Chapter 4 Firewalls and fractured facades

Avery Sutton POV:

I should've felt like I'd won the damn lottery.

But nope.

Getting Ethan Chase-the guy who treats small talk like a war crime-to let me tail him for a *profile* should've been my Mount Everest. Instead, I was stuck in a room that smelled like regret and overpriced espresso, watching him dissect me with the same enthusiasm he'd probably use to review a tax audit. His chair groaned as he leaned back, fingers drumming the table. "What's next?"

I tilted my head, aiming for "quirky journalist" and landing somewhere near "unmedicated chaos gremlin." "Tempting, but my editor's on a cleanse. Let's dig into... *you*. Do you ever wear jeans? Cry at dog videos? Secretly hate kale?"

His expression didn't flicker. "You mean the things I pay therapists to *not* ask about?"

"Ding-ding." I flashed a smile that hurt my cheeks. "See? This is why you're a genius."

Claire, his assistant-slash-saint, choked on her coffee. "Playground rules, you two," she said, standing. "No blood." She paused at the door. "And Ethan? HR says your 'Chaos Coordinator' business cards are *not* ironic."

The room got quieter when she left. Ethan's thumb tapped once-sharp, like a metronome. "If I say yes," he said, voice low, "what do you get?"

"Full access. Follow you everywhere. Maybe livestream you judging croissants in that suit."

He blinked. "You're insane."

"Only about pastries."

Silence. Then, through gritted teeth: "Fine. But if you leak my grandma's scone recipe, I'll stop talking to you."

My lukewarm coffee sat untouched, its oily sheen reflecting the overhead lights. I thumbed the frayed edge of my notebook, the one I'd bought at a gas station two years ago. "A profile piece. Not about the job. About *you*."

His finger froze halfway through tapping the table edge. "I'm not a charity case."

I picked at a loose thread on my sleeve, watching it unravel. "People don't connect with titles. They connect with... the guy who still tries to bake after burning six loaves."

He stared at his coffee like it held answers. A muscle jumped in his jaw.

"What do you need?" he asked finally, voice sanded raw.

I hesitated. "Time. The stuff that happens before the suits show up."

"There's nothing before the suits." He said it flat, automatic, like he'd swallowed a corporate handbook.

I leaned forward, chair creaking. "Then why does your assistant keep texting me crying emojis about your 'bread experiments'?"

The clock ticked three times. Then his mouth did this thing-not a smile, but the ghost of one, there and gone like a match struck in the wind. Tiny laugh lines creased the corners of his eyes, softer than I'd expected.

*Christ.* My ears went hot. Since when did stone-faced workaholics have laugh lines?

"Tomorrow," he said, adjusting his tie with too much focus. "Five forty-five."

I choked. "That's not even a real time."

He stood, cufflinks catching the fluorescents. "You wanted ordinary." The door sighed shut behind him.

I slumped until my spine hit the chairback, my coffee now colder than his personality. "Should've brought a toothbrush."

---

The next morning, I stood outside Ethan Chase's stark glass house, clutching a coffee cup that had died a slow, lukewarm death. The neighborhood was all silent money-manicured boxwoods, driveways wide enough to land helicopters, homes designed by architects who'd never owned a dog.

The door opened before I could knock.

He stood there, barefoot, in joggers that fit like they'd been sewn by someone who hated humanity. Irritatingly awake.

I raised my zombie coffee. "You know vampires sleep during the day, right?"

He glanced at the cup. "You'll need another."

"Why? Are we running a marathon or just your ego?"

He walked away, leading me into a kitchen that gleamed like a surgical suite. A blender growled like it was angry at existence, filling two glasses with something that looked like pond scum.

He pushed one toward me. "Drink."

I stared at the murky green. "Is this breakfast or a biology experiment?"

"Kale. Spinach. Wheatgrass."

I took a sip and nearly choked. "Jesus. Tastes like someone mowed a lawn and bottled the guilt."

He drank his without blinking. "You get used to it."

"I'd rather get used to a root canal."

His mouth twitched-not quite a smile, but a crack in the armor, those laugh lines reappearing. *There they were.* "You asked for unfiltered."

"I asked for coffee," I muttered, eyeing his blender like it owed me money.

He leaned against the counter, arms folded. "Life's not a pastry shop."

"And you're not a morning person. Shocking."

I set the glass down harder than I meant to. "What now?"

He didn't look up, fingers working his shoelaces into knots. "We run."

"Run?" The word lodged in my chest.

"Three miles."

I stared at my palms, still tacky from the smoothie. "I don't run."

"You will today."

The silence thickened. "This isn't about the article," I said, voice fraying.

He stood, eyes fixed on the doorframe. "Call it... discipline."

My sneakers were worn from sidewalks, cracked at the toes. "If I pass out, you're dragging me back."

He was already at the door, rolling his neck like he did this daily. "Your pace."

The door clicked shut. My knees were already aching.

Halfway through the second mile, I noticed the scar on his ankle-thin and pale, cutting through his Achilles like a fault line. "Soccer injury?" I panted.

He didn't slow. "Don't ask."

We ran past a playground, its swings creaking in the dawn. A lone dad pushed his toddler on the slide, laughing as she squealed. Ethan's steps faltered for half a second, his gaze lingering.

*Noted.*

By mile three, my lungs were on strike. Ethan slowed, barely winded, and tossed me a water bottle. "Keep up."

I chugged it, sweat stinging my eyes. "You're a sadist."

He almost smiled. Almost.

Back at his house, he handed me a towel. It smelled like lavender and something unnameably expensive. "Tomorrow. Five forty-five."

I groaned. "You're kidding."

He didn't answer, already retreating into his robot kitchen.

On the sidewalk, I slumped against his car, lukewarm coffee long abandoned. My phone buzzed-Claire: *He hasn't run with anyone since his mom died. Don't screw this up.*