My first instinct is to flinch. My second is to run. What I actually do is roll my eyes and turn on my heel, forcing him to follow or risk standing in the hallway like an idiot.
He follows.
Inside, I gesture at the little table by the window like I’m directing a SWAT team to a hostage. “Sit. Eat. Don’t compliment me.”
He sets the plate down, glancing around. “I haven’t had someone cook me dinner in… Not since my parents died.” His voice trails off, and I want to tell him to shut up and not make it sentimental, but the pain and surprise in his eyes cuts me off. Something twinges in my chest as I realize that, just like me, there’s been so much of his life where no one’s taken care of him. The thought makes me ache, want to reach out to him and hold him in a way that would be so un-me. After a moment, he shakes his head and smiles at me. “This is nice.”
The compliment frees my tongue from its sentimental paralysis.
“Don’t even start,” I say. “You’re here to eat, not give me commentary.”
He sits anyway, and I pour the wine, sliding his glass across the table with too much force. It sloshes but doesn’t spill. I take my seat and attack the bread, tearing off a chunk.
Evan watches, amused. He takes a bite of chicken and makes a low, appreciative noise, but he says nothing. For a long moment, the only sounds are forks clinking and the rain that has started to patter against the window.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says.
“I did,” I reply, sharper than I mean to. “You gave me a hot shower. You fixed my hot water heater. You make me feel…” I cut myself off before I saymake me feel like someone actually gives a damn about me.
He watches me like he can hear the words I can’t say.
I drop into the chair across from him and pick up my fork, like that will hold me together. I stab at my food. Broccoli. Chicken. The bread that is a fucking revelation of fat and cheese and garlic and herbs and butter and more fat. I shovel it in, because busy hands and chewing mouths can’t betray you.
He takes another bite of chicken, chews methodically, then sets his fork down and cocks his head. “This is damn good. You sure you’re not secretly running a restaurant out of here?”
“Don’t push it,” I shoot back, but I can feel the edge of my mouth twitch. I tear off another hunk of bread, pretending it’s his compliment I’m ripping apart.
He takes another bite, then points his fork at me. “So what’s this? Payment? Or… something else?”
“It’s food,” I say. “Eat it.”
He leans back, giving me space, his eyes steady on mine. Not predatory. Not hungry in that way. Just… there. And it feels more dangerous than anything, because it’s not a game. Because I can sense the absence of a move, or a plan, or anything except the truth.
And that’s exactly why it feels dangerous.
Because my body — my heart — feels something true, too, and speaking it out loud scares the hell out of me, even though it’s something I did once before. Those words, those three words, are so insurmountably big.
“You’re staring,” I say, just to break the tension.
He smiles, and it’s a real smile — slow, a little self-conscious, not the crocodile-grin I remember from high school. “You look different.”
I snort. “Yeah, I’m in my good pair of leggings. Don’t get poetic.”
He shakes his head, still watching me. “Not that. You’re… letting me in.”
He says it so simply that for a second it doesn’t even register as an accusation, or a compliment, or anything but a pure observation. But the words land like a hammer.
I stiffen so fast my whole body gets rigid. The urge to bolt nearly sends my chair backward. My instincts howl — don’t, don’t, don’t; don’t let anyone get comfortable; don’t let anyone get close enough to see the cracks.
Because the last time I wanted someone — wanted him so badly I ignored every warning — he disappeared and I ended up choking on the aftermath as if it was my fault. I thought I could love someone, and the man I loved left me with nothing but scars on my young heart and a cruel lesson I’ll never forget. A lesson that I had reinforced every time I saw someone in the club lose a partner to the violence of this lifestyle. Love is a weakness.
And now, that same person who taught me that lesson is back in my apartment, teaching me something new.
I swallow hard.
Evan’s gaze holds mine like he’s not afraid of my jagged edges.
“I’m not letting you in,” I say.
