Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The morning after Chloe’s wild night at the mill, she stumbles out of her room, still buzzing with the adrenaline of meeting Rachel Amber and the chaos that followed. The house is quiet except for the creak of floorboards and the distant hum of the coffee maker—Joyce must already be up.

Just as Chloe turns the corner, she collides with someone solid. A sharp curse rings out, followed by the clatter of a cane hitting the floor.

Ethan barely catches himself against the wall, his prosthetic leg making an awkward thud as he regains balance. A half-empty bottle of whiskey dangles from his other hand. His eyes are bloodshot, his stubble unshaven, and he reeks of last night’s bad decisions.

"Wow. Good morning to you too, sis." Ethan says sarcastically, his voice hoarse.

Chloe scowls, stepping back. "Jesus, Ethan. You’re already drinking? It’s like… 9 AM."

He smirks, taking a deliberate swig just to piss her off. "Time’s a social construct, Chlo. Besides, my leg hurts like hell. This is medicinal."

She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, real convincing. Mom’s gonna love that excuse."

Ethan snorts. Like she doesn’t already know?" He bends down—awkwardly—to grab his cane, wincing as he straightens back up. "So. You survive your big night out, or did I hallucinate you sneaking in at ass o’clock?"

Chloe crosses her arms. "None of your business."

"Ooooh, mysterious. Let me guess—you got wasted, pissed off some locals, and some poor bastard had to bail your ass out?" He says mockingly.

Her jaw tightens. "Actually, I handled it. And for your info, Rachel Amber—yeah, that Rachel—helped me out. So screw you."

Ethan raises an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. "Huh. The unicorn of Blackwell? Damn. Guess even perfect people have bad judgment."

Chloe shoves past him. "Whatever. Just stay out of my way."

He watches her go, then calls after her, voice quieter now. "Hey."

She pauses but doesn’t turn.

"You, uh… you good, though? For real?" He asks grudgingly.

Chloe hesitates. It’s the closest he’s gotten to caring in months. But she’s not ready to give him that.

"Wouldn’t you like to know?" she mutters, before disappearing down the hall.

Ethan exhales, takes another drink, and limps toward the kitchen

———

The bar is a dingy, half-empty dive on the outskirts of Arcadia Bay—Ethan’s usual haunt. The air smells like stale beer and cigarette smoke, and the bartender barely looks up as Chloe and Rachel push through the door.

They spot Ethan immediately—not just because he’s hard to miss (cane propped on a stool, Navy tattoo visible under his rolled-up sleeve), but because he’s in the middle of a heated argument with some thick-necked guy in a leather vest.

"You’re full of shit, Price. You ain’t shit without that uniform."

Ethan grins. "Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you without your little club behind you."

The guy’s face darkens. "You wanna say that again, cripple?"

Ethan’s smile drops. "Yeah. I do."

The guy swings first.

Ethan ducks, pivots on his good leg, and drives his elbow into the guy’s ribs. The fight is messy—Ethan’s prosthetic slows him down, and the guy lands a solid punch to his jaw, then a brutal kick to his bad leg. Ethan stumbles but doesn’t go down. He grabs a beer bottle, smashes it on the edge of the bar, and presses the jagged edge to the guy’s throat.

Ethan breathes hard. "Now. You gonna walk out, or do I get creative?"

The guy freezes, then spits at Ethan’s feet before backing off. "Freak."

Ethan watches him leave, then limps back to his seat like nothing happened. The bartender slides him another whiskey without a word.

That’s when Chloe and Rachel approach.

"Classy".

Ethan doesn’t look up. "What do you want, Chloe?"

Rachel smirks. "That was kinda hot."

Ethan finally glances at her, then does a double take. "Oh. You’re Rachel Amber." He looks at Chloe. "Huh. She wasn’t lying."

"Told you."

Ethan downs his drink. "Great. Now what?"

"We need money."

Ethan barks a laugh. "Join the fucking club."

Rachel leans on the bar. "C’mon. Just enough for a six-pack. We’ll pay you back."

"Bullshit."

"Ethan—"

"No. You don’t get to pull the ‘big bro’ card now. Not after you’ve been treating me like a fucking ATM."

Chloe glares, but Rachel cuts in.

"Look, we get it. You’re pissed. But we’re trying to have one good day. You remember what those are like, right?"

Ethan’s jaw tightens. He stares at Rachel like he’s trying to figure her out, then exhales sharply.

"Fine." He pulls out his wallet, slaps a twenty on the bar. "But this is it. No more."

Chloe grabs it. "Thanks. You’re almost not the worst."

Ethan rolls his eyes. "Get out of here before I change my mind."

Rachel grins, gives him a mock salute, and drags Chloe toward the door.

As they leave, Chloe glances back—just in time to see Ethan wince, rubbing his bad leg. For a second, she almost says something.

Almost.

Then Rachel tugs her arm, laughing, and the moment’s gone.

