Chapter Twenty-One
Molly
The smell of garlic and butter has no business in my apartment.
Yet, here it is. Present, even though it doesn’t belong.
Neither, frankly, does the fact that I’m wearing clean black leggings and one of my “nice” tank tops — the one with the little mesh panel up top that shows just enough collarbone to count as effort.
The one I’ve specifically never worn to the Fir, because it migrates from “approachable” to “interested” and that, everyone knows, is a dangerous slope.
It’s a weekday, for fuck’s sake. A day for leftovers, for cheap whiskey, for being scalded by a shower that, thankfully, now works on demand.
Not for slaving over a skillet and pretending to be a person who might ever invite trouble into her home on purpose.
I stir the skillet and pretend I’m not doing something reckless. Stupid. Caring.
No, I’m not that. Not caring. I’m just a normal person, making normal chicken in her normal kitchen for a normal neighbor.
No one would suspect a thing, unless they noticed the trembling in my hands or the fact that I’ve cleaned every visible surface in the past ten minutes.
Or maybe that the chicken is actually close to getting a little overdone, because my attention keeps ping-ponging from the pan to my phone to the door — like I’m expecting someone to barge in and catch me doing something illegal.
I turn down the heat.
The oven timer dings. I pull out the bread — one of those take-and-bake loaves I bought for myself as a treat.
It’s loaded with rosemary, slathered in pre-made garlic butter, and now it’s bubbling, glistening, the crust golden enough to make my mouth water.
I resist the urge to tear off a piece and instead cut two slices, plating them with a little more care than absolutely necessary.
Next, I spoon the chicken onto two plates, arranging the roasted broccolini and potatoes along the side like I’m on some Food Network show for people who were raised by wolves and then shamed into domesticity.
I tell myself this is repayment. For the shower.
For the water heater. For the study help.
For the way he makes me feel like… No, not that.
I tell myself I’m not doing this for the look on his face when he eats good food, or the way his shoulders unclench after the first sip of wine.
This is not caring. This is not domestic.
This is not, under any circumstances, a date.
Just food. Just a normal night.
Normal.
And yet, here I am. With two plates, two forks, and two glasses set next to a bottle of wine I drove clear across town to buy, because if I am going to lose a battle with myself, I am going to lose it spectacularly.
I hate how good it feels to lose.
The urge to pace is overwhelming. I wipe my hands on a dish towel, then wipe the counters again, then rinse out the sink even though it’s already empty.
I check the hallway through the peephole and see nothing but the yellowed light of our apartment corridor, the same scuffed linoleum, the same battered table by the elevator that’s always stacked with old pizza flyers.
I go back to the kitchen and stare at the plates.
I could hide them, I think. I could put one away.
Eat alone like I always do, and no one would ever know I almost did something soft.
But then, what’s the point?
I grab one plate and march across the hall. I knock before I can second-guess myself. Three sharp raps that sound way too assertive for how I actually feel.
There’s a pause, and then the door opens. Evan Wilder stands on the other side, hair still damp from a shower, in a black T-shirt and jeans that look both new and completely at home on him. He blinks at the plate in my hand, then at my face.
“Hey,” he says, voice warm, and I hate how much it hits me right in the solar plexus. “Are you okay?”
I thrust the plate forward. “I made you food. So shut up and come on over.”
His mouth twitches. “You cooked?”
“Dinner,” I say, and it comes out more like an accusation than an invitation. “Yes. Don’t make it weird.”
“You’re doing a pretty good job of that yourself.” He takes the plate carefully, like he thinks it might explode. “Since when do you cook?”
“I know how to use fire,” I say, and the sarcasm comes out a little too fast. “It’s not a miracle.”
He looks at me, and for a moment the whole hallway feels too narrow, too close. His gaze moves over my face, and then he reaches out and brushes a tiny smear of flour from my cheek. I didn’t even know it was there, and the touch is so gentle, so deliberate, it short-circuits my ability to breathe.
He doesn’t say anything cute, or make a joke out of it. He just lets his hand drop, and when our eyes meet, something inside me goes soft. Because he’s looking at me like I’m not a bartender who keeps a blade next to her toaster. Like I’m… something worth being careful with.
My first instinct is to flinch. My second is to run. What I actually do is roll my eyes and turn on my heel, forcing him to follow or risk standing in the hallway like an idiot.
He follows.
Inside, I gesture at the little table by the window like I’m directing a SWAT team to a hostage. “Sit. Eat. Don’t compliment me.”
He sets the plate down, glancing around.
“I haven’t had someone cook me dinner in…
Not since my parents died.” His voice trails off, and I want to tell him to shut up and not make it sentimental, but the pain and surprise in his eyes cuts me off.
Something twinges in my chest as I realize that, just like me, there’s been so much of his life where no one’s taken care of him.
The thought makes me ache, want to reach out to him and hold him in a way that would be so un-me.
After a moment, he shakes his head and smiles at me. “This is nice.”
The compliment frees my tongue from its sentimental paralysis.
“Don’t even start,” I say. “You’re here to eat, not give me commentary.”
He sits anyway, and I pour the wine, sliding his glass across the table with too much force. It sloshes but doesn’t spill. I take my seat and attack the bread, tearing off a chunk.
Evan watches, amused. He takes a bite of chicken and makes a low, appreciative noise, but he says nothing. For a long moment, the only sounds are forks clinking and the rain that has started to patter against the window.
