Ethan’s POV
I look like hell and I know it—haven't slept more than a few hours in the past week, haven't shaved, haven't done anything except make phone calls and sit in conference rooms and fight for something I should have fought for three years ago. But standing in Harper's doorway, watching the anger and hurt flash across her face, I feel more awake than I have in days.
She doesn't slam the door in my face, which I take as permission to step inside. The apartment is dim, a blanket thrown across the couch, and I notice she's wearing my gray hoodie—the one I thought I'd lost, the one that looks better on her than it ever did on me.
"Seattle. Phoenix. Miami." I close the door behind me, keeping my voice steady even though my heart is pounding. "Six different conference calls with agents and lawyers and team managers over the past seven days."
"You couldn't send one text?" Her voice is sharp, wounded. "Seven days of nothing, Ethan. Not a single word."
"I didn't know what to say until I had a solution." I run a hand through my hair, feeling the exhaustion settle into my bones. "You told me something that changed everything, and I didn't want to give you hope and fail. I didn't want to make promises I couldn't keep."
She stares at me for a long moment, and I watch the emotions war across her face—anger, confusion, something that might be hope underneath it all. Then she grabs a pillow from the couch and throws it at my head with surprising force.
I catch it before it hits me, which only seems to make her angrier.
"That's the same thing you did before!" Her voice rises, cracking at the edges. "Deciding what I can handle, making choices for both of us without asking what I want! You did this three years ago and it destroyed us, and now you're doing it again!"
"I know." I hold up my hands, the pillow still clutched in one of them. "I know, Harper. You're right."
"Seven days!" She's pacing now, arms wrapped around herself. "Seven days of wondering if you were ever coming back, if I'd lost you for good, if telling you the truth was the worst mistake I've ever made. Do you have any idea what that was like?"
"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate, but I mean them with everything I have. "I'm so fucking sorry. But this time is different—I wasn't running away. I was trying to fix things."
"By disappearing?" She laughs, bitter and sharp. "That's a hell of a way to fix things."
"By finding a way for us to be together." I step closer, and she stops pacing, watching me with wary eyes. "Please, Harper. I need you to hear me out. Just give me five minutes, and if you still want me to leave after that, I'll go."
She crosses her arms, her jaw tight, but she doesn't tell me to get out. I take that as permission to continue.
"Seattle was the best offer," I start, choosing my words carefully. "Best coaching staff, best organization, best chance at a championship in the next few years. Vance was pushing hard for me to sign, and a week ago I probably would have."
"So what changed?"
"You told me about the baby." My voice catches on the word, and I see her flinch. "You told me what you went through alone, what I put you through because I was too much of a coward to stay and fight for us. And I realized that I've been making the same mistake over and over—choosing what I think is best for you without asking what you actually want."
She's quiet, listening, her arms still crossed but something softening in her expression.
"So I went to Seattle," I continue. "Met with their front office, toured the facility, did everything Vance wanted me to do. And the whole time, I kept thinking about you—about what it would mean to be three thousand miles away, about whether our relationship could survive that distance, about whether I was making the same choice I made three years ago."
"And?" Her voice is barely above a whisper.
"And I realized Seattle wasn't the only option." I reach into my jacket and pull out the folder I've been carrying for three days. "Phoenix wanted me too. Good organization, strong development system, real championship potential in the next few years. Not as flashy as Seattle, but solid."
"Ethan, I told you—I'm not going to be the reason you turn down your dream."
"Let me finish." I step closer, holding the folder between us. "I spent a week talking to Phoenix's front office. Not just about me—about you."
Her eyes widen, confusion flickering across her face. "What do you mean, about me?"
"Phoenix has a growing sports operations department." I open the folder, turning it so she can see the papers inside. "They need people who understand basketball, who can handle athletes, who have management experience. I told them about you—about your work with our team, about your career goals, about how talented you are."
She takes the folder with shaking hands, scanning the documents inside. I watch her face as she reads, see the moment the words register—job description, salary range, interview request.
"They want to interview you." I keep my voice steady even though my heart is racing. "For a position in their organization. Not because of me, not as a favor—because I showed them your work and they were genuinely impressed."
"You did this for me?" Her voice cracks, tears welling in her eyes.
"I did this for us." I cup her face in my hands, tilting her head up to meet my gaze. "I'm done making choices without you, Harper. From now on, we decide together. Or not at all."
She's shaking, tears spilling down her cheeks, and I brush them away with my thumbs. The folder hangs forgotten in her grip, pages rustling as her hands tremble.
"Phoenix isn't Seattle," I continue. "It's not the biggest market or the flashiest team. But it's a good organization with a real future, and more importantly—it's somewhere we can build a life together. Both of us, with real careers, in the same city."
"Ethan..." She shakes her head, overwhelmed. "I don't know what to say."
"Say you'll think about it." I press my forehead to hers. "Say you'll at least consider the interview. And if you decide you don't want Phoenix, if you want to stay here or go somewhere else entirely—we'll figure it out together. No more unilateral decisions."
She's quiet for a long moment, and I can feel her processing everything—the folder, the offer, the fact that I spent a week fighting for a future that includes her instead of running from the pain she shared with me.
"What about what I told you?" Her voice is small, fragile. "The baby. The clinic. Everything I kept from you for three years."
I don't look away, don't flinch, don't let her see anything except the absolute certainty I feel in my chest. This is the moment that matters—the one that determines whether we have a future or whether the past finally destroys us for good.
"That's exactly why I had to come back."