———

The house is quiet when Chloe slips inside, the only light coming from the flickering glow of the TV in the living room. The air smells faintly of whiskey and cigarette smoke.

Ethan is sprawled on the couch, one leg (the real one) propped up on the coffee table, the other—the prosthetic—resting awkwardly on the floor. An almost-empty bottle dangles from his fingers, and his eyes are half-lidded, unfocused. The news plays softly in the background, but he’s not really watching.

He glances up as Chloe walks in, squinting at her.

"Huh. You don’t look drunk." His words slurring slightly.

Chloe shrugs, tossing her bag onto the armchair. "We didn’t finish it. Saved some for another day."

Ethan snorts. "Since when do you have self-control?"

Chloe doesn’t answer. Instead, she drops onto the couch beside him, exhaling hard. The weight of the day—Rachel’s breakdown, the fire, the wrecked car—presses down on her, but she doesn’t know how to put any of it into words.

Ethan, too drunk to notice her mood, just grunts and, after a beat, slings his arm around her shoulders. His head lolls against her, heavy and warm.

"Y’know… I saw a fire once."

Chloe tenses. "What?"

He doesn’t seem to hear her. His voice is low, rough, like he’s talking more to himself than to her.

"Back when I was stationed. Some village… fuck if I remember the name. Place was already rubble, mostly. But there was this one house—just… burning. No one left to put it out. Just… kept going. Like it wanted to take everything with it." He takes a swig from the bottle, then offers it to her. She doesn’t take it. "We weren’t supposed to stop. Just drive past. But I swear… I saw someone inside. Just… standing there. Staring."

Chloe’s skin prickles. "Did you—?"

"Nah. Could’ve been nothing. Probably was. But…" He trails off, then huffs a bitter laugh. "Hell. Maybe I just wanted it to be something. Make it mean something." His grip on her shoulder tightens slightly, like he’s anchoring himself. "Fire’s weird like that. Destroys everything… but you can’t look away."

Chloe swallows hard. The image of the burning tree flashes in her mind—Rachel’s rage, the way the flames licked at the sky.

Before she can say anything, Ethan’s breathing evens out. His arm goes slack around her, his head still resting against her shoulder.

"…glad you’re home, Chlo." He mumbles, barely coherent.

Then he’s out.

Chloe sits there, staring at the TV’s static glow, her brother’s weight against her. For the first time in a long time, she doesn’t shove him off.

She just lets him sleep.

Chapter Text

After the confrontation at the Amber household, Chloe and Rachel slip out into the cooling evening air, the tension still thick between them. Rachel’s hands are clenched, her usual effortless confidence replaced by something raw and unsteady. Chloe kicks a rusted hubcap, sending it clattering into a pile of scrap. "Well. That was a fucking disaster."

"Understatement of the year." Rachel laughs bitterly.

Before Chloe can respond, the crunch of gravel under boots makes them both turn.

Ethan stands a few feet away, leaning on his cane, his free hand stuffed in the pocket of his worn-out hoodie. His expression is unreadable.

Chloe scoffs. "Oh, great. What do you want?"

"Mom sent me. Said you ran off like your ass was on fire." He glances at Rachel. "Which, given the day you two’ve had, might not be far off."

Rachel arches a brow. "Wow. You’re almost funny."

Ethan ignores her, focusing on Chloe. "Look, I don’t give a shit what you’re planning, but Mom’s worried. So at least text her so she doesn’t think you’re dead in a ditch."

"Wow. Such brotherly concern. I’m touched."

Ethan’s jaw tightens. "Cut the crap, Chloe. You’re pissed at David, fine. But Mom doesn’t deserve this."

Rachel, sensing the brewing storm, steps between them. "Okay, Navy, dial it back. She’s got enough people lecturing her today."

Ethan’s gaze flicks to Rachel, cold and assessing. "You’re one to talk. You’re the reason she’s expelled."

"Excuse me?"

"Ethan—"

Ethan: "No, seriously. You drag her into your bullshit, then act like it’s some big adventure. Meanwhile, she’s burning her life down for you."

Rachel’s eyes flash. "You don’t know anything about us."

Ethan barks a laugh. "I know enough." He turns back to Chloe. "Just… be smart, for once. Please."

For a second, Chloe looks like she might snap back—but then she deflates, rubbing her face. "Just go, Ethan."

He hesitates, like he wants to say more, but in the end, he just shakes his head and turns away.

As he limps off, Rachel exhales sharply. "God, he’s such an asshole."

Chloe watches her brother’s retreating back. "...Yeah."

Chloe shakes her head. "Let’s just… get out of here."

The two girls slip into the truck, the engine roaring to life as the last of the sunlight fades. Behind them, Ethan pauses at the junkyard gate, watching them go.

He doesn’t follow.

———

Later that night, Chloe returns home to find Ethan still awake, nursing a beer on the porch. They don’t speak—just sit in silence, the weight of the day hanging between them.

