Maybe I love you

LENA

Nothing good ever came from swiping right on a guy posing with a fish in his dating profile—especially if his name was Todd.

I should have known better, yet there I was, sitting alone at The Bronze Gear, D.C.’s trendiest bar, sipping an absurdly expensive vodka soda after being stood up.

That’s right.

For the first time in my life, I’d been ditched—and by a fish-holding Todd, no less. If that wasn’t reason enough to say screw it and waste sixteen dollars on a single drink, I didn’t know what was. Especially considering I wasn’t even earning a full-time salary yet.

Seriously, what was the deal with men and fish photos? Were they incapable of picking something more interesting? Cage diving with sharks, for example—still ocean-themed, but at least it had some flair.

Focusing on the fish was better than dwelling on the complete train wreck of a day I’d had or the lingering humiliation heating my skin.

Get caught in an unexpected downpour on the way to campus with no umbrella in sight? Check. (So much for that “five percent chance of rain.” I should sue my weather app for false advertising.)

Get trapped on an overcrowded metro train for forty miserable minutes, suffocating in the stench of body odor thanks to a power failure? Also check.

Spend three hours hunting for an apartment, only to walk away with two throbbing blisters and zero leads? Check again.

After a day like that, I’d seriously considered canceling on Todd, but I’d already rescheduled twice—once for a study group, once because I wasn’t feeling great—and I didn’t want to bail again. So, like a responsible adult, I showed up… only to be completely ghosted.

The universe had a sense of humor, and it was a terrible one.

I drained the rest of my drink and flagged down the bartender. “Can I get the check, please?”

Happy hour had barely begun, but I was more than ready to go home and curl up with the two true loves of my life: Netflix and Ben & Jerry’s. They never let me down.

“It’s already taken care of,” the bartender said.

I blinked, surprised, until she nodded toward a table in the corner occupied by a group of clean-cut, preppy-looking twenty-somethings. Probably consultants, judging by their outfits.

One of them—a Clark Kent lookalike in a gingham shirt—raised his glass and shot me a knowing smile.

“Courtesy of Clark the Consultant,” the bartender added.

A laugh almost escaped as I lifted my own glass and returned his smile. So I wasn’t the only one who thought he resembled Superman’s alter ego.

“Well, Clark the Consultant just saved me from a night of instant ramen, so cheers to him,” I said.

That was sixteen dollars that could stay in my bank account—though I still left a tip. Having worked in the food service industry before, I had a strict over-tipping policy. No one dealt with more daily assholes than service workers.

I finished my free drink, letting my gaze linger on Clark the Consultant, who was now watching me with an appreciative once-over.

I wasn’t the type to play coy—I knew I looked good. And if I walked over there right now, I could easily patch up my bruised ego with more drinks, a few compliments, and maybe even an orgasm or two if he knew what he was doing.

Tempting… but no. I was too exhausted to go through the motions of the usual hookup routine.

I turned away, catching the flash of disappointment on his face. To his credit, Clark the Consultant got the message—thanks for the drink, but this isn’t going anywhere—and didn’t push his luck. That alone made him more decent than most men I’d encountered.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and reached for my coat from the hook beneath the bar when a deep, familiar drawl sent a shiver of irritation straight down my spine.

"Hey, JR."

Two words. That was all it took to send my fight-or-flight instincts into overdrive. At this point, it was practically a Pavlovian response—his voice alone was enough to make my blood pressure spike.

Every. Single. Time.

And just like that, my already awful day got even better.

My fingers clenched around the strap of my bag before I forced them to loosen. No way in hell was I giving him the satisfaction of seeing me react.

Taking a slow breath, I schooled my features into a blank mask, turned around at a deliberate pace, and came face-to-face with the single most unwelcome sight to match the single most unwelcome voice.

Ethan fucking Hale.

All six feet of him, standing there like he owned the place in dark jeans and a crisp white button-down that hugged his muscles just enough to make it obvious the fit was intentional.

No doubt he’d planned it that way—Ethan probably spent more time on his appearance than I did, and I wasn’t exactly low-maintenance. If Merriam-Webster needed a definition for "vain," they could slap his face right next to it.

The worst part? He was technically good-looking. Thick, dark hair, sharp cheekbones, a sculpted body—all things I was usually a sucker for. If only they weren’t attached to an ego so massive it deserved its own zip code.

"Hi, Ethany," I cooed sweetly, knowing full well how much he despised the nickname. Ava, my best friend and Ethan’s sister, had gifted me that little gem of information, and I put it to good use every chance I got.

A flicker of irritation flashed in his eyes, and my smile widened. Maybe my day wasn’t such a disaster after all.

To be fair, he was the one who started it. He’d insisted on calling me JR first—short for Jessica Rabbit, the cartoon bombshell.

Some people might take it as a compliment, but when you were a redhead with a generous cup size, the comparison got old fast. And he knew it.

