Chapter Four
Evan
Molly disappears down the hallway, the hem of her towel skimming the bottom of her thighs, her hair a dark waterfall down her back, her presence making the whole place feel smaller, more intimate, like the world shrank to just this shitty apartment.
After a quick glance over her bare shoulder, she slips into my bathroom and the latch clicks shut.
A normal man would turn away. Go sit on the ancient, collapsing couch that came with the lease.
Put on the TV — a game or a rerun, something, anything to drown out the pounding of his heart.
A normal man would crack a beer, pretend he isn’t fighting the urge to press his face to the thin barrier between them and breathe in her soap and listen for those soft moans that are sure to come when she relaxes beneath the steaming hot water.
A normal man would let the girl get clean and leave.
But I stare at the closed bathroom door like it’s a line drawn in the sand, like if I look long enough, I’ll figure out some way to step over it without turning into the monster I’ve been afraid I’ll become.
The water comes on. The old pipes in the wall shudder and groan.
The hiss of the shower fills the apartment, a low, steady exhale, the sound intimate enough to make my throat go dry.
Steam seeps under the door, slow and insistent, like a secret just begging for me to discover it.
I swallow hard and turn away.
Just let her shower. Be decent. That’s it.
Then my pocket vibrates, cutting through the haze of longing and guilt and something else I don’t have a name for yet.
My phone.
I don’t have to look to know who’s on the other end.
I feel the clamp of fear around my ribs, the pressure so sharp it almost knocks the air out of me.
A cold reminder of why I’m in Ironwood Falls at all.
Why I picked this exact building, this exact unit, with this exact sightline to the parking lot.
Why I chose to be close to the Devils’ bartender without ever letting her see the blade hidden behind my smile.
My sister’s face flashes in my mind — eyes wide, mouth trembling, trying to be brave for me even when she’s terrified; work harder; get closer; or June dies.
I clench my hand around my phone so tightly that the pressure leaves little squares in my palm. I flick the screen and don’t even need to read it: another photo, time-stamped a minute ago, of June’s hand holding today’s newspaper.
I’m not here to be decent.
I’m here to survive.
And I hate myself for what that means.
I pace into the kitchen, restless energy buzzing under my skin, and fling open the fridge like it’s going to offer me an answer.
Two thick steaks stare back at me, vacuum-sealed on the top shelf.
I bought them because they were cheap and because steak feels like something real and honest. Like something solid you can hold onto when everything else is breaking.
It’s also fucking delicious. Broccoli, still bright, shivers in the crisper like it already knows what’s coming.
Fine.
If I’m going to do this — if I’m going to give her a reason to stay, without pushing, without cornering her into anything — then I’ll do it with food.
Something simple. Something that says I’m capable, not creepy.
Something that lets me feel like I have control over at least one thing in my life, even if it’s just dinner.
I drag out the steaks, rip open the plastic with a serrated knife, and pat them dry.
I work slow, deliberate, the way a man does when he’s pretending to have all the time in the world instead of the ticking clock of his sister’s life counting down somewhere far away.
I line up the seasonings: kosher salt, cracked pepper, the sprinkle of steak rub I assemble from a dozen half-used jars.
No delicate bullshit. I want that crust. That snap.
I want something that doesn't lie about what it is, even if it’s just a meal.
Cast iron pan. Burner on high.
The pan heats, slow at first, then angry. I can feel the heat of it when I hover my hand above, the air shimmering.
The shower runs. The smell of steam and soap is obliterated by the first hiss of meat on iron — a sizzle that’s almost violent, like a shout in a quiet room.
Fat renders, smoke rises, the scent punches me in the gut with something both primal and weirdly nostalgic.
For a second, I see my mom — long gone, hair pulled back, sweating in the kitchen of whatever trailer we lived in that month, making the best of another night the electricity was on.
She’s gone. She's gone. She never saw June and me grow up, never saw me become someone halfway decent, only to throw it all away because June is all I've got left, and now I am in a shitty apartment in a town full of ghosts, making steak for a woman I'm supposed to be using, and I know my mother would be ashamed of me.
My chest tightens, and I grip the pan handle, steadying myself.
Molly’s in my apartment, naked, vulnerable, trusting me with her back turned; it’s a kind of intimacy that makes me want to be the man I’m pretending to be.
I yank open a drawer and grab a sheet pan, then toss broccoli florets onto it with a splash of oil and a rough handful of chopped herbs—rosemary, thyme, whatever the hell I’ve got.
A few smashed garlic cloves. Salt. Then, because I’m not an idiot and because the smell of butter can soften even the hardest woman alive, I cut a thick slice and drop it on top.
