“City boy hands,” he said.
Instead, I grabbed a handful of flour and flung it at his face, grinning as white powder exploded across his cheek.
“Asshole,” I said with deep affection.
“Language,” Mom said automatically, but she was smiling as she watched us, and I caught her whispering something to Dad that made him chuckle.
By the time we sat down to eat, the dining room felt alive with the kind of warmth I'd forgotten was possible. Simple food—roasted chicken, fresh bread, vegetables from Mom's garden—but it tasted like celebration, like homecoming, like all the family dinners I'd missed during my years in Chicago.
“This is incredible,” Evan said after his second helping of everything, and the genuine appreciation in his voice made Mom beam with pride.
“It's nothing fancy,” she said, but I could tell she was pleased. “Just family recipes and love.”
“Best kind,” Evan said, and meant it.
As the evening wound down, I found myself studying the scene like I was trying to memorize it for later. My parents, relaxed and happy in ways I hadn't seen since before the divorce scare that had driven us out of Hollow Pines the first time. Evan, looking younger and more at ease than I'd ever seen him, fitting into my family like he'd always belonged there.
And me, caught in the middle of something that felt too good to be real and too important to risk losing.
When Mom hugged Evan goodbye—actually hugged him, which was Mom's ultimate seal of approval—I saw his face over her shoulder. The expression there was so raw, so hungry for the uncomplicated acceptance she was offering, that I had to look away before I did something embarrassing like cry.
“Thank you,” he murmured into her shoulder. “For including me.”
“Always, dear,” Mom said fiercely. “You're family now.”
Outside, the October air was sharp with the promise of winter, and I pulled my jacket tighter as we walked toward Evan's truck. But instead of heading toward the driver's side, he stopped and turned to face me, hands shoved deep in his pockets.
“Come with me,” he said, and there was something in his voice that made my pulse quicken.
“Where?”
“My place. I want to show you something.”
23
MOONSHINE
NATE
The drive to his apartment was quiet, but it was the comfortable kind of silence that came from being with someone who didn't require constant conversation to fill the space. I watched Hollow Pines roll past the windows, streetlights marking the boundaries of a town that was slowly starting to feel like home again.
Evan's house was exactly what I'd expected and nothing like I'd imagined at the same time. Simple, functional furniture that looked like it had been chosen for durability rather than style. A workbench covered with tools and engine parts that spoke of late nights spent fixing things that other people had given up on. A guitar propped against the wall, well-used and obviously loved.
But it was the sketches that caught my attention. Dozens of them, pinned to a corkboard above his bed, covering every available inch of wall space. Pictures of the forest, of the pack, of Hollow Pines seen through eyes that found beauty in ordinary moments.
Pictures of me.
I'd known Evan sketched me in high school—had caught him at it plenty of times, though he'd always tried to hide what he was drawing.
But these weren't just high school memories. These were recent. Me at the café last week, unaware I was being observed. Me laughing at something Gideon had said at the garage. Me from yesterday, captured in a moment I didn't even remember.
“Fuck, Evan,” I whispered, running my fingers over the edges of paper that documented six years of distance and the careful way he'd been watching me since I'd come home. “You've been drawing me since I got back.”
“Since the first day you walked into the Lodge and I realized I was still completely fucked where you were concerned,” he said quietly.
The honesty in his voice made my chest tight with emotion I didn't have words for. Because this wasn't just nostalgia or leftover teenage feelings. This was evidence that whatever had existed between us hadn't died when I'd left for Chicago—it had just been waiting, patient and persistent, for me to come home.
“This is yours,” I said, turning to face him. “This whole space, it's all you.”
