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.
Just him.
Just me.
Evan sets his fork down and studies my face. “You always this tense?”
I keep my eyes on my plate. “I’m fine.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I look up, look into his eyes. “And I didn’t ask to be interrogated.”
He holds my gaze, unblinking. “Then don’t answer.”
“You don’t know me.”
“I know you came to my door pissed off and exhausted,” he says. “I know you asked for help like it was a personal insult. And I know you’re trying very hard to pretend you don’t want to be here.”
My throat goes dry. “I don’t.”
His gaze drops to my mouth, then back up, steady. “Liar.”
The word lands like a slap, but it’s not wrong.
My face burns, and I want to crawl out of my skin.
Suddenly the apartment feels too small, too bright, every detail of the moment hyper-vivid.
The table between us is a joke; he could reach across it and undo me with a flick of his wrist. I push my chair back a few inches, needing the space, the illusion of distance.
“This is a bad idea,” I say, barely above a whisper.
He raises his brows, feigning innocence. “Eating dinner?”
“No.” I shake my head, hair clinging to my damp neck. “This. The wine. The way you’re looking at me.”
He searches my face, quiet, intense. “How am I looking at you?”
“Like you think I’m —” The word withers in my mouth. I can’t say it. If I say it, it’s real.
He leans in, elbows on the table, hands folded, patient. His voice is low and warm. “Like I think you’re what?”
My pulse hammers, echoing in my ears. I want to run or fight or both.
I grip the edge of the table, fingertips whitening, but I let go when I notice the tremor.
I unclench my hands and smooth the towel over my thighs, as though that could hide how exposed I feel.
I stare at his hands instead, the nicks and scars, the calluses that tell a hundred stories I’d never ask him to repeat.
He waits. I hate him for that — for knowing I’ll fill the silence, that it’ll eat me alive first.
Evan leans forward a little. Not crowding. Not forcing. Just… there.
“Tell me to stop,” he says quietly. “Tell me you don’t want me to take care of you.”
I clench my jaw and hold back the answer because I don’t want to know how it’ll sound out loud. Instead, I stand. My knees almost buckle, half from the wine, half from the crash of adrenaline.
My feet move before I make a decision about it. That's the thing about want — it doesn't wait for permission. I circle the table, slow, arms crossed, towel clutched at my chest. I’m not even sure why I’m moving, except that I can’t sit still, can’t let him see me unravel.
He turns with me, always facing, always ready. For a second, we’re back in high school, circling each other in the gym after hours, trading cheap shots because it was safer than honesty. The familiarity of it guts me.
I stop behind his chair. He’s still sitting, waiting, not reaching for me. The silence is thick enough to chew.
I touch his shoulder. Just a brush of my palm, heat through cotton. His head tilts, and his eyes are closed, like he knew this was coming.
Evan’s voice is a rasp. “Molly…”
“Shut up,” I murmur. I’m not sure if I say it for him, or for myself.
Then I bend down and kiss him.
It’s not a soft kiss. It’s not sweet or tentative. It’s sharp, angry. A spark struck from the flint of every poor decision I’ve ever made. His hand is on my waist instantly, fingers digging in like he’s afraid I’ll vanish. The heat between us is volcanic, reckless, and my mind goes blank.
For seconds, there’s nothing but heat. The taste of him, the sting of wine and salt, the sound of breath and heartbeat and the low, involuntary growl in his throat as my teeth catch his bottom lip. My whole body floods with it, a numb, dizzy rush that blots out everything else.
Then my brain slams back online, a cold bucket of water.
I break away so fast my lips sting.
Evan’s breathing is rough. His eyes are dark. He looks like he wants to drag me onto his lap and not let go until morning.
“That wasn’t…” I start, but I can’t finish.
“Don’t,” he says, rough.
“This was a mistake.”
Evan stands, slow. “Didn’t feel like one.”
My chest tightens. “That’s the problem.”
I wrench the door open, step into the hall, and turn back just long enough to throw one last line like a blade.
“Goodnight, Wilder.”