The oven blasts heat when I shove the tray inside.
I flip the steaks with tongs, watching the crust crisp up, dark and jagged, something that would make my mom’s eyes widen in appreciation if she were here to see it.
I spoon butter into the pan and throw in a couple of smashed garlic cloves.
The butter foams, browns, mixes with the pepper and the meat juices.
I spoon the hot fat over the steaks, basting them with a rhythm — sizzle, flip, baste — that keeps my hands busy and the rest of my brain from screaming.
I don’t need a therapist to know why I love this part: the way you can take a piece of something raw and transform it with nothing but heat and time and a little bit of patience.
I should stop.
I should let her shower and leave.
But I pull two wine glasses out instead.
I pour a small amount into one glass and set the other beside it. Empty. Waiting. An offering, not a demand, because I know how she reacts to demands, and I want her close. The thought lands heavily in my chest, and it disgusts me because it’s not just the job talking.
It’s me.
The oven timer dings. I pull the broccoli out and the heat rushes at my face; the florets blistered and browned at the edges, butter melted and bubbling with garlic and herbs.
Perfect.
I plate the steaks, let them rest, and take a step back from the counter like I’m bracing for impact.
The shower cuts off.
Silence.
My heart crashes against my ribs, a sound as loud as the hush in the apartment. I hear the wet slap of her bare feet on the vinyl, the pause before she leaves the bathroom. I don’t fucking breathe. Not even as she opens the door and steps out.
Molly appears at the edge of the kitchen in a towel, hair damp and wild around her face. Her cheeks are flushed from the heat. Her eyes are sharper now — cleaner, less hunted, but still guarded.
She stops dead when she sees the plates.
“What are you doing?” she says, as if she’s caught me committing a crime.
I lean back against the counter and keep my voice casual, as if I didn’t just turn my apartment into a trap made of steak and butter and red wine.
I keep my tone easy, like I’m the man who plates steak for half-naked women all the time, like this isn’t the first time I’ve ever had anyone here at all. “Just making dinner. You looked like you could use it.”
She doesn’t move. She doesn’t even blink.
Her gaze flicks to the steak, the broccoli, the wine, then back to my face, searching for an angle, the catch.
She’s so fucking sharp, it hurts to look at her.
I realize for the first time that I want her to trust me.
Not because of the job. Not because I need the in.
Because I want her to believe that I can be good — even if it’s just in this one, stupid, insignificant corner of the world.
“I didn’t ask for dinner.”
“I know.” I lift my hands slightly. “No strings. You can take it or leave it. You can just walk out. I won’t stop you.”
She weighs my words. The towel is knotted hard under her arm, one fist clenched tight on the end, the other hand flexing at her side like she’s expecting to have to throw the first punch.
There’s a moment, just a sliver, where I expect her to break — curse me out and leave me standing here with two plates of food and the kind of emptiness I won’t be able to fill.
But her stomach betrays her with a small, quiet sound that makes her eyes flare with embarrassment.
I almost smile.
Almost.
I keep it locked down.
She starts to say something — a protest, maybe, or a warning. “I’m not…” But she chews it back, jaw clenching so tight a line appears along her cheek. She is not the woman who lets herself need anyone or anything.
I pour the second glass of wine and set it beside her plate, the stem angled toward her like an invitation.
“Sit,” I say gently. “Just for five minutes. Eat. Then you can go back to being tough.”
She narrows her eyes. “I am tough.”
I nod like that’s gospel. “I noticed.”
A beat passes, and then her shoulders drop, just a fraction. Like exhaustion and hunger outweigh pride. She walks to the table and sits. I slide the plate in front of her, set the roasted broccoli beside it, and step back like I’m giving a feral cat room to decide whether it’s going to bite.
Her eyes track the food again. The crust on the steak. The buttered garlic. The herbs. The way the broccoli is glossy, browned, fragrant.
Her throat bobs.
“You didn’t have to,” she says.
“I wanted to,” I say. “I like to eat, too, you know.”
It’s the most honest thing I’ve said all night.
She chews, slow and methodical, as if she’s rationing out the taste.
Another bite. Another. Then she tries the broccoli, and the way her mouth curves around the fork makes me want things I have absolutely no right to want, but I lock it down.
I’m not here to want. Still, heat slides low in my gut.
It’s not lust exactly, but something worse.
Something that wants to keep her here. To feed her again tomorrow.
To make her laugh. To see her soften. To see what she looks like when she’s safe.
My phone buzzes again in my pocket, an angry reminder.
I don’t reach for it.
Not yet.
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.