By the end of Becky's second day in the penthouse, the silence was starting to get to her.
It wasn't just the absence of noise—it was the kind of silence that seeped into your skin. The walls were thick. The ceilings high. No creaking floorboards, no humming of an old fridge, not even the distant sound of city traffic. Just the occasional whisper of air conditioning.
It felt like living in a museum.
Becky sat curled on the overstuffed chair by the floor-to-ceiling window, a book in her lap she hadn't touched in an hour. The skyline glittered beyond the glass, a sea of gold and silver towers catching the late afternoon sun. It was breathtaking. It was sterile. It was nothing like the house she grew up in.
Her mother had texted earlier.
> Sorry babe—crazy day! Hope you're settling in. Ethan's probably working, but he's a sweetheart once you get to know him. Love you!
Becky read it twice. Once with sarcasm. Once with reluctant irritation. Her mother had always been flakey, but this felt next level. Who got married and then vanished into their job for days?
She dropped her phone onto the armrest and rubbed her temples. The tension headache was creeping in. She hadn't spoken more than five words to Ethan since yesterday morning.
Which was fine. Great, even.
She didn't need to get chummy with her mom's brooding new husband.
Still, when she heard the soft click of the penthouse door opening at 6:42 PM, her head jerked up like someone had fired a starter pistol.
Ethan stepped in, dressed in a dark navy coat and tailored pants. He was tugging off black leather gloves as he entered, his hair tousled from the wind. There were drops of rain on his shoulders—he must've walked part of the way.
Becky pretended to be immersed in her book.
"Good evening," he said, his voice still impossibly calm.
She didn't look up. "Hey."
He hung his coat with methodical precision, shoes lined against the wall, keys placed on the marble tray beside the door. Everything about Ethan was ordered. Clean. Sharp.
He walked into the kitchen and began making something—she could hear the fridge opening, a knife slicing through something crisp. A minute later, the scent of fresh basil and tomato drifted into the room.
"Are you hungry?" he called out.
Becky blinked. "What?"
"I'm making bruschetta. You want any?"
She hesitated. It wasn't exactly a meal. But it was the first olive branch he'd extended.
"Sure."
She got up and padded barefoot into the kitchen, leaning against the counter. Ethan was slicing bread, placing it in the toaster oven while a bowl of diced tomatoes, garlic, and herbs sat nearby.
"You cook?" she asked, suspicious.
"When I'm in the mood."
She grabbed a glass from the cabinet and poured herself water. "You and Mom ever cook together?"
He glanced at her. "Once. She burnt the risotto."
Becky laughed despite herself. "That sounds like her."
He placed the toasted bread onto a serving plate and began spooning the mixture on top with practiced hands. Becky couldn't help but watch—his fingers were long, precise. He moved like someone who liked control. Measured. Deliberate.
"Do you always get home this late?"
He didn't look up. "Usually later."
"Busy man."
"I run a firm. We've got five major projects in motion."
Becky picked up a slice of bruschetta. "What kind of projects?"
He wiped his hands on a towel. "Community centers. High-rises. A museum renovation."
"Sounds… gray."
Ethan gave her a look. "Architecture isn't about excitement. It's about function. Space. Flow."
"Spoken like a true artist," she teased.
He surprised her with a brief smile. "I thought you found my work boring."
"Still do. But at least it's consistent."
They ate in silence for a moment, standing across from each other at the marble island. Becky chewed slowly, surprised by how good the bruschetta was. She hadn't expected him to know how to mix flavors, let alone serve something with actual care.
He rinsed his hands and turned toward her. "Are you finding everything you need?"
"Yeah," she said. "It's a palace. Hard to miss the essentials."
"If you want to use the gym, it's on the third floor. There's a pool, too. Access code is 7724."
"Wow. Fancy."
Ethan nodded, but didn't elaborate.
She leaned her hip against the counter. "So… this whole thing. You and my mom. Did you guys fall for each other in a client meeting or what?"
He stared at her, unreadable again. "It was simple. Unexpected. But we got along."
"That's it?"
"That's enough."
Becky didn't press, though curiosity burned under her skin. Her mom had always gone for bubbly guys—salesmen, entrepreneurs, teachers with guitars. Ethan didn't fit the pattern. He didn't smile for no reason. He didn't flirt. He wasn't fun.
He was intense. Closed off.
But he made bruschetta with fresh basil.
And somehow, that bothered her more than it should have.
---
That night, the storm rolled in.
Becky was in bed by midnight, trying to sleep, when thunder cracked hard enough to shake the windows. She sat up with a startled gasp, heart pounding. Lightning flashed, illuminating the modern furniture in harsh white lines.
The rain hit the glass like thrown pebbles.
She got up, wrapped herself in a hoodie, and padded to the kitchen to make tea. She didn't expect Ethan to be awake—but there he was, standing by the window in the living room, arms crossed, shirt sleeves rolled up, watching the storm.
He didn't turn when she approached.
"Couldn't sleep either?" she asked softly.
He glanced over. "Never do during storms."
"Why not?"
He hesitated. "Old habit. From when I was a kid."
Becky made her way over slowly. "You afraid of thunder?"
"Not anymore."
She stopped beside him, looking out at the city, the storm slicing through it in jagged white streaks.
"I used to be scared of it," she admitted. "When I was little. I thought the sky was angry at me."
Ethan's mouth twitched. "Guilt complex?"
"Only child syndrome."
They stood there in silence, the room lit occasionally by flashes of light. There was something weirdly intimate about standing beside him like this, both in hoodies and sweats, both barefoot, both surrounded by the hum of a world asleep.
He spoke again, voice quieter now. "My dad used to lock me in the basement during storms. Said it would toughen me up."
Becky turned sharply. "What?"
Ethan's face was unreadable. "He thought fear was weakness. Thought pain built character."
Her chest tightened. "Jesus. That's… awful."
He didn't respond. Just stared out into the storm like it held answers to questions he no longer asked.
Becky felt something shift inside her. Not attraction. Not quite sympathy either.
Understanding.
"You don't have to tell me stuff like that," she said gently. "But I won't pretend I don't hear it."
Ethan finally looked at her. His gaze was softer now, but still guarded. "Noted."
She offered a small smile, even though the weight of the room made her chest ache.
He turned back to the window. "Your mother doesn't know. About that part of my past."
Becky nodded slowly. "She doesn't need to. Not if you don't want her to."
Another quiet moment passed. Then he murmured, "She deserves peace. I try to give her that."
Becky didn't know how to respond. She just stood there, watching the man who married her mother speak like someone with the world on his shoulders. And for the first time, she didn't just see the suit or the money or the polished demeanor.
She saw the cracks.
And she wanted—against her better judgment—to understand them.
"Do you ever miss being a kid?" she asked quietly.
He shook his head. "Not once."
Lightning flashed again. Thunder followed.
She whispered, "Me neither."
---
Later, when she finally returned to her room, Becky crawled into bed and stared at the ceiling.
She felt disoriented.
Like she was sinking into something slow and strange and heavy.
She didn't want to feel connected to Ethan.
She didn't want to feel anything about him.
But the storm was still outside. The sky was still breaking open.
And the man down the hall wasn't just her mom's husband anymore.
He was something else entirely.
---