Inside the car, the hum of the engine was the only sound for a while. Ethan didn't rush to fill the silence, and Jillian appreciated that more than he knew.
She leaned back against the seat, her fingers absently tracing the stitching on her sleeve.
Only after several minutes did Ethan finally speak, his voice low and calm.
"You don't have to pretend with me," he said, his gaze steady on the road ahead.
Jillian smiled faintly, a brittle thing. "I'm not pretending. I'm just... tired."
He nodded, accepting her answer without pushing.
Another beat of silence passed before Jillian, surprising even herself, said quietly, "It used to scare me... when things fell apart.
I thought it meant I failed. That I was weak."
Ethan's hands tightened slightly around the steering wheel, but his voice remained steady.
"And now?"
Jillian stared out the window at the passing cityscape, her heart feeling strangely lighter with every word.
"Now I know," she whispered, "it means I'm still fighting."
For a moment, Ethan didn't reply. Then, so quietly she almost missed it, he said, "You're stronger than you realize, Jillian."
She turned her head, studying his profile. There was something raw in his tone, something that said he wasn't just offering comfort—he meant it.
Jillian's throat tightened unexpectedly.
Maybe it was the stress. Maybe it was the simple relief of being believed. But she blinked hard against the burn of sudden tears and quickly looked away.
Ethan seemed to sense it, because he reached out one hand, resting it palm up between them on the center console.
An invitation, not a demand.
After a long heartbeat, Jillian slid her hand into his.
No words. No promises.
Just silent understanding and the soft beginning of healing.
They didn't drive far—Ethan pulled into a quiet side street and parked in front of a little café tucked away between tall trees.
The place was nearly empty, warm light spilling from its windows, the kind of hidden corner that felt untouched by the chaos of the outside world.
He opened her door and Jillian stepped out, the cool air brushing against her cheeks.
For a few minutes, they just sat at an outdoor table with steaming cups of coffee between them, speaking about nothing serious—small, soft exchanges that gave Jillian room to breathe again.
When she laughed lightly at one of Ethan's dry jokes, he watched her so intently she felt heat rise up her neck.
The quiet between them shifted—became heavier, thicker.
Jillian turned her gaze down to her coffee, but she could feel him watching her, could feel her heartbeat stuttering.
When she finally looked up, Ethan leaned closer, his hand still resting over hers from earlier.
Slowly, giving her every chance to pull away, he tilted his head in.
The world around them blurred until there was only him, his breath warm and steady, and the way he looked at her—like she wasn't broken, but precious.
His lips brushed hers lightly, barely a touch.
Jillian's eyes widened, her hand instinctively pressing against his chest to create distance.
"Ethan..." she said, voice trembling slightly. "This... isn't appropriate."
There was no anger in her words—only hesitation, fear, vulnerability.
Ethan froze, searching her face, then leaned back immediately, giving her space.
He didn't push, didn't question.
Instead, he simply said, low and earnest,
"Then I'll wait. However long it takes."
Jillian swallowed hard, her heart twisting painfully.
She had no answer yet—but deep down, something fragile and warm began to take root.
For now, she needed time.
And he—he was willing to give it.
After the moment passed, Ethan stood up first, pulling out her chair with gentlemanly care.
He didn't rush her.
He simply waited, offering his hand if she wanted it—but not forcing her.
Jillian hesitated, then placed her hand lightly in his.
The drive back was quiet—not the awkward kind of silence, but something more meaningful.
The kind where hearts spoke louder than words.
City lights blurred past the windows as Ethan drove steadily through the night.
From time to time, Jillian would glance at him—catching the slight frown of focus between his brows, the way his hand flexed on the steering wheel, how he glanced at her gently when he thought she wasn't looking.
When they reached her apartment, he parked and turned off the engine without a word.
The silence wrapped around them, heavy yet comforting.
Jillian unbuckled her seatbelt slowly.
She turned to him, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Thank you... for everything."
Ethan smiled—not his usual cold or businesslike smile, but something real, something meant only for her.
He didn't reach for her again. He just said,
"Goodnight, Jill."
The way he said it—so simply, so deeply—made something inside her ache.
Jillian opened the door and stepped out.
She walked up a few steps toward her building entrance before she paused and looked back.
Ethan was still there, sitting behind the wheel, watching over her.
She lifted her hand slightly in a shy wave.
He nodded once, a silent promise.
Then she disappeared into the building—and Ethan stayed parked there for a long while, just to make sure she was safely home.
___
The early morning sun filtered softly through the curtains, casting a golden glow across the room.
Jillian stirred, slowly opening her eyes to the unfamiliar yet warm surroundings.
For a brief moment, she just lay there, feeling the stillness, the way her heart beat a little too fast for no reason at all.
Then she remembered—Ethan's hand holding hers, the quiet promises in his eyes, the way he almost kissed her.
A wave of warmth flushed over her cheeks.
She sat up, running her fingers through her hair, but paused when her hand brushed against her lips, as if she could still feel the nearness of him.
Unconsciously, she smiled—a small, rare smile meant only for herself.
In the bathroom, as she washed her face, she caught her reflection in the mirror.
There was a brightness there she hadn't seen in a long time.
A softness around the eyes, a quiet hope.
"Get a hold of yourself," she whispered to her reflection, trying to shake off the fluttering in her chest.
But deep down, she knew, something had changed.
And she wasn't ready to run from it anymore.
As Jillian stepped through the hospital's glass doors, the hum of the morning rush seemed to falter.
Heads turned. Conversations paused.
There was no malice in their eyes—only curiosity, wonder, a little envy.
She could feel it—the silent questions hanging in the air.
Is that really her? Ethan Hunter's fiancée?
For a split second, her chest tightened. The temptation to shrink, to disappear, flashed through her.
But then she remembered the way Ethan had looked at her—like she was someone worth fighting for.
She straightened her back, lifted her chin, and walked forward with calm dignity.
Her colleagues whispered behind their hands, some smiling knowingly, others exchanging glances.
Even the patients seemed to recognize her now, offering shy greetings.
Jillian kept her pace steady, her face composed.
Inside, her heart pounded—but not from fear.
From determination.