Ethan doesn’t ask where she’s been. Chloe doesn’t offer.

But when she heads inside, he mutters, "Be careful, Chlo."

She pauses, then keeps walking.

———

The moment Chloe crumples to the ground, unconscious from Damon’s brutal strike, the air in the old mill becomes electric.

Ethan Price steps out of the shadows, his prosthetic leg clicking against the wooden floorboards. His face is a mask of cold fury, his knuckles already white from clenching his fists. Damon barely has time to register his presence before Ethan is moving.

Damon grins, twirling the knife. "Well, well. The crippled sailor. You here to die with your sister?"

Ethan doesn’t answer. He lunges.

Damon slashes forward, the knife glinting in the dim light. Ethan sidesteps, pivoting on his good leg, but the blade still grazes his ribs, drawing a thin line of blood. He doesn’t flinch. Instead, he counters with a brutal elbow to Damon’s jaw, snapping the dealer’s head back.

Damon stumbles but recovers fast, swinging again. This time, Ethan catches his wrist mid-swing, twisting hard until bones pop. Damon roars in pain but headbutts Ethan square in the nose. Blood sprays.

Ethan staggers but stays upright, spitting red onto the floor. Damon, now favoring his injured wrist, switches the knife to his other hand and feints left before driving the blade toward Ethan’s gut.

Ethan barely twists away in time, the knife slicing through fabric instead of flesh. He grabs Damon’s collar and yanks him forward, driving his knee up—but Damon blocks it, shoving Ethan back into a support beam. The impact knocks the wind out of him.

Damon smirks. "Should’ve stayed out of this, gimp."

Ethan’s eyes flick to Chloe’s unconscious form, then back to Damon. Something in him snaps.

When Damon lunges again, Ethan doesn’t dodge—he lets the knife sink into his shoulder, gritting his teeth against the pain. Before Damon can pull back, Ethan traps the blade in his own muscle, locking Damon’s arm in place.

Then he moves.

A palm strike to Damon’s nose. A knee to his ribs. A crushing grip on his throat. Damon gasps, eyes bulging as Ethan slams him against the wall. The knife clatters to the ground.

Ethan doesn’t stop.

He drives his fist into Damon’s stomach once, twice—then, with a final, sickening twist, snaps Damon’s neck with a sharp crack.

Silence.

Damon’s body slumps to the floor, lifeless. Ethan exhales, blood dripping from his nose, his shoulder, his split knuckles. He looks down at his hands, then at Chloe.

"Fuck." Ethan says in a hoarse voice.

He limps to his sister, checking her pulse. Steady. Good.

Then he turns back to Damon’s corpse. No witnesses. No evidence.

Gritting his teeth, Ethan drags the body away. It’ll take time. It’ll take effort.

But the Navy taught him one thing above all else:

Clean up your own mess.

Later: Ethan burns what he can, buries the rest. By the time Chloe wakes, Damon is gone. Ethan doesn’t explain. She doesn’t ask. Some truths are better left in the dark.

Chapter Text

The small, weathered beach house stood just off the coast, its wooden porch creaking under the weight of the salty wind. Inside, Ethan Price leaned against the kitchen counter, pouring himself a cup of black coffee. Without hesitation, he tipped a generous splash of whiskey into it, stirring lazily before taking a sip.

He exhaled through his nose, the burn of the liquor mixing with the bitter coffee. Three years since the fight with Damon, and the scar on his shoulder—a jagged, raised line where the knife had sunk in—still ached when it rained. He rolled his shoulder absently before grabbing his pack of cigarettes and stepping outside.

The morning sun glinted off the ocean as he sat on the porch bench, lighting a cigarette. He took a slow drag, watching the smoke curl into the air.

Then he saw the truck.

Chloe’s beat-up pickup rolled to a stop in front of his house, kicking up dust. Ethan arched an eyebrow as the doors swung open and two figures stepped out—Chloe, already looking like she was plotting something, and—

No fucking way.

Max Caulfield.

A smirk tugged at the corner of Ethan’s mouth as he took another drag.

"Well, well. If it isn’t little Max Caulfield."

Max blinked, clearly not expecting to see him. Her cheeks pinked almost immediately—yep, some things never change—and she opened her mouth, probably to say something awkwardly polite, but Chloe cut her off.

"Save the reunion, Ethan. We’re here to chill."

Without waiting for an invitation, she pushed past him and into the house. Max shot Ethan an apologetic look before following.

Ethan sighed, stubbing out his cigarette, and trailed after them.

The beach house was small but tidy—surprisingly so, given Ethan’s reputation. The living room had a worn leather couch, a coffee table littered with old magazines and a half-finished puzzle, and a bookshelf filled with military manuals, dog-eared paperbacks, and a few framed photos (none of which he ever looked at). The kitchen was clean but well-used, the fridge mostly stocked with beer and takeout containers. A single Navy flag hung on the wall, the only real decoration.

