Chapter Six
Evan
The night passes in pieces — her mouth, my sister's face, her mouth again, and the specific kind of self-loathing that doesn't let you sleep; I’m drawing her in, making her want to come to me, exactly as I’m supposed to.
She’s pretending to fight it, sure, but no one kisses like that unless they really want it.
The job is to get close. I got close. That's all this is. I've told myself that four times this morning, and it keeps not being true
The entire day I’m on alert, listening. For her.
It’s the rhythm that tips me off — four rapid-fire smacks of boots on vinyl, then a pause, then another two, like she’s recalibrating how hard she wants to hit the ground.
I’m already up from my beat-up couch and moving.
I’ve got my hand on the doorknob, the door barely cracked, breath held like she’s a deer and I’m a twig away from spooking her.
She rounds the landing down to the entrance with a velocity that, if it weren’t for the backpack weighing her down, would probably leave scorch marks on the building’s worn carpet.
The backpack’s open at the top, folders and books bristling out, a vivid blue pen clamped in her mouth like a cigarette.
I let my eyes do the inventory: heavy boots, black leggings, a battered Army jacket.
Her hair’s up, the curls fighting for freedom, red as a warning flare.
Three paces from my door, she senses me. She doesn’t stop, because that would show I have an effect, but her nostrils flare and her jaw goes tight enough she could crack a molar. She angles her gaze away, but she clocks me in the periphery and her stride, for one half-step, falters.
I step into the hallway, just enough to let her know this is a standoff.
“Molly,” I say, voice soft enough that it can be mistaken for casual if anyone’s listening.
She gives me her shoulder, tightens the grip on her backpack. “Wilder.”
The way she says my name is sharp enough to shave with.
I say nothing; let her have the opening move.
She tries to walk past, but the hallway’s built for one and a half humans wide, and my presence is an obstacle. I don’t block her, not exactly. I just lean, arms folded, like the hallway’s a bar and I’m waiting for happy hour. My aim: make her pause, make her see me.
She cracks first — her breath, a sigh, but angry. “Didn’t think you’d be home.”
“I live here,” I say.
“Mm.” She finally pivots, slow, like she’s choosing how much of herself to show. “Congratulations.”
I lean against the doorframe, keeping my stance loose. I’m not going to crowd her. If I move wrong, she’ll bolt. I can already see it in the way her fingers clamp on the backpack strap — white knuckles, defensive grip.
“You’re heading out,” I say.
“Observant,” she replies.
“I can be.”
She lifts a brow. “So what does it matter to you?”
I should smile. I do anyway, because if I don’t, I’m going to drag my hand down my face and swear until the drywall cracks.
“You gonna pretend last night didn’t happen?” I ask.
Her eyes flash. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you don’t.”
She makes a soft, irritated sound and shifts her weight. “It was a mistake.”
“Didn’t feel like one.”
Her gaze flicks to my mouth like it betrayed her all over again. Then she looks away, too quickly. “I don’t have time for this.”
“For what? Talking in a hallway?”
“For… you.” She says it like the word tastes bad.
I push off the frame just enough to stand straight, but I don’t step closer. “You’re replaying it too.”
Her laugh is short and humorless. “Don’t flatter yourself.”
“Molly.”
She lifts her chin, eyes sharp. “Evan.”
My name in her voice hits different than it should.
I hold up my hands, palms out, like I’m surrendering. “Okay. Fine. No flirting. No pressure.”
She exhales, slow. “I have somewhere to be.”
“Where?”
She hesitates like I’ve just asked for her social security number. Her eyes narrow, cheeks hollowing. “Studying,” she mutters, barely audible above the hum of the hallway’s fluorescent lights. The word comes out like an insult, something she’d scrape off her shoe before admitting to.
“Studying,” I echo, not even bothering to hide my skepticism. Maybe I’m hoping it will get a rise out of her. It does, but she’s not so easy, not now. Not since last night.
She says, “Don’t,” like she’s warning me off a live wire.
“Homework?” I ask, deadpan, and she actually bares her teeth. It’s not a grin.
