“Behind the gym after that pep rally,” he says. “You looked like you wanted to punch me and kiss me at the same time.”
“That’s my default.”
A ghost of a smile crosses his mouth and is gone as fast as it comes. “You trusted me then.”
“That was eighteen-year-old me,” I say. “She was an idiot.”
“She was cautious,” he says quietly. “And she still chose to trust.”
The smokers by the door laugh at something. Maybe me, for being dumb enough to stand in the parking lot listening to a guy who wants me to just ‘trust him’ and follow him to an unknown location at one in the fucking morning. The diner’s bell jingles as someone leaves. Normal sounds. Normal night.
My pulse doesn’t care. It’s thudding like I’m standing on a ledge.
“I’m not asking you to get in my car,” he says. “I’m not asking you to go somewhere isolated with no way out. You’re in your truck. You’re behind me. You can turn around any second you want.”
I don’t answer.
He takes one step back, giving me space.
“I want to show you something,” he says. “Somewhere public. Somewhere open. I just… don’t want a bunch of people listening in.”
“Why?”
His eyes flick away, then return. “Because it’s about you.”
My stomach flips, mean and sharp. “About me, how?”
He's quiet for a beat, as if he's deciding how honest to be. Evan’s voice is rougher now. “Because I can tell you’re one bad day away from snapping in half and pretending you didn’t. Because I can tell you’re trying to carry everything alone, like that’s the only way you’re allowed to exist.”
My nails dig into my palm. “I didn’t ask for a therapy session.”
“I know,” he says. “You don’t ask for a lot of things, even if you need them.”
The air between us tightens. The old memory of a stolen moment — his mouth on mine in high school, my back to brick, his hands careful like he was afraid to scare me off — flares hot and unwelcome.
I take a half-step back. “Evan, stop fucking around. What are you doing?”
“Asking you to trust me.”
I let out a laugh that has no humor in it. “You’re persistent.”
“Yeah.”
I stare at him, drinking it all in. Drinking in the steady set of his shoulders, the way he isn’t moving toward me, isn’t trying to touch me, isn’t trying to charm me into it.
He waits.
He’s asked his question, and now he’s just… waiting respectfully, like a fucking asshole.
My chest rises and falls. The night air tastes like wet asphalt and coffee, and I want to get back in my truck and drive away from this man who respects me and treats me like an equal and makes me feel so utterly disarmed that I’m terrified.
Finally, I say, “Five minutes.”
“That’s all I need.”
I point at him. “If this is some weird kidnapping thing, I will rip your eyes out and shove them down your throat.”
His mouth twitches again. “Noted.”