Chloe had already thrown herself onto the couch, digging through her bag. Max hovered awkwardly, her eyes flickering around the room before landing on Ethan—then widening slightly as she noticed the prosthetic leg. "Oh—I didn’t know you… uh…"

"Lost a leg? Yeah, tends to happen when you step on an IED." Ethan says dryly.

Max’s face went from pink to full red. "I—I mean, I just didn’t know you were in the Navy. Chloe never mentioned—"

Chloe snorts. "Because it’s super relevant to my life." She pulled out a broken camera—Max’s, presumably—and set it on the table. "Alright, nerd. Fix your shit."

Max hesitated, then sat next to Chloe, carefully picking up the camera.

Ethan crossed his arms, leaning against the doorway. "So. You two just decided to drop by unannounced so Max can play mechanic?"

"Yep." She pulled out a blunt, lighting it without ceremony.

Ethan’s eye twitched. "Chloe."

"What?" Chloe says as she exhales smoke.

"Use a fucking ashtray. This isn’t my house, and if you burn a hole in the floor, I’m beating your ass."

Chloe rolled her eyes but grabbed an empty soda can from the coffee table, tapping ash into it. "Happy?"

Ethan grunted, then turned to Max. "And you—still got that crush on me, or did you finally grow out of it?"

Max nearly dropped the camera. "Wha—I—that was years ago—"

Chloe cackled. "Oh my god, she totally did."

Max buried her face in her hands. "I hate both of you."

Ethan smirked, pushing off the doorway to grab his spiked coffee. "Yeah, yeah. Just don’t break anything else."

As Max muttered something under her breath and Chloe took another drag, Ethan took a sip of his drink, watching them with faint amusement.

Somehow, he’d missed this.

(But he’d never admit it.)

Chapter Text

The air was cool and damp, the distant sound of waves lapping against the wooden pilings of the pier. Max had needed to get out, to breathe—after everything that had happened, the dorm walls felt like they were closing in. She wandered without thinking, ending up near the old fishing docks, where the amber glow of streetlights barely cut through the fog.

That’s when she saw him.

Ethan sat at the end of the pier, legs dangling over the edge, a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him. He didn’t turn as she approached, but she knew he’d heard her—his shoulders tensed slightly before he took a slow drag from his cigarette.

"Hey." She says hesitantly.

Ethan exhaled smoke, then finally glanced over his shoulder. "Caulfield." His voice was rough, but not unkind. "You look like shit."

She did. Her clothes were rumpled, her eyes red-rimmed from stress and lack of sleep. She didn’t argue, just shuffled forward and sat beside him, leaving a careful foot of space between them.
For a while, they just listened to the water.

Then—

"So. Heard you pulled a gun on Frank today."

Max stiffened. "How did you—?"

"Chloe." A beat. "Also, Frank’s pissed. And when Frank’s pissed, people hear about it."

Max swallowed. "I didn’t—I mean, it wasn’t loaded. I just… reacted."

Ethan turned his head, studying her. His eyes were sharp, even in the dim light. "You don’t point a gun at someone unless you’re ready to kill them, Max."

She flinched. "I know. It was stupid."

"Yeah. It was." He took another drag, then flicked the cigarette into the water. "But you were protecting Chloe. So I get it."

Silence again. Max picked at a loose thread on her sleeve. "Do you… know anything about Rachel Amber?"

Ethan went still. Then, slowly, he reached for the whiskey, taking a swig before answering. "I knew her. Not well. She was around a lot when she and Chloe were… whatever they were."

Max watched his face, searching for something—anger, grief, anything. But his expression was unreadable. "Do you know where she is?"

Ethan’s jaw tightened. "No."

"Do you think she just… left?"
He let out a humorless laugh. "Yeah. I do."

Max frowned. "You don’t think something happened to her?"

Ethan turned to look at her fully now, his gaze hard. "Rachel was smart. And selfish. She talked about getting out of here all the time—about how Arcadia Bay was a prison. You really think she’d stick around for Chloe? Or anyone?"

Max’s chest ached. "Chloe thinks she wouldn’t just leave without—"

"Chloe believes what she wants to believe." He took another drink. "Rachel used people. That’s what she did. And Chloe was just another mark."

Max wanted to argue, but the words died in her throat. She thought of Chloe’s face when she saw Frank’s bracelet, the raw hurt in her voice.

Ethan sighed, rubbing his face. "Look. I don’t know what happened to Rachel. Maybe she’s in LA like she wanted. Maybe she’s dead in a ditch. But if you’re digging into this… be careful. Frank’s not the only dangerous person in this town."

Max nodded slowly. "I will."

Ethan pushed himself up, grabbing his cane. "And Max?"

She looked up at him.

"Next time you point a gun at someone… make sure it’s loaded."

Then he turned and walked away, his footsteps heavy on the old wood.

Max stayed there, staring at the dark water, wondering if Ethan was right about Rachel—and if the truth would destroy Chloe.

