He was quiet for so long I thought he might not answer. Then: “The way the forest talks.”
I turned to look at him, but his expression was serious, not like he was messing with me. “Talks how?”
“Not words. Just... sounds. Rustling when there's no wind. Footsteps when there's no one there. Like it's trying to tell you something important, but you don't speak the language.”
The way he said it made my skin prickle with awareness. There was truth in his voice, the kind that went deeper than imagination or teenage drama.
“Have you ever tried to learn?” I asked.
Evan's mouth quirked up at the corner. “Working on it.”
Another comfortable silence stretched between us, broken only by the distant sound of my parents moving around downstairs. Normal domestic sounds that felt strange after weeks of living in a place that seemed balanced on the edge of something cosmic.
“Your turn,” Evan said. “Weirdest thing about the city?”
“The loneliness,” I said without thinking, then immediately wished I could take it back. Too honest. Too revealing.
But Evan just nodded like he understood. “Sounds awful.”
“It was. All those people, all that noise, and somehow you could still feel completely invisible.” I picked at a loose thread on my comforter. “Like you were just taking up space that belonged to someone more important.”
“Not here, though.”
It wasn't really a question, but I answered anyway. “No. Not here.”
“Good.” Evan's voice carried a note of satisfaction that made something flutter behind my ribs. “You belong here.”
The simple declaration hit harder than any grand romantic gesture could have. Because this was Evan—careful, guarded Evan who chose his words like they cost him something—telling me I had a place in his world.
“Yeah,” I said, throat suddenly tight with emotion I wasn't ready to name. “I think I do.”
When he finally left that night, walking home through forest paths that seemed to welcome him like an old friend, I lay in the same spot on my bed and stared at the ceiling where his voice had painted pictures of a town that whispered secrets and boys who belonged to wild places.
Dad found me there ten minutes later, still staring out at the darkness.
“Good kid,” he said, settling beside me at the window. “Quiet, but strong. You can see it in the way he carries himself.”
“Yeah,” I said, voice rough with emotions I wasn't ready to examine. “He is.”
“You care about him.” It wasn't a question.
I nodded, not trusting my voice to remain steady if I tried to speak.
“Good,” Dad said, clapping a hand on my shoulder. “Everyone needs someone who sees them for who they really are. Looks like you two are lucky enough to have found that in each other.”
Evan did see me, saw past the sarcastic exterior and the restless energy to whatever was real underneath. And I was starting to realize that I saw him too, saw the gentle heart beneath the careful silence, the strength that had nothing to dowith physical power and everything to do with the courage it took to trust someone new.
I was falling for him. Had probably been falling for months without fully realizing it, drawn to his quiet intensity and the way he made me feel like I was worth knowing.
The knowledge should have terrified me. Should have sent me running in the opposite direction, because caring about someone that much was dangerous in ways I was only beginning to understand.
But as I lay in bed thinking about the sound of his laughter and the way his eyes had lit up when he'd finally trusted me with his truth, all I felt was grateful.
8
FIRES IN THE DARK
EVAN
