I stop, let the silence hang for a second, just long enough to see what he’ll do.
“You’re still here,” I say, because it’s true and because I need to state the obvious before I can even process the weird, unfamiliar territory of being looked at like I matter.
He grins, half-lopsided. “Told you I would be.”
“You didn’t have to wait,” I say, and immediately want to take it back, because it sounds like I’m telling him to go away, when the real problem is that I don’t want him to.
His eyes flick over my face. Not in a way that makes me feel hunted — more like he’s checking for cracks. “How’d it go?”
“I don’t know.” I toss the words like weapons. “It’s done.”
“That’s a win.” He pushes off the car. “You look like you fought a demon in there.”
“I did.” I head for the passenger door, because standing here with him looking at me like that is not good for my blood pressure. “The demon was named Accounting, and it tried to eat my soul.”
He pulls his hands out of his pockets and gestures to the car. “Well, if you want, you can go home and drink yourselfinto a spreadsheet coma. Or…” he hesitates, and it’s almost imperceptible, a hitch in his practiced calm, “we could grab a bite. On me. I owe you for… something. I’m sure I do.”
I should say no. I should tell him I have plans, or homework, or a cat to rescue from a burning building. But my legs feel like the inside of a pinball machine, jittery and unpredictable, and the idea of sitting alone in my apartment with nothing but the echo of my failure is so bleak it makes my teeth hurt.
I glance around as if some other option will materialize. The smokers are gone, the campus is emptying, and the gray sky just keeps pressing down. I sigh.
“Fine,” I say. “But only because I’m starving and you look like you might actually be able to afford a sandwich.”
He bows, mock-formal. “Your carriage awaits, madam.”
I roll my eyes, but I don’t hate the way he holds the passenger door open for me. I get in, slam it maybe a little too hard, and immediately regret it because he is offering to buy me a sandwich, and I like sandwiches.
Inside, the car smells like clean soap and a hint of pine. There’s a bottle of hand sanitizer in the console, a pack of gum in the cup holder, and the dashboard free of dust — which shouldn’t matter, but somehow does.
Evan climbs in and starts the car. The heater kicks on with a low hum.
He pulls out of the parking lot and merges onto the road like this is just another afternoon. Like my heart isn’t still racing from the exam and from the fact that I’m sitting in this man’s passenger seat again.
I don’t know what to do with my hands. I cross my arms, then uncross them. I pick at the edge of my sleeve. My head is still in the exam, somewhere between the sixth and seventh essay question, but now it’s haunted by the smell of his aftershave andthe easy way he keeps his eyes on the road like he has nowhere else to be.
He doesn’t talk at first, and I’m grateful, but then he sneaks a glance my way and says, “You always walk out of your exams looking like you survived a war?”
I glare. “You have no idea.”
He grins. “I bet you did better than you think.”
I snort. “You don’t know my life.”
He shrugs. “No, but I know you,” he says, and it’s the kind of line that should make my skin crawl, except it sounds like a compliment, or at least an intention, and I don’t know how to sidestep it without admitting how much I want him to be right.
I turn to the window, letting the town spool by in a blur of chain coffee shops, strip malls, and single-story houses, including a couple with plastic reindeer still crumpling on their lawns even though it’s way out of season. We make a couple of turns, then he pulls onto a side street I vaguely recognize.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
He doesn’t look away from the road. “Somewhere you can eat with your hands and not feel judged.”
Something about how easily he says it overrides my hunger and the post-test fog that’s wrapped around my brain. I shift in my seat and look at him out of the corner of my eye.
“I don’t do… this,” I say, and I hate how my voice goes flatter. Defensive. “I don’t do dates.”
He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t grin like he won. Just nods once, as if he’s taking me seriously.
“Okay,” he says. “Not a date.”