“If you say that word again, I’ll break your nose.” She says it like she means it.
I shouldn’t enjoy that. But I do.
I nod like she just gave me a weather report. “Accounting test?”
That actually stops her. Not that she freezes — she’d never do anything so obvious — but the hitch in her step is so perfectly brief that if I didn’t already know her, I’d have missed it.
Her gaze flickers, not at me but past me, down the dim, apartment corridor, like she’s calculating angles of escape, like I’m the last question on an exam and she’s already used all her scratch paper.
“How do you know that?”
“The gym, remember? You said it and then ran like someone pulled the fire alarm.” I shrug, keeping my voice bland. “Hard to forget.”
She bristles. “Maybe you should.”
But I don’t, and she knows it. There’s nothing she could do that would make me not notice.
For a second, her breath comes shallow, sharp — angry or anxious, I can’t tell. Maybe both. I study her face, careful. “You’re not avoiding me because you don’t want me around.”
Her lips purse a hard line. “Wrong.”
“No.” I say it low, like it’s just between us. I know what I'm doing, using the true thing as a lever. I say it anyway. “You’re avoiding me because if you let someone in, it means you needed them.”
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. She wants to argue, but there aren’t words ready and loaded for this. It’s not her normal war zone. She’s got armor for a thousand types of attack, but not this one.
I let the silence hang, let her seethe. Then, softer, “I’m not asking you to need me.”
“Good,” she bites out, maybe too quickly, maybe not enough.
“I’m asking you to let me help.” I try to smile with my voice, not my face. It’s enough for most people.
Her laugh is sharp. “Why?”
I pick my words carefully. “Because you looked like hell yesterday.”
“I always look like hell,” she says.
“Not true.”
“Evan.”
I take a breath. “Because you asked me for something and you hated it. And you did it anyway.”
Her eyes flicker.
“And because,” I add, keeping it light, “I made you a decent steak. I feel morally obligated to make sure you don’t fail your test out of spite.”
At that, she almost smiles. It’s a twitch, more a muscle spasm than an expression, but I’ll take it.
Then she’s back, mask up, and the moment’s gone. “I don’t have time for distractions,” she says.
“I’m not offering a distraction.” I nod toward her backpack. “I’m offering an hour. Coffee. Flashcards. Not even a conversation, if that’s your preference.”
Her stare is suspicious. “Why would you do flashcards with me?”
I shrug. “Because I can read. Because you’re going to study until you pass out in a booth somewhere, and I’d rather you not do that alone. Because you do something kind of cute with your eyebrows when you’re working on a really hard math problem.”
She glares at me, and for the first time in this entire exchange, the anger seems less about me and more about the fact that I’m right.
“One hour,” I say, “and that’s it. You don’t even have to talk to me. I set a timer, we get through your stuff, and then I leave. No weirdness. I promise.”
She crosses her arms, shifting her weight, as if she’s trying to take up less space. “You’re already making this weird.”
“Fair,” I say. “But you know I can help.”
She shifts her weight again, gaze darting to her own door like it’s calling her. “I… I’m going to a cafe.”
“I can meet you there.”
She narrows her eyes, looking for the hook. There is a hook. There’s always a hook.
But I keep my face open. Normal. Like I’m just a guy with nothing better to do than help the woman next door study amortization schedules.
Molly lets out a long breath through her nose. “One hour,” she says, like she’s signing a contract she already regrets. “And if you make it weird, I’m leaving.”
“I won’t make it weird.”
She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe in miracles.
“What time?” I ask.
“Now,” she says, and starts moving again, brisk and guarded. “If you’re coming.”
I step out of my doorway and fall into stride beside her, careful to keep a respectful distance.
She doesn’t look at me. “This means nothing.”
“I know,” I say. “Absolutely nothing.”
But my chest feels tight anyway.
Because the second she says yes, I feel the trap tighten around my ribs.
Access to Molly is exactly what Midnight wants.
And as we walk down the stairs together — her boots hard on the concrete, my pulse loud in my ears — I already know the cost of this hour will not be one hour at all.