Chapter 2: Lines in the Sand

The days slipped into a rhythm, a delicate balance of avoidance and uneasy truce. Ethan woke late, drifted through the house, and spent hours lounging by the pool or gaming in his room. Sarah maintained her steady routine—cleaning, cooking, and ensuring the house ran smoothly. Their paths crossed often, but their exchanges were brief, charged with a quiet tension neither fully understood.

One afternoon, Ethan found Sarah in the living room, dusting the framed photographs lining the walls. His family's history hung in neat rows—smiling faces at galas, beach vacations, and his parents at various charity events. His own childhood was cataloged too—stiff school photos, forced grins, and the rare candid shot where he looked genuinely happy. Those were rare.

"Don't break anything," he said, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged room.

Sarah didn't look up. "I'm careful."

"Careful isn't the same as perfect," he muttered, sinking into the leather couch.

She paused, turning to him. "If you want perfection, you'll have to look somewhere else."

He raised an eyebrow, half-amused. "You always talk back to your employers?"

"I wasn't aware you were my employer." She set the frame down and moved to the next.

His smirk faded, replaced by something darker. "I could call my parents. Tell them you're not doing your job."

Sarah met his gaze, her green eyes steady. "You could. But you won't."

He straightened, her confidence a sharp, unexpected jab. "And why's that?"

"Because if they come back, it means they cut their trip short. And from what I've heard, they need this vacation away from you."

Ethan's jaw clenched, the words hitting their mark. He opened his mouth to retort, but no words came. She turned back to her work, the conversation closed.

He hated how calm she was. How nothing seemed to rattle her. She wasn't like anyone he'd met before—especially not the girls who floated through his life like accessories, all smiles and flattery. Sarah was a wall, and he couldn't decide whether he wanted to break through it or just break it.

Later that evening, the air in the house was thick with the smell of garlic and herbs. Ethan wandered into the kitchen, drawn by the warm glow of the lights and the soft clatter of dishes.

Sarah stood at the stove, stirring a pot. She had an apron on, too large for her frame, and a smudge of flour on her cheek. The sight was strangely domestic, almost comforting.

"What's that?" he asked, hovering by the doorway.

"Dinner."

"What kind?"

"Chicken Alfredo. And salad."

"Are you always this vague?"

Sarah glanced at him, a hint of a smile breaking through. "Are you always this nosy?"

He grinned despite himself. "I'm starving."

She turned off the burner and began plating the food. "Table's set. You can sit."

Ethan hesitated, then slid into a chair at the small breakfast nook. It was a corner of the house he rarely used—his meals were usually takeout in his room or formal dinners with his parents. This felt different.

Sarah set a plate in front of him, the creamy pasta steaming, the chicken perfectly browned. She served herself a smaller portion and sat across from him.

"You're eating too?" he asked, surprised.

"I have to eat." She took a bite, her movements careful and deliberate.

They ate in silence for a few minutes, the only sound the soft clink of silverware. Despite himself, Ethan found the food delicious. He wouldn't admit it, but it was the best meal he'd had in weeks.

"You're a good cook," he said, his tone almost grudging.

"Thanks."

He twirled his fork in the pasta, glancing at her. "Where'd you learn?"

"My mom. She worked a lot, so I cooked for my brothers."

Ethan hadn't expected that. "You have brothers?"

"Two. Both younger."

"Do they live with you?"

She hesitated, her fork pausing mid-air. "No. They're with my aunt. My mom's... she's not well."

He caught the way her fingers tightened around the fork, the brief shadow that crossed her face. "I'm sorry."

Sarah didn't respond immediately. She chewed, swallowed, and when she spoke, her voice was even. "It's fine. I'm doing what I can."

Ethan studied her, a strange sense of unease curling in his chest. He was used to people hiding behind masks, but with Sarah, it wasn't a mask—it was armor. He found himself wanting to know what lay beneath it, and the thought unsettled him.

The rest of the meal passed quietly, and when Sarah stood to clear the plates, he moved to help her. She looked at him, surprised, as he stacked dishes and brought them to the sink.

"You don't have to," she said.

"I know." He rolled up his sleeves, turning on the water. "But I want to."

They washed the dishes together, their movements careful in the small space. His hand brushed hers once, a fleeting touch that sent a jolt through him. She didn't pull away, but she didn't acknowledge it either.

When the last dish was set to dry, they stood side by side, the warm glow of the kitchen softening the edges of their silence.

"Thanks for dinner," he said quietly.

"You're welcome."

She moved to leave, but he spoke again. "Sarah?"

She paused, turning to him.

"Why don't you ever ask for help?"

Her expression shifted, a guarded look slipping into place. "I'm used to doing things on my own."

He nodded, understanding more than he wanted to admit. "Me too."

Their eyes met, a moment of fragile honesty between them. But then Sarah turned away, her footsteps soft against the tiled floor. The kitchen felt colder without her, the shadows longer.

Ethan stood alone, his hands damp and his mind racing. He wasn't sure what was happening—what had shifted between them—but he knew one thing: he wasn't done with Sarah Brooks. Not by a long shot.