Just him.
Just me.
Evan sets his fork down and studies my face. “You always this tense?”
I keep my eyes on my plate. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I look up, look into his eyes. “And I didn’t ask to be interrogated.”
He holds my gaze, unblinking. “Then don’t answer.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you came to my door pissed off and exhausted,” he says. “I know you asked for help like it was a personal insult. And I know you’re trying very hard to pretend you don’t want to be here.”
My throat goes dry. “I don’t.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up, steady. “Liar.”
The word lands like a slap, but it’s not wrong. My face burns, and I want to crawl out of my skin. Suddenly the apartment feels too small, too bright, every detail of the moment hyper-vivid. The table between us is a joke; he could reach across it and undo me with a flick of his wrist. I push my chair back a few inches, needing the space, the illusion of distance.
“This is a bad idea,” I say, barely above a whisper.
He raises his brows, feigning innocence. “Eating dinner?”
“No.” I shake my head, hair clinging to my damp neck. “This. The wine. The way you’re looking at me.”
He searches my face, quiet, intense. “How am I looking at you?”
“Like you think I’m —” The word withers in my mouth. I can’t say it. If I say it, it’s real.
He leans in, elbows on the table, hands folded, patient. His voice is low and warm. “Like I think you’re what?”
My pulse hammers, echoing in my ears. I want to run or fight or both. I grip the edge of the table, fingertips whitening, but I letgo when I notice the tremor. I unclench my hands and smooth the towel over my thighs, as though that could hide how exposed I feel. I stare at his hands instead, the nicks and scars, the calluses that tell a hundred stories I’d never ask him to repeat.
He waits. I hate him for that — for knowing I’ll fill the silence, that it’ll eat me alive first.
Evan leans forward a little. Not crowding. Not forcing. Just… there.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. “Tell me you don’t want me to take care of you.”
I clench my jaw and hold back the answer because I don’t want to know how it’ll sound out loud. Instead, I stand. My knees almost buckle, half from the wine, half from the crash of adrenaline.
My feet move before I make a decision about it. That's the thing about want — it doesn't wait for permission. I circle the table, slow, arms crossed, towel clutched at my chest. I’m not even sure why I’m moving, except that I can’t sit still, can’t let him see me unravel.
He turns with me, always facing, always ready. For a second, we’re back in high school, circling each other in the gym after hours, trading cheap shots because it was safer than honesty. The familiarity of it guts me.
I stop behind his chair. He’s still sitting, waiting, not reaching for me. The silence is thick enough to chew.
I touch his shoulder. Just a brush of my palm, heat through cotton. His head tilts, and his eyes are closed, like he knew this was coming.
Evan’s voice is a rasp. “Molly…”
“Shut up,” I murmur. I’m not sure if I say it for him, or for myself.
Then I bend down and kiss him.
