I watch her eat, and the guilt sits heavy on my tongue like blood. Because every second she stays, every bite she takes, and every delighted exhale she releases, she takes a step closer to what I came here to do.
Chapter Five
Molly
The steak is a trap, and I’m eating it anyway.
The smell alone — the steak, garlic, rosemary, the buttery richness — lands with a physical force. It’s like a hand at the back of my neck. The meat is perfectly seared, glistening on the plate, with a side of charred broccoli, and for a moment I seriously consider whether this is a prank, a hidden camera setup, because nobody makes a meal like this unless they want something in return. The question is what.
“This means nothing,” I say, gesturing at the table, the dinner, the absurdly polite way he keeps his gaze on my face and not my bare legs.
He doesn’t bother denying it. Just lifts his glass, shrugs. “Sure.”
The way he says it makes my face warm. I hate that my body reacts to him like this — like he’s a warm hand at my back when I’m trying to stay sharp.
He pulls out a chair. Not showy. Just… matter-of-fact.
“Just eat, Molls.”
I cross my arms. “I’m not—”
Evan pours wine into a glass and sets it in front of me, then pours his own. He slides into the chair across from mine and picks up his fork like this is the most normal thing in the world.
I stare at my plate.
“This is weird,” I say.
He cuts into his steak. “Eating?”
“No,” I snap. “This. The… domestic crap.”
He finally meets my gaze, and for a second something raw and almost shy flickers in his eyes — gone as quickly as it appears. “You allergic?”
I point my fork at him. “You’re a dick.”
He laughs, and the sound is deep and rough and entirely too satisfying. “Alright. Call it survival then.”
“Survival is whiskey and rage,” I say. “Not steak and broccoli.”
He shrugs. “Then maybe you’ve been doing it wrong.”
I stab a piece of steak and shove it in my mouth, determined to hate it. Instead, my eyes almost roll back in my head. It’s perfect — almost criminally so. I take another bite before I can stop myself, and then a third, and now the wine is going down too easily, and the vulnerability returns, this time in a kind of shimmery heat that makes my face burn.
Evan watches me like I’m a show. “Yeah?”
I glare. “Don’t get cocky.”
“Too late.”
I roll my eyes, but it feels… less sharp than usual. The silence builds again, denser this time. It presses against my skin, making me want to pace the room or throw something just to break the tension. I take a longer sip of wine and hold it in my mouth, letting the alcohol numb the edges.
He lifts his glass. “To hot water.”
I clink mine against his, refusing to let him own the moment. “To building managers who should rot in hell.”
He grins, and I want to hate it, but I don’t. I don’t hate any of it. “Cheers to that.”
The wine hits my bloodstream like a slow exhale. The quiet in his apartment settles around us — soft light, clean counters, no club noise, no chaos, no men hollering for another round.
