“Whatever you say.”
“Stop it.”
“I’m trying, but there’s a fucking problem: how the fuck can I agree with you without agreeing with you?”
Molly holds my stare, and for a moment—just a moment—she looks like the girl from the bleachers again. The one who kissed me like it was a dare and then walked away like she didn’t care.
Except now her eyes don’t sayI don’t care.
They saythis is dangerous because I might.
And that’s the problem.
Because the more she trusts me, the more I want to deserve it.
Chapter Thirteen
Molly
I make it to my door with my keys clenched in my fist and my brain still buzzing. Midday light slants through the hallway window, bright and rude. I should be thinking about study guides and sleep and how to keep my life clean and controlled.
Instead, I’m thinking about Evan Wilder’s mouth.
He walks beside me like he owns the hallway — steady, not a hint of hesitation in him. Like the kiss the other night wasn’t a mistake. Like it was a promise.
At my door, I force a smile that doesn’t reach my eyes. “Thanks for the drink. And the fries. And the ride.”
I can’t even look at him directly, so I aim my words at the spot over his shoulder where the landlord’s notice is peeling off the wall.
Evan stops when I stop. He doesn’t crowd me, but he doesn’t back off either. He’s close enough that I can smell him — soap and clean heat and something darker under it that makes my pulse skitter.
“You did good,” he says.
I blink. “On the test?”
“On not bolting out the window back in that bar when things got real between us.”
My jaw tightens. “I don’t run.”
“You tried.”
He’s not wrong. If I could have crawled out the bathroom window without shattering my dignity, I probably would have. I hate that he knows it.
I wrench open the door and mutter, “I have studying to do.” The inside of my apartment is a disaster of textbooks, highlighters, and empty ramen cups. I haven’t even had time to light my dollar-store candle, the one I bought last week because it promised “tranquility” on the label. All the tranquility in the world can’t erase the feeling of Evan’s eyes still burning into my back.
I expect him to leave. Instead, there’s a shuffling sound and then a heavy, deliberate step as he follows me across the threshold. Like it's already decided. I should tell him to leave. I turn around instead.
“What are you doing?” I say.
“You didn’t say no,” he says, in a voice as calm as a hand on the back of my neck. He turns and shuts the door with a soft click, then locks it. The sound lands in the room like a dare.
My breath catches. “That’s… bold.”
Evan’s mouth tilts. “You like bold.”
I do not like bold.
I like safe. I like predictable. I like men who don’t make my body feel like it’s betraying my brain. But he’s standing there in my living room — textbook on the table, flashcards scattered, my stupid candle unlit — watching me like he sees straight through the armor and isn’t intimidated.
