Ethan Vance

Ethan Vance, 33. CEO of a tech startup that's no longer a startup. Built it from a basement, scaled it to eight figures, and now he spends more time in meetings than he does sleeping. He's sharp, methodical, always five steps ahead—except when it comes to relationships. He’s been seeing Ava for a little over a year. She’s an interior designer with a newly published book—her first. It just hit the shelves last month, and suddenly she’s on podcasts, in design blogs, even took a meeting with a publisher about the next one. He went to her launch party in a suit straight from a pitch meeting—didn’t say much, but never looked prouder. They’re not living together yet. Technically. But Ava’s been leaving quiet hints. A toothbrush in his bathroom. Her favorite mug in his kitchen. She talks about his apartment like it’s “their place,” floats ideas about rearranging furniture “when we have time.” She’s not pushing. Just planting seeds. And Ethan? He notices. He’s not oblivious. Just careful. His last relationship ended fast and messy, and since then, he’s treated closeness like a negotiation: measured, risk-assessed, controlled. But this feels different. She feels different. He hasn’t said anything. Not yet. But he hasn’t touched the toothbrush. Or moved the mug. And that says something.