“You didn’t have to do this,” he says.
“I did,” I reply, sharper than I mean to. “You gave me a hot shower. You fixed my hot water heater. You make me feel…” I cut myself off before I say make me feel like someone actually gives a damn about me.
He watches me like he can hear the words I can’t say.
I drop into the chair across from him and pick up my fork, like that will hold me together.
I stab at my food. Broccoli. Chicken. The bread that is a fucking revelation of fat and cheese and garlic and herbs and butter and more fat.
I shovel it in, because busy hands and chewing mouths can’t betray you.
He takes another bite of chicken, chews methodically, then sets his fork down and cocks his head. “This is damn good. You sure you’re not secretly running a restaurant out of here?”
“Don’t push it,” I shoot back, but I can feel the edge of my mouth twitch. I tear off another hunk of bread, pretending it’s his compliment I’m ripping apart.
He takes another bite, then points his fork at me. “So what’s this? Payment? Or… something else?”
“It’s food,” I say. “Eat it.”
He leans back, giving me space, his eyes steady on mine. Not predatory. Not hungry in that way. Just… there. And it feels more dangerous than anything, because it’s not a game. Because I can sense the absence of a move, or a plan, or anything except the truth.
And that’s exactly why it feels dangerous.
Because my body — my heart — feels something true, too, and speaking it out loud scares the hell out of me, even though it’s something I did once before. Those words, those three words, are so insurmountably big.
“You’re staring,” I say, just to break the tension.
He smiles, and it’s a real smile — slow, a little self-conscious, not the crocodile-grin I remember from high school. “You look different.”
I snort. “Yeah, I’m in my good pair of leggings. Don’t get poetic.”
He shakes his head, still watching me. “Not that. You’re… letting me in.”
He says it so simply that for a second it doesn’t even register as an accusation, or a compliment, or anything but a pure observation. But the words land like a hammer.
I stiffen so fast my whole body gets rigid. The urge to bolt nearly sends my chair backward. My instincts howl — don’t, don’t, don’t; don’t let anyone get comfortable; don’t let anyone get close enough to see the cracks.
Because the last time I wanted someone — wanted him so badly I ignored every warning — he disappeared and I ended up choking on the aftermath as if it was my fault.
I thought I could love someone, and the man I loved left me with nothing but scars on my young heart and a cruel lesson I’ll never forget.
A lesson that I had reinforced every time I saw someone in the club lose a partner to the violence of this lifestyle. Love is a weakness.
And now, that same person who taught me that lesson is back in my apartment, teaching me something new.
I swallow hard.
Evan’s gaze holds mine like he’s not afraid of my jagged edges.
“I’m not letting you in,” I say.
“Yes, you are,” he says, quiet. “And I’m not going to punish you for it.”
The burn in my throat is instantaneous; I want to say something cruel, something to make him sorry for seeing me, but I can’t think of a single line that’s mean enough to erase what he just said.
I push back from the table so fast my chair scrapes. “You don’t get to talk like that.”
He stands, too, but doesn’t block my escape. Just closes the space between us, slow and careful, like approaching a wild animal. His scent hits me before he does — soap, clean skin, and underneath, something darker, sweet and a little sharp.
“I’m not trying to scare you. Just… tell me what you need, Molly.”
My laugh is ugly, mirthless. “What I need? I need…” I trail off, because the truth is stuck behind my teeth.
He waits. His hands loose at his sides.
What I need is to stop feeling like every kindness is a trick. Every gentleness is a setup for a fall. I want to stop thinking of him as a threat, or a score to settle, or an empty seat at my table.
But mostly, I want to stop thinking.
I want to stop thinking, stop fearing, and just feel safe enough to love him all the time.
The words sit on the tip of my tongue, aching to jump through my lips.
His eyes meet mine, encouraging. “Yeah?”
I stare at him, anger and want and fear and love twisting together until I can’t tell them apart; until they are a knot wrapped around my heart, around my throat, choking me.
What I need is to stop feeling.
So I do the only thing that ever worked: I grab his shirt, yank him down, and kiss him hard — like it’s the only way I know how to speak.
His reaction is a shock. For half a second he freezes, and then his hands are on my hips, crushing me to him, kissing me back like he’s starving.
I make a noise I hate, but he eats it, his mouth turning rough, hungry, desperate.
I dig my hands into his hair, and he fists his fingers in my top, nearly pulling it off my shoulder.
We stumble backward, banging into the stove, then the counter.
I hit the edge hard enough to leave a mark.
He lifts me bodily, sets me on the countertop, and pushes between my legs, never breaking the kiss.
My thighs clamp around his hips on instinct, my hands caught up in his hair, his jaw.
The taste of wine and garlic swirls between us.
He breaks away just enough to gasp, “You sure?”
I glare at him, at the question, at the nerve of him to ask for consent when every cell in my body is already screaming yes. “If you stop, I’ll kill you.”
His mouth turns hungry instantly, kissing me back like I lit a fuse.
I make a sound I hate — soft, needy — and he growls against my lips, pulling me closer until my body fits to his like it belongs there.
His fingers dig in, steadying me, claiming me.
And I know it the second it happens — this isn’t just making out; this isn’t just dinner; this isn’t just me repaying his kindness; and this sure as hell isn’t me escaping saying aloud those words I’m so scared to say; no matter what I tell myself, my heart and my body know the truth.