"Drinking alone?" Ethan’s gaze swept over the empty bar stools beside me. It wasn’t peak happy hour yet, and the booths lining the oak-paneled walls were the prime real estate—not the bar. "Or have you already scared off everyone within a twenty-foot radius?"

"Funny you should mention scaring people off." My eyes slid to the woman standing next to him.

She was gorgeous—brown hair, warm brown eyes, and a body draped in a stunning graphic-print wrap dress. Too bad her taste in men didn’t match her fashion sense, considering she was clearly on a date with Ethan.

"I see you've recovered from your bout of syphilis long enough to sucker another unsuspecting woman into a date." I turned my attention to the brunette, flashing a conspiratorial smile. "I don’t know you, but I already know you could do way better. Trust me."

Did Ethan actually have syphilis? Maybe. Maybe not. Given how much he slept around, I wouldn’t be surprised. And honestly, I wouldn’t be upholding girl code if I didn’t at least give Wrap Dress a heads-up about the potential STD risk.

But instead of looking horrified, she just laughed. “Thanks for the warning, but I think I’ll be okay.”

Ethan, of course, didn’t so much as flinch. “Making jokes about STDs. How original.” His voice dripped with amusement, not the slightest bit ruffled.

“I hope your oral arguments are more creative than that, or you’ll have a rough time in the legal world. Assuming you even pass the bar.”

That smug little smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, just enough to reveal the tiny dimple in his left cheek.

I barely stopped myself from snarling. God, I hated that dimple. Every time it appeared, it felt like a personal insult. A tiny, infuriating reminder of just how punchable his face was.

“I’ll pass,” I said evenly, shoving aside the violent urge to stab that damn dimple right off his face.

Ethan always managed to drag out the worst in me. “Better hope you don’t get sued for medical malpractice, Ethany, or I’ll be the first to offer my services to the other party.”

I had busted my ass to secure a spot at Thayer Law and land a job offer from Silver & Klein after interning there last summer.

No way was I letting anything—including his smug ass—get in the way of my dream. I was going to pass the bar, and when I did, Ethan Hale would eat his words. Preferably choke on them too.

“Big talk for someone who hasn’t even graduated yet.”

Ethan leaned against the bar with that practiced, effortless ease—one arm resting on the counter, his entire posture exuding that insufferable, GQ-adjacent confidence. Before I could hit him with another retort, he smoothly switched gears.

“You’re a little dressed up for a solo night out.”

His gaze traveled leisurely over me, from my styled hair to my carefully done makeup, lingering just long enough on the gold pendant resting against my cleavage.

My spine turned to steel.

Unlike Clark the Consultant’s fleeting, admiring glance, Ethan’s attention felt entirely different. Hot. Mocking. A slow, deliberate sear that left no part of me untouched.

The pendant against my skin suddenly burned, and it took everything in me not to rip it off and hurl it straight at his smug, infuriating face.

And yet, for some reason, I didn’t move. I stayed rooted in place as his gaze continued its slow, deliberate path over me. It wasn’t lecherous—if it had been, I would’ve shut it down immediately. No, this was something else. Assessing. Calculating. Like he was gathering pieces of a puzzle and fitting them together in his mind.

His eyes drifted to the green cashmere dress clinging to my torso, skimmed down my black-stockinged legs, and stopped at my heeled black boots before dragging back up to meet my gaze. The smirk vanished, leaving his expression blank and unreadable.

A tense silence crackled between us before he finally spoke. “You’re dressed for an actual date.” His posture remained deceptively casual, but his eyes sharpened, dark and knowing, ready to carve through my dignity. “But you’re leaving already, and it’s only five-thirty.”

I lifted my chin, forcing myself to stay composed, even as heat prickled beneath my skin. Ethan was a lot of things—arrogant, insufferable, possibly the devil—but he wasn’t stupid. And he was the last person I wanted figuring out that I’d been stood up.

He’d never let me live it down.

“Don’t tell me he didn’t show.” There was something in his tone, something I couldn’t quite place.

The warmth beneath my skin flared hotter. Cashmere was a mistake. I was roasting in this damn dress. “You should be more concerned about your own date than mine,” I countered.

Ethan hadn’t so much as glanced at Wrap Dress since arriving, but she didn’t seem to mind. She was fully engaged in conversation with the bartender, laughing at something he’d said.

“I assure you, worrying about your love life isn’t even in the top five thousand things on my list.” His words were sharp, laced with snark, but his eyes never wavered from mine.

That unreadable expression lingered, making my stomach dip for reasons I refused to acknowledge.

“Good.” A weak response, but my brain wasn’t cooperating. Maybe it was exhaustion. Or the alcohol. Or a million other things that had nothing to do with the man standing in front of me.

I grabbed my coat and slid off my stool, fully intending to breeze past him without another word.

Except I miscalculated.

My foot missed the bar stool rung, and before I could correct myself, I felt my balance tip. A small gasp left my lips as my body tilted backward, gravity pulling me toward inevitable embarrassment.

But before I could fall, a hand shot out, wrapping firmly around my wrist and yanking me back upright.