Chapter Text

Ethan turned the key in the lock, but the door swung open before he could even push it—already unlatched. He exhaled sharply through his nose, stepping inside.

The living room was bathed in the dim glow of a single lamp, the air thick with the scent of weed and the aggressive thrash of punk music blaring from Chloe’s headphones. She was sprawled across his couch, one boot kicked up on the coffee table, her eyes half-lidded as she drummed her fingers against her stomach in time with the music.

Ethan walked over, yanked the headphones off her ears, and turned off her music.

“Hey, what the—?”

“What are you doing here?”

Chloe scowled, sitting up. “Chill, dude. Just needed a place to crash.”

“You have a home.”

“Yeah, and it’s currently occupied by Step-Dick and his military-grade bullshit.”

Ethan pinched the bridge of his nose. “It’s late.”

“Wow, really? Hadn’t noticed.”
He shot her a look. “You’re not staying here.”

“Why not? You got someone coming over?” She smirked. “Wait—don’t tell me you finally got a—”

“Chloe.”

She held up her hands. “Fine, fine. Look, I just… didn’t wanna be at home tonight. After everything with Max and Frank and—” She cut herself off, jaw tightening.

Ethan studied her for a moment, then sighed. “You talked to Max?”

“Yeah. She’s… dealing with some shit.”

“So are you.”

Chloe’s fingers twitched toward her pocket—where, Ethan knew, Rachel’s bracelet was tucked away. “Whatever.”

Silence settled between them. Ethan grabbed the whiskey bottle from the counter, took a swig, then held it out to her.

She took it, drinking deeply before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “So. You gonna kick me out or what?”

Ethan snorted. “Like you’d leave if I told you to.”

“Damn right.”

He shook his head, turning toward the hallway. “Couch is yours. Don’t burn the place down.”

“No promises.”

Ethan flipped her off without looking back and disappeared into his room.

Inside, he shut the door, popped a painkiller dry, and collapsed onto the bed. The faint sound of Chloe’s music started up again—quieter this time, but still there.

He closed his eyes.

Some things never changed.

(And maybe that wasn’t entirely a bad thing.)

———

Max stirred awake, blinking against the pale morning light filtering through the curtains. Her neck was stiff—she’d fallen asleep sitting up, her head lolled against Chloe’s shoulder. The pull-out couch was a tangle of blankets, and Chloe was still out cold beside her, one arm flung over her face like she was blocking out the world.

Max rubbed her eyes, then froze when she caught a whiff of herself. Chlorine. Right. The pool. The break-in. The—

A door creaked open down the hall.

Ethan shuffled into the living room, barefoot and shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of faded boxers. His hair was a mess, his eyes barely open as he trudged toward the kitchen with the grace of a sleepwalking zombie.

Max’s face burned. She opened her mouth—to say what, she didn’t know—but Chloe beat her to it.

"Dude. Put some pants on." Chloe says, unimpressed, and still groggy.

Ethan paused mid-step, then slowly turned his head toward the couch. His gaze drifted over them, uncomprehending for a solid three seconds before he grunted.

"...Why are you in my house?"

"Because your couch is comfier than my bed."

Ethan stared at her. Then, without another word, he turned and continued into the kitchen. The sound of the coffee maker starting up filled the silence.

Max buried her face in her hands. "Oh my God."

Chloe smirked, stretching. "Relax, Maxipad. He’s basically sleepwalking. Also, you’re way too red for someone who used to doodle ‘Mrs. Max Price’ in her notebook."

"I—I never—!"

From the kitchen, Ethan called out, voice rough with sleep: "Yeah, you did."

Max made a strangled noise.

A few minutes later, Ethan reappeared, still in just boxers but now holding a steaming mug of coffee. He took a long sip, then finally seemed to register the state of them—Max’s damp, chlorine-soaked clothes, Chloe’s smug grin.

"So. You two break into the school pool or something?"

"Or something." Chloe says.

Max grimaced, pulling at her shirt. "Ugh, I reek."

Ethan eyed her for a second, then shrugged. "Hold on." He disappeared back down the hall, returning a moment later with a folded pair of jeans and a plain black t-shirt. "Here. Ex-girlfriend left ‘em. Should fit."

Max took the clothes gingerly. "Thanks. I, uh... how long were you two together?"

Ethan took another sip of coffee. "Month. Maybe."

"Damn. She ditched you fast." Chloe says.

"Yeah, well. Turns out ‘dating a depressed amputee with a drinking problem’ isn’t most people’s idea of a good time." His tone was flat, but there was no real bitterness in it—just exhaustion.

An awkward silence settled over them.

"I’m sorry." Max says softly.

Ethan shrugged. "Don’t be. She sucked anyway." He turned back toward the kitchen. "Coffee’s there if you want it. Whiskey’s in the cabinet if you really want it."

Chloe grinned, already heading for the kitchen. "Now that’s hospitality."

