Chapter 3
Saturday morning hit Back Bay with crisp autumn air, and I stood outside Ethan's building dragging my beaten-up suitcase like some kind of academic refugee. The brownstone was gorgeous – the kind of place that screamed "successful MIT graduate" while my entire life fit into two bags.
Here goes nothing.
Ethan opened the door before I could knock, looking unfairly good in weekend clothes. Jeans and a henley shouldn't be allowed to look that perfect on anyone.
"Welcome home," he said, then immediately turned red. "I mean, welcome to your temporary research residence."
Smooth, Mitchell.
But I caught the thought drifting above his head: Home... I want this to be her home...
The apartment was absolutely stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with light, and everything was modern but warm – like a magazine spread that people actually lived in.
"Elena, you should take the master bedroom," Ethan said quickly, pointing down the hall. "I'll sleep in the—"
Give her the best room... want her to be comfortable... this is her home now...
"The guest room is fine," I interrupted, though something warm bloomed in my chest at his thoughts.
He looked like he wanted to argue, but I was already heading toward the smaller room with my suitcase.
The guest room was perfect anyway – cozy and bright, with a view of the little courtyard garden. As I started unpacking, Ethan knocked on the doorframe.
"Need help?"
I was hanging my limited wardrobe in the closet space he'd clearly just emptied for me. His thoughts hit me immediately:
She's hanging her clothes next to mine... domestic goddess... this feels so right...
Domestic goddess? Me? I nearly snorted, but caught myself when I noticed how carefully he was watching me fold my sweaters.
"You're very... precise," I observed, copying his methodical T-shirt folding technique.
The moment I mirrored his movements, something shifted in his expression. "You can take up the whole closet if you want," he blurted out. "Actually, take the whole apartment."
His face went red. "I mean... for the research."
I bit back a laugh. Sure, for the research.
By evening, I was officially nervous. Meeting the parents felt way too real for a fake marriage, even for research purposes. I'd changed outfits three times before settling on something conservatively elegant that wouldn't embarrass Ethan's family.
Newton suburbia was exactly what I'd expected – perfect lawns and the kind of houses that screamed stability. Mrs. Mitchell answered the door before we'd even reached the porch.
"Elena!" She pulled me into a hug that smelled like vanilla and warmth. "Finally! Ethan's been hiding you from us for months!"
Months?
I caught Ethan's panicked thought: Mom's already claiming her... good, I want them to love her...
Mr. Mitchell was quieter but just as welcoming, asking intelligent questions about my research while Ethan's thoughts provided running commentary: Dad's impressed... of course he is, she's brilliant...
The warmth from his family was genuine and overwhelming. They included me in family jokes, showed me embarrassing baby photos of Ethan, and treated me like I'd always belonged there.
During dinner, Mrs. Mitchell handed me tea in a beautiful mug – white porcelain with tiny blue flowers around the rim.
She's using the mug I bought hoping she'd visit... it suits her perfectly...
"That's Ethan's favorite mug," Mrs. Mitchell mentioned casually. "He never lets anyone use it. Won't even let me put it in the dishwasher."
I looked at Ethan, who was suddenly very interested in his pasta. He bought this thinking of me?
The realization made my chest tight with something I couldn't name.
Back at the apartment, we spread our research materials across the coffee table. Laptops, journals, and academic papers created a barrier between us on the couch, but I could barely focus on neural plasticity protocols with his thoughts streaming through my head.
She gets that little frown when concentrating... just like in organic chemistry... so beautiful...
I unconsciously touched my forehead. "Do I really frown when I think?"
Ethan's head snapped up. "Did I say that out loud?"
Oops.
"You... might have mentioned it," I lied.
We went back to work, but I was hyperaware of every glance, every shift in his body language. When I saw his next thought, my pulse jumped:
Want to brush that hair behind her ear... too intimate... we're just colleagues...
Testing time.
I casually brushed my own hair back, mimicking the exact gesture he'd been imagining. The effect was immediate – like flipping a switch. Ethan automatically reached out and tucked a strand behind my ear, his fingers gentle against my skin.
We both froze.
The touch sent electricity straight through me, and for a moment, we just stared at each other in the lamplight.
"Sorry," he said quickly, pulling his hand back. "I don't know why I did that."
I can actually make him act on his thoughts. This is dangerous.
The next day at the lab, the reality of our research hit home. I attached EEG electrodes to Ethan's temples, standing close enough to catch his thoughts clearly:
She smells like vanilla... just like college... her fingers are so gentle...
College again. What happened in college?
I almost missed placing an electrode, distracted by the warmth in his mental voice when he thought about me.
"Baseline readings look good," I said professionally, though my hands were slightly shaky.
When the computer displayed our synchronized brainwave patterns, even Dr. Martinez was stunned.
"Remarkable," he breathed, studying the screen. "I've never seen such perfect neural harmony between subjects."
Ethan and I exchanged glances, and I heard: We're literally in sync... it's like we're meant to be...
Meant to be. The words echoed in my mind long after we finished the session.
That evening, I stayed late in the lab, supposedly organizing data but really trying to process everything I'd learned. Every thought I'd caught from Ethan painted a picture of feelings that went way beyond professional interest.
I flipped through my research notebook, where I'd been carefully documenting our sessions: Subject shows unprecedented emotional investment in fake marriage scenario.
I paused, pen hovering over the page.
What if this isn't fake for him at all?
My phone rang, making me jump.
"Elena?" Ethan's voice was warm through the speaker. "I think I left my jacket in the lab. Mind if I come back to grab it?"
I looked across the room. His navy jacket was draped over the chair where he'd left it hours ago, and suddenly I remembered his thought from earlier: Want to hold her... she smells like vanilla...
My heart started racing. He was coming back, and I had no idea if I was ready to face him knowing everything I now knew about his feelings.
Do I tell him I can hear everything? Do I pretend I don't know? What the hell am I supposed to do with a fake husband who might actually be falling for me?
"Elena? You still there?"
"Yeah," I managed. "Come on up. I'll be here."
As I hung up, I stared at his jacket and realized that tomorrow's neural experiments were about to get a lot more complicated.