I turn.
My feet move on their own across the hall.
I knock once, firm.
A beat of silence passes.
The door opens.
Evan fills the doorway in a T-shirt and worn jeans. His eyes flick down my face, then settle on my mouth like he can taste the memory.
“Hey,” he says, voice low.
My lips and tongue and lungs forget how to work for a second. I clear my throat like I’m mad about it.
“Mind if I come in?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Evan
The way Molly stands in my doorway — braced, chin up, eyes sharp as a knife — reminds me of a wild animal that’s already decided it would rather bite than run. She scans the threshold as if she’s expecting the floor to vanish or the walls to close in, but when I close the door behind her, she doesn’t flinch. She just tracks the sound as the latch clicks with sharp certainty, then fixes that calm, lethal stare on me alone. Every nerve in my body lights up. In the sudden hush, the only thing I hear is the faint hum of my refrigerator and the measured cadence of her breathing, as if she’s boxing up whatever feelings threaten to slip out the cracks.
She doesn’t bother with the act tonight—no small talk, no awkward shuffle or pretense of “just dropping by.” The tension between us is a live wire. She’s here because she wants something, and from the way her mouth sets and her hands tighten into fists at her sides, it isn’t a drink or a friendly conversation. It’s me. That knowledge is both a narcotic and a curse, because I want her the same way and I know what’s coming will burn us both.
“You sure?” I ask. My voice comes out rougher than I mean it to.
She lifts her chin. “I knocked, didn’t I?”
“That’s not an answer.”
Molly’s mouth twitches like she hates that I’m making her say it. Like she hates that part of her likes it.
“Yes,” she says, clipped. “I’m sure. I want you, and I… love you.”
Those words. Why did she have to say those words?
“I love you, too.”
I should slow it down. I should offer her water, give her space, and let her set the pace. That’s what a smart man does with a woman like this — one who’s learned survival the hard way. But the way she’s standing there, boots planted, shoulders squared, cheeks faintly flushed… it breaks through all my walls.
She’s not here because she’s weak; she’s here because she’s choosing. Choosing me.
And that makes me want to put my hands on her like I’ve been starving.
I take one step closer.
Molly doesn’t retreat. She only tilts her head, eyes on my mouth like it’s a target.
“You were watching me today,” she says.
I grin. “I was. And you were watching me.”
A sharp little exhale leaves her nose, almost a laugh. “That’s different.”
“How?”
“I’m not on a roof with my shirt off, trying to make half the town crash their trucks.” Her eyes narrow. “And don’t act like you didn’t know.”