Max clutched the borrowed clothes to her chest, watching Ethan’s retreating back. For a second, she thought about saying something else—but then Chloe tossed her a wink, and the moment passed.

Some crushes, it seemed, were better left in the past.

Chapter Text

Max emerged from the bathroom, now dressed in the borrowed jeans and black t-shirt. The clothes were a little loose but comfortable, and most importantly, they didn’t smell like chlorine. She padded into the kitchen, where Chloe was pouring herself a cup of coffee, the steam curling lazily in the morning light.

Chloe grins. "Look at you, all dressed in another girl’s cast-offs. You wear it better than she did, though."

Max rolled her eyes but couldn’t help a small smile. "Shut up. So, what’s the plan? We still need to check David’s laptop, right?"

"Oh yeah. Step-dick’s got secrets, and I will find them." She took a sip of coffee, then grimaced. "Ugh. Ethan’s coffee tastes like motor oil."

Before Max could respond, a loud thud echoed from down the hall, followed by a string of vicious curses.

Both girls froze.

"...Was that—?"

"Yep." Chloe nodded.

They hurried toward Ethan’s room, where the door was slightly ajar. Max hesitated, but Chloe pushed it open without ceremony.

Inside, Ethan was on the floor, his prosthetic leg lying a few feet away, the metal joint snapped clean through. He was barefoot, shirtless, and clearly pissed, his face twisted in frustration as he tried to push himself up.

"Oh my God—are you okay?"

Ethan shot her a glare. "Peachy. Just thought I’d take a nap on the floor for fun."

"Hey, don’t be a dick. She’s just asking."

Ethan exhaled sharply through his nose, dragging a hand down his face. "I’m fine. The damn leg broke. It happens."

Max frowned. "But… why weren’t you using your cane?"

For a second, Ethan looked like he was debating whether to answer or just tell her to fuck off. Then, grudgingly: "Because I hate that thing. And I was just going to the damn bathroom. Didn’t think I’d need it."

Chloe crossed her arms. "Well, guess you thought wrong."

Ethan’s jaw tightened. "Get out."

"Wait, let us help—"

"Out." His voice was low, final. "Now."

Max opened her mouth to argue, but Chloe grabbed her arm, shaking her head slightly.

"C’mon, Max. Let’s go before Captain Grumpy here starts throwing shit."

Ethan didn’t deny it.

Max hesitated, then nodded, letting Chloe lead her out of the room. As they walked away, she glanced back one last time—just in time to see Ethan drag a hand over his face, his shoulders slumping in a way that made him look exhausted, not angry.
Chloe shut the door behind them.

"He really hates people seeing him like that, huh?" Max says quietly.

"Yeah. But don’t take it personally. He’s been like this since he got back. Acts like he doesn’t give a shit about anything, but god forbid someone sees him struggle." She sighed. "Anyway, forget him. We’ve got a step-douche to investigate."

Max nodded, but as they walked back to the kitchen, she couldn’t shake the image of Ethan on the floor—not drunk, not sarcastic, just tired.

Some wounds, it seemed, never really healed.

———

Later that evening...

The TV flickered in the dim living room, casting erratic shadows across the walls. Ethan sat on the couch, his broken prosthetic leg propped against the coffee table, a half-empty bottle of whiskey beside him. He had managed to pull on sweatpants and a loose t-shirt, but moving around without his leg was a pain in the ass, so he hadn’t bothered going far.

Then the door slammed open.

Chloe stormed in like a hurricane, her face flushed with anger, eyes red-rimmed and wild. She didn’t even look at him—just stomped past, heading straight for the kitchen.

“The fuck’s your damage?” Ethan asked flatly.

She ignored him, yanking open the fridge and grabbing a beer.

“Chloe.”

“What?” Chloe snaps.

He narrowed his eyes. “You bust into my house like you own the place, don’t say shit—what, you expect me to just sit here and pretend you’re not being a psycho?”

She cracked the beer open and took a long swig, then finally turned to glare at him. “Oh, I’m sorry, Ethan. Did I interrupt your very important evening of sitting on your ass and feeling sorry for yourself?”

His grip tightened on the armrest. “Careful.”

“Ooooh, scary. What’re you gonna do, hop after me?”

Ethan’s expression went cold. “What the fuck is your problem?”

“My problem? Oh, I don’t know—how about the fact that Rachel was fucking Frank?” Her voice cracked on the name. “She lied to me! She was banging that scumbag behind my back and lying about it!”

Ethan didn’t react at first. Then he shrugged. “So?”

Chloe froze. “...What?”

“So what? You and Rachel weren’t even together. She flirted with half the town. You really thought you were special?”

Her face twisted. “Fuck you.”

“No, fuck you, Chloe. You’re acting like she stabbed you in the heart, but let’s be real—Rachel was always like this. She used people. She lied. She did whatever the hell she wanted, and you were just too blind to see it.”

Chloe’s hands clenched into fists. “You don’t know shit about her.”

