The words surprised both of them.
Evie stayed where she was. “Okay.”
Maggie hesitated, then leaned back against the desk, arms crossing—not defensive, but bracing.
“You shouldn’t have come to the café today,” Maggie said.
Evie blinked. “You asked me.”
“Yes,” Maggie said. “And that’s the problem.”
Evie considered her carefully. “You didn’t regret it.”
Maggie’s jaw tightened. “That’s not the same thing.”
“No,” Evie agreed. “But it’s not nothing.”
Maggie closed her eyes briefly. The words she’d been holding back pressed against her throat, sharp and insistent.
“This can’t happen,” she said finally, opening her eyes to meet Evie’s gaze. “Whatever you think is building here, it stops. Now.”
Evie didn’t argue.
She nodded slowly, something shuttering in her expression. “Then I should go.”
She turned toward the door.
The movement felt wrong—too quick, too final.
“Evie,” Maggie said.
Evie stopped but didn’t turn.
“If I ask you to stay,” Maggie continued carefully, her voice lower now, rougher, “it doesn’t mean I know what comes next.”
Evie turned back slowly, eyes searching Maggie’s face. “I’m not asking you to promise anything.”
Maggie swallowed. “And if I ask you to leave?”
Evie’s voice was quiet but sure. “I will.”
The certainty in those words hit harder than Maggie expected.
She looked at Evie—really looked at her. The openness without expectation. The restraint without withdrawal. The way she stood there, present and patient, not pushing but not retreating either.
Maggie felt something crack in her chest.
“Tell me you don’t want this,” Evie said softly.
Maggie’s breath caught.
She had spent years building walls. Years saying no to herself—to rest, to softness, to anything that might destabilize the carefully maintained balance that kept her functional.
But she had never lied to herself.
“I can’t,” Maggie admitted, the words barely above a whisper. “And that’s the problem.”
Evie’s expression shifted—not triumph, but relief. Understanding.