Ethan and I froze at the same time, our eyes locked on where his hand encircled my wrist. I couldn't remember the last time we'd voluntarily touched.

Maybe three summers ago, when he'd pushed me, fully clothed, into the pool during a party, and I'd retaliated by "accidentally" elbowing him in the groin?

The memory of him doubling over with pain still gave me great comfort in times of distress, but I wasn't thinking about that now.

Instead, I was focused on how disturbingly close he was -close enough for me to smell his cologne, which was nice and citrusy instead of fire and brimstone-y like I'd expected.

The adrenaline from my near fall pumped through my system, pushing my heart rate into unhealthy territory.

"You can let go now." I willed my breaths to come out steady despite the suffocating heat. "Before your touch gives me hives."

Ethan’s grip lingered for the briefest moment before he abruptly let go, as if my arm had burned him. Whatever unreadable expression he’d worn before was wiped clean, replaced with pure annoyance. “You’re welcome for saving you from busting your ass, JR.”

“Don’t be dramatic, Ethany. I would’ve caught myself.”

“Right. Because that fall was totally under control.” His sarcasm sharpened. “God forbid the words thank you ever leave your mouth.”

“You’re such a pain in the ass, you know that?”

“It’s better than being an ass, period.”

Everyone else saw Ethan as the golden boy—a handsome, charming doctor with the world at his feet. I saw him for what he really was: a judgmental, self-righteous jerk.

You can make other friends, Ava. She’s bad news. You don’t need someone like that in your life.

Heat rose to my cheeks. Seven years had passed since I’d overheard him saying that to Ava, back when she and I were just becoming friends, but the sting of it hadn’t faded. Not that I’d ever told them I’d heard. It would only make Ava feel guilty, and Ethan didn’t deserve to know how much his words had cut.

He wasn’t the first person to decide I wasn’t good enough, but he was the first to actively try to sabotage a friendship because of it.

I forced a brittle smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ve already reached my daily limit for being in your presence.” I tugged on my coat, slid on my gloves, and adjusted my bag. “Give your date my condolences.”

Before he could fire back, I stepped around him and made a beeline for the exit. Only when the crisp March air hit my skin did I allow myself to exhale, though my pulse refused to slow.

Of all the people I could’ve run into tonight, it had to be Ethan Hale.

Could this day get any worse?

I could already imagine the smug look on his face the next time we saw each other.

Remember when you got stood up, JR?

Remember when you sat at the bar for an hour by yourself like a total loser?

Remember when you got all dressed up and used the last bit of your favorite eyeshadow for a guy named Todd?

Okay, Ethan didn’t know about the last two things, but I wouldn’t put it past him to find out somehow.

Shoving my hands deeper into my coat pockets, I turned the corner, eager to put as much distance between myself and Satan’s spawn as possible.

The Bronze Gear sat on one of D.C.’s liveliest streets, where music floated through the air, and people spilled onto the sidewalks even in the dead of winter.

But just one street over, everything changed. This block was unsettlingly quiet, lined with darkened storefronts and shuttered shops.

Scraggly weeds forced their way up through cracks in the pavement, and though the sun hadn’t fully set, the creeping shadows cast an eerie feel over the street.

Instinctively, I picked up my pace. But my mind was too preoccupied to focus on my surroundings. Between my unexpected run-in with Ethan and the ever-growing mountain of tasks on my to-do list, my thoughts swirled in a relentless loop.

Graduation. Bar exam prep. Whether it was worth texting Todd to curse him out (no, absolutely not). Scouring more apartment listings. Finalizing details for Ava’s surprise birthday party this weekend…

Wait.

Birthday. March.

I froze mid-step.

Oh. My. God.

Besides Ava, there was someone else whose birthday fell in early March.

I fumbled my phone out of my pocket, my fingers suddenly unsteady. A sinking sensation weighed down my stomach the second my eyes landed on the date.

March 2.

Today was her birthday. And I had completely forgotten.

Guilt curled around my insides like creeping vines, constricting tighter with each passing second. As I did every year, I debated whether I should call her.

I never did.

But maybe this year could be different.

I told myself that every year, too.

It wasn’t like I owed her anything. She never called me on my birthday. Not on Christmas. Not for any holiday. Seven years had passed without a word from Adeline, and yet, here I was.

Call. Don’t call. Call. Don’t call.

I chewed the inside of my lip, indecision gnawing at me.

Forty-five. That was a big birthday, right? Big enough that she might actually care if she got a Happy Birthday from her daughter?

Not that I had any reason to believe she wanted to hear from me at all.

I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t sense anyone approaching. Not until I felt the unmistakable, cold press of a gun barrel against my back.

A low, rasping voice barked out, “Phone and wallet. Now.”

My heart slammed against my ribs, my fingers clenching around my phone so hard I nearly dropped it.

Shock held me frozen.

You have got to be kidding me.

Never ask the universe a question you don’t want the answer to. Because, apparently, the day could, in fact, get so much fucking worse.