“I know enough. She talked about leaving Arcadia Bay every damn day. You really think she gave a single fuck about you? Or anyone?”

"Shut up!"

“She’s gone, Chloe. And if she did ditch you for Frank or some other guy, then guess what? That’s on her. But you? You’re just pissed because you put her on a pedestal and now you’re finding out she was human.”

Chloe’s breath came fast, her whole body trembling. “You’re a jerk.”

“And you’re an idiot if you think this is worth losing your shit over.”

For a second, she looked like she might throw the beer bottle at him. Then, with a wordless scream of frustration, she hurled it at the wall instead. Glass shattered, foam splattering across the floor.

Ethan didn’t flinch. “Get out.”

“Gladly.”

She turned on her heel and stormed toward the door.

“Next time you wanna throw a tantrum, do it somewhere else.”

Chloe didn’t answer. The door slammed behind her hard enough to rattle the windows.

Ethan exhaled, running a hand over his face. The TV droned on, oblivious.

Some fights were inevitable.

Some wounds never stopped bleeding.

And some people—like Chloe, like him—just couldn’t stop picking at the scabs.

Chapter Text

Some time later...

Ethan sat on the porch, the weight of Max’s texts heavy in his hands. Rachel’s dead. Chloe’s destroyed. They’re going after Nathan. He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t like Rachel, but he never wanted this.

Then he looked up—and froze.

Two moons hung in the sky.

What the fuck?

His gut twisted. Something was wrong.

———

Ethan knocked on his neighbor’s door, jaw clenched.

“Ethan? You okay?”

“Need to borrow your car.”

She took one look at his face and handed him the keys without another word. “Something bad?”

“If it ain’t obvious.” He says as he is already walking away.

The engine roared to life. He drove like hell itself was chasing him.

———

Chloe’s truck was already there, parked haphazardly near the old train tracks. Ethan killed the engine, stepping out into the eerie silence. The junkyard was a graveyard of rusted metal and shadows, the twin moons casting everything in an unnatural glow.

He moved quietly, scanning the darkness. Then—voices.

Chloe’s. Max’s.

And then a third.

Ethan ducked behind a wrecked car just as another vehicle pulled up. A figure stepped out—tall, calm, familiar.

Mark Jefferson.

And he had a gun.

Ethan’s blood turned to ice.

Jefferson moved like a ghost, slipping through the junkyard with practiced ease. Ethan followed, heart pounding, but he was too slow—always too fucking slow.

He rounded a pile of scrap just in time to see: Max, kneeling in the dirt; Chloe, eyes wide with rage; Jefferson’s syringe plunging into Max’s neck.

Max crumpled.

Chloe yanked her gun free—

BANG.

Chloe’s body hit the ground.

Something in Ethan shattered.

He lunged before Jefferson could even turn, slamming into him with enough force to send them both crashing into the dirt. The gun skittered away.

Jefferson gasped, scrambling back, but Ethan was already on him.

First punch: Shattered his nose. Blood sprayed.

Second punch: Crushed his jaw.

Jefferson flailed, clawing at Ethan’s face, but Ethan didn’t feel it. He grabbed Jefferson’s throat and slammed his head into the ground. Once. Twice.

Then—the gun.

Jefferson’s fingers closed around it.

BANG. BANG.

White-hot pain tore through Ethan’s gut. He staggered but didn’t let go.

With a roar, he wrenched the gun from Jefferson’s hand, pressed it under his chin, and—

BANG.

Silence.

Ethan collapsed onto his knees, blood soaking through his shirt. He crawled to Chloe, his vision blurring.

Her hand was still warm.

He grabbed it, squeezing like she might wake up.

His voice breaks. “Chloe… fuck…”

Tears dripped onto her jacket. His shoulders shook.

Should’ve been faster. Should’ve been better.

The ghostly doe watched from the shadows as Ethan Price bled out beside his sister, the twin moons bearing witness to the end.

———

Max gasped awake, the sterile white lights of the hospital room blinding her. Her head pounded, her throat dry as sandpaper. For a moment, she thought it had all been a nightmare—until David’s haggard face came into focus beside her bed.

His eyes were red-rimmed, his usual rigid posture slumped in defeat.

Her fingers fumbled for her phone, texting Warren with shaking hands. Warren arrived within minutes, confusion etched on his face—until Max grabbed the photo from his hands.

"I need to fix this."

The world blurred.

This time, Max didn’t wait. The second she and Chloe went to the junkyard, she texted Ethan.

"Junkyard NOW. Jefferson’s the killer. Chloe’s in danger."

Ethan’s reply was immediate: "On my way."

When Chloe pulled the gun from her waistband, Ethan’s voice cut through the night.

"Hand it over, Chloe."

Chloe whirled, stunned. "Ethan?! What the hell—"

"Just give me the goddamn gun."

Max stepped between them. "Chloe, trust me."

Reluctantly, Chloe handed it over.

They dug. Rachel is still there. And then—footsteps.

