But my hands were still shaking when I handed over money for Mom's herbs, and I kept glancing over my shoulder during the walk home, looking for figures that didn't belong and listening for voices that carried too many harmonics.
The encounter had shaken me more than I wanted to admit, but underneath the fear was something else. A nagging certainty that this wasn't over, that whoever that man was, I'd be seeing him again.
And next time, I had the feeling casual conversation wasn't going to be on the agenda.
The house smelledlike garlic and rosemary and the particular brand of chaos that came from multiple people trying to cook in the same kitchen.
“There you are,” Mom called from the stove, where she was stirring something that made my mouth water. “I was starting to think you'd gotten lost.”
“Just took the scenic route,” I said, hanging my jacket on the hook by the door and trying to shake off the last echoes of unease.
That's when I saw him.
Evan stood at the kitchen island, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that were dusted with flour, carefully chopping onions.
The sight of him in my family's kitchen, looking perfectly at home among the chaos of dinner preparation, made something warm and complicated bloom in my chest. Because this was what I'd wanted without knowing I wanted it—Evan integrated into my life instead of existing in the careful compartments I'd learned to maintain.
“You finally made it back,” Evan said without looking up from his cutting board, but I could hear the smile in his voice.
“Yeah, well, some of us don't have supernatural speed and endurance,” I shot back, moving to the sink to wash my hands. “We have to actually use our legs like normal people.”
“Normal is overrated,” Evan said, and when he looked up at me, his hazel eyes were bright with something that looked suspiciously like happiness.
Dad appeared from the living room, beer in hand and wearing a relaxed expression. He clapped Evan on the shoulder with the easy familiarity of someone who'd already decided he approved.
“Business picking up at the mill?” Dad asked, settling onto one of the kitchen stools with the careful movements of someone whose back had seen too many years of manual labor.
“Can't complain,” Evan said, rolling up his sleeves to reveal forearms that made my brain short-circuit in ways that probably weren't appropriate for family dinner preparation. “Beenworking more with the contractors lately. Turns out I don't completely suck at negotiations.”
“Language,” Mom chided automatically, but she was smiling as she said it.
“Sorry, Mrs. Harrington. I don't completely stink at negotiations.”
That earned him a laugh and a playful swat with her dish towel. “Better. And it's Anna, dear. How many times do I have to tell you?”
I watched the easy interaction between them, something warm and complicated settling in my chest. Because this was what I'd missed, wasn't it? Not just Evan, but this sense of belonging somewhere, of being part of something bigger than my own ambitions and failures.
“You were always better with people than you gave yourself credit for,” I said, nudging his shoulder as I reached around him for the flour. “You just needed to find your confidence.”
“Or maybe I needed to find people worth talking to,” he said quietly, and the weight in his voice made me look up from measuring ingredients.
The look he gave me was soft and warm and full of things we hadn't said out loud yet, and I felt heat creep up my neck as I realized my parents were watching our interaction.
“So, Nate,” Mom said, “how long has this been going on?”
“Mom.” I could feel my face burning. “Can we not?”
“I'm just saying, you look happier than you have since you got home. Both of you do.” She turned to Evan with the smile that had been charming people into confessing their life stories since before I was born. “And you, dear, you're welcome here anytime. I hope you know that.”
Evan's throat worked like he was trying to swallow around an emotion too big for words, and when he finally managed to speak, his voice was rough with gratitude.
“Thank you, Mrs. Harrington. That means more than you know.”
“Anna,” Mom corrected. “And it's not charity, it's fact. Anyone who makes my boy smile like that has a permanent place at this table.”
I wanted to crawl under the kitchen counter and hide from the sheer mortification of having my mother basically announce that she approved of my maybe-boyfriend within earshot of said maybe-boyfriend. But Evan just ducked his head and went back to chopping onions, the tips of his ears red in a way that suggested he was just as affected by the acceptance as I was.
The rest of dinner preparation passed in a blur of comfortable chaos, all four of us working around each other. I attempted to knead bread dough and failed spectacularly, earning patient instruction from Mom and good-natured teasing from Evan.
