landing. But for whatever I'd walk into next.
Lisa's POV
I don't know how I made it home.
My body was screaming. Everything from my calves to my spine burned. My skin was flushed hot and my hands trembled uncontrollably.
The moment I stepped inside, I swayed.
The house was quiet except for the soft murmur of a news channel playing on the lounge TV.
And there he was—Ethen—sitting on the couch in a charcoal hoodie, legs stretched out, remote in hand. His hair was slightly messy from travel, but he looked annoyingly well-rested.
He looked up. "Well, if it isn't our brave little soldier."
His smirk faded as soon as he saw me fully.
"Lisa?"
"I—" I tried to answer but the room spun and I staggered forward.
"Hey—hey! Lisa!" He was up in two seconds, arms catching me just before I hit the floor. "What the hell happened?!"
"I'm fine," I whispered, clutching his shoulder.
"You're burning up," he muttered, pressing a hand to my forehead. "Shit. You're actually burning up."
He lifted me with one arm under my legs, the other supporting my back, and carried me to the couch like I weighed nothing. I didn't even protest.
He left, returned with water, helped me sip slowly.
"You look like you ran through hell barefoot. What were you thinking?"
"I… just didn't stop training," I said, my voice hoarse.
"Clearly."
He disappeared again. I heard the clatter of pans, the soft rumble of a kettle. Moments later, he returned with warm milk and pills in one hand, a damp cloth in the other.
"Here. Take these. Now."
I obeyed. Again.
He crouched beside me, dabbing my face with the cloth, his touch surprisingly gentle.
"You didn't eat properly, did you?" he asked, his voice softer now.
"I did… sort of."
He sighed, muttering something under his breath. "You always push yourself like this?"
"I don't know how to stop," I admitted, eyes fluttering shut.
He looked at me for a long moment. "Come on."
Before I could ask, he picked me up again—this time carrying me to his room.
His bed smelled like clean laundry and woodsy cologne. He placed an ice pack on my head and sat beside me, rubbing warmth into my numb fingers.
"I'm not going anywhere tonight," he said. "So sleep."
I wanted to argue, but my body didn't.
Sleep wrapped around me like a storm cloud, and I let it carry me away.
[Later That Night – Lisa's POV]
It was the stillness that woke me.
Not the fever.
Not the sweat soaking through my clothes.
But the silence.
No TV murmuring from the lounge, no clatter from the kitchen, no voice echoing through the walls. Just the low, even thrum of breathing beside me. Steady. Deep.
Ethen.
For a moment, I didn't move.
The room was cloaked in soft darkness, moonlight slivering in through the half-open curtain. My eyes adjusted slowly, and there he was—half sprawled across the side of the bed, one hand still loosely wrapped around mine, the other resting near my waist.
His face looked different in sleep. Younger. Softer. Like the weight he carried during the day had finally slipped off his shoulders and left him unguarded. There were creases between his brows, like even in dreams, something hunted him.
I didn't want to wake him.
But I had to.
I was drenched. Every inch of me was sticky and suffocating. The fever had broken, maybe, but it left a ghost of heat and discomfort behind.
"Ethen…" I whispered.
He didn't stir.
"Ethen," I said again, gently tugging my hand from his.
His eyes fluttered open instantly, like he hadn't truly been sleeping at all. His gaze shot to mine, sharp with alertness—until he saw my expression.
"What is it?" His voice was hoarse, low.
"I—I need to change. I'm soaked."
He pushed up on one elbow, eyes scanning my face. "Okay. Alright. Hold on." He rubbed his eyes, then moved quickly to the other side of room. I watched as he rummaged through a drawer and pulled out one of his oversized shirts—soft cotton, loose and long enough to pass as a dress.
He walked back to me slowly, holding it out like a peace offering. "This is clean. It's Mine."
I sat up with effort, my arms trembling again. I reached for the shirt—but my fingers slipped uselessly. My hands were too weak, too shaky.
"I can't…" I murmured.
He didn't move for a second.
Then, quietly, he said, "I'll turn around. Or—I can help. If you want."
I hesitated.
It shouldn't matter. He was Meena's brother. This was just him helping.
But everything about it felt like more.
"…Can you help?" I whispered.
He nodded. Wordless. Careful.
He knelt beside the bed, slowly—deliberately—so I didn't feel rushed. His hands reached up to the hem of my shirt, pausing just before touching it.
"Okay?" he asked, barely above a whisper.
I nodded once.
His fingers found the edge of the damp fabric and began to lift. He didn't look at me—not once. His gaze was locked somewhere just over my shoulder, jaw tight, breath held like a vow.
The shirt peeled away from my skin, and cool air hit my fevered body. My breath hitched, but not from the cold.
He reached for the fresh shirt with one hand, threading it over my arms carefully, brushing against my bare shoulder only for a second. But it was enough. A second can last forever in the wrong silence.
When it was done, I expected him to step back. To leave.
But he didn't.
He sat on the edge of the bed, his back slightly turned to me now, elbows resting on his knees, fingers tangled.
The silence stretched between us like a thread pulled too tight.
"I hate seeing you like this," he said suddenly, softly.
I swallowed hard. "It's just a fever."
"No. I mean like this—pushing yourself until you collapse. Running yourself into the ground like your body's some kind of punishment."
I looked down at my lap.
"I didn't mean to."
"I know," he said. "But you did."
I glanced over at him, and he turned to face me, his eyes searching mine.
There it was again—that quiet storm behind his gaze. That weight he always carried but never spoke about. And suddenly, I wasn't cold anymore.
His hand brushed a strand of damp hair away from my face, lingering near my cheek, fingertips barely grazing skin. I didn't flinch. Couldn't. The warmth of his touch grounded me.
He didn't speak. Just studied my face like he was trying to memorize it—like I was something fragile he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch.
My fingers tightened slightly around the fabric of his shirt. I hadn't even realized I was holding onto him. But I was. Maybe I needed something steady in that moment. Maybe I needed him.
His gaze dipped—to my lips.
And stayed there.
My breath stalled. I didn't move, didn't blink.
He leaned in.
Slow. Cautious.
Not like a man used to asking permission. But like someone who knew this moment had to be earned. And he wasn't sure if he deserved it.
The space between us dissolved by inches. His fingers were still warm against my jaw, the pad of his thumb brushing lightly along my skin as if trying to reassure both of us.
And then—he kissed me.
Soft.
So soft I wasn't sure at first if it was really happening, or just the fever lingering in my head.
But then he kissed me again—more certain this time, lips pressed gently to mine in a slow, lingering touch that made the entire room fall away.
It wasn't rough or demanding. It wasn't desperate.
It was patient.
Measured.
Careful, like he was afraid if he moved too fast, I'd vanish.
I felt it down to my bones—how much he was holding back. How much he wasn't saying. How much weight sat just behind that kiss, unspoken and burning.
When he finally pulled away, just an inch, his breath was shaky. His forehead rested briefly near mine, and for the first time, I saw something in his eyes that scared me more than the kiss itself.
Regret.
Or fear.
Or maybe both.
"I shouldn't have," he whispered.
But he didn't move.
And neither did I.