Jefferson emerged from the shadows, his smile chilling. "Such a touching reunion."
Ethan didn’t hesitate. He raised the gun—

BANG!

Jefferson fired first. The bullet tore through Ethan’s shoulder, but he didn’t drop the gun.

BANG!

Jefferson’s head snapped back. He crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.

Silence.

Ethan staggered, clutching his bleeding shoulder.

"Holy shit." Chloe says.

Max exhaled, trembling. It worked.

Ethan met her gaze, his eyes dark with understanding. "You knew."

Max nodded.

For the first time in years, Chloe hugged her brother—tight, desperate, alive.

———

The storm never came.

Max still doesn’t know why. Maybe her final choice—letting Chloe live, refusing to undo their week together—changed something deeper than time itself. Maybe the universe just gave up.

But Arcadia Bay still feels like a graveyard.

The Prescott bunker is exposed. Nathan’s dead by his Jefferson's hands. Jefferson’s death and actions are front-page news. And Rachel Amber’s body is finally laid to rest under a willow tree in the junkyard, where the sunlight filters through the leaves like gold.

Chloe stands at the grave every day for a week, fists clenched, tears silent. She doesn’t talk much anymore. Not to Max, not to Joyce, not even to Ethan—who limps through the house like a ghost himself, his prosthetic leg clicking against the floorboards.

He almost died saving them.

Max sits with Chloe on the lighthouse cliff, the ocean roaring below. The sun sets in streaks of violet and bruised orange.

"We should leave." Chloe says quietly.

"Yeah."

They’d talked about it before—running away to Seattle, or Portland, or some nowhere town where the memories couldn’t follow. But now it’s real.

"I can’t stay here. Not after…"

She doesn’t finish. She doesn’t have to.

Max takes her hand. Chloe’s fingers are cold.

———

Joyce tries not to cry when Chloe tells her. David nods stiffly, his usual gruffness softened by grief.

Ethan just leans against the doorway, arms crossed. "You’ll call."

It’s not a question.

Chloe smirks, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. "Maybe."

He pulls her into a rough hug. She stiffens—then clings to him like she’s drowning. "Don’t die out there, shitbird." His voice is muffled.

"No promises."

———

The truck rattles down the highway, Arcadia Bay shrinking in the rearview mirror. Max watches the horizon, Chloe’s hand tight around hers.

They don’t look back.

———

Ethan stays.

He fixes up the beach house. He throws out the whiskey. He visits Rachel’s grave when no one’s looking.

And sometimes, when the wind howls just right, he swears he hears Chloe’s laugh.

Maybe in another life things are different.

But this is the one they have.

And it has to be enough.

***

Five Years Later

Chloe Price moves back to Arcadia Bay in the dead of winter, her old truck packed with half her life and a maxed-out credit card. The city never suited her—Portland chewed her up, Seattle spat her out, and the freelance journalism gigs dried up faster than her relationship with Max.

(They’d tried. For three years, they’d really tried. But some loves aren’t built to last, and theirs had too many ghosts in the walls.)

Ethan meets her on the porch of his beach house, arms crossed, already smirking.

"Knew you’d crawl back eventually."

"Shut up. I’m broke, not defeated."

He laughs, grabs her duffel bag, and lets her inside.

———

Chloe takes the spare room, which still smells faintly of salt and weed. She lands a job at the Arcadia Bay Herald—mostly obituaries and local politics, but it pays. Sometimes, when she’s feeling nostalgic, she visits the junkyard. Rachel’s grave is overgrown now, but the willow tree still stands.

Ethan’s sober. Has been for two years. He works at the shipyard, fixing engines, and comes home smelling like grease and seawater. His girlfriend, Lena, is a paramedic—sharp-eyed, no-nonsense, with a dark braid always coming undone. She’s the one who got him to quit drinking.

"I didn’t get him to do shit," Lena corrects. "I just told him if he didn’t stop, I’d leave. And I meant it."

They fight sometimes. Loudly. Chloe has to turn her music up.

———

Joyce and David sold the house last spring, bought an RV, and vanished down the coast. They send postcards from places Chloe’s never heard of—"Sedona’s rocks are pink as hell!"—and call every Sunday without fail.

David’s softer now. Retirement suits him.

("Still a hardass, though," Chloe mutters, but she doesn’t hang up when he asks about her day.)

———

Max visits once, just before her big photography exhibit in New York. She brings wine neither of them drinks and sits on the porch with Chloe, watching the sunset.

"You good?"

"Getting there."

They don’t talk about the past. They don’t need to.

When Max leaves, Chloe doesn’t watch her go.

———

Some nights, Ethan finds Chloe on the porch, staring at the lighthouse.

"You gonna brood all night, or what?" He smirks.

"Fuck off."

He sits beside her anyway, passing her a beer (non-alcoholic, Lena’s rule). They don’t talk. They don’t have to.

The waves crash. The wind howls.