Chapter 17 Kaia #3
Evie stares at me for a long time, and she has the audacity to almost look amused, just a flicker at the corner of her mouth, like she can’t believe this is what I’m tripping over after everything.
Like she’s watching me fumble through something simple and human and finding it ridiculous in the way she always did.
I don’t dare rescind it now. If I pull back, I’ll never ask again.
Evie exhales through her nose. Her eyes stay sharp, but her shoulders loosen a fraction. Then, like it costs her, she turns her palm upward between us.
For some reason, it feels like a dare.
My breath catches. I reach out slowly and slide my fingers into hers.
Her hand is warm. Her grip is tight, like she’s afraid I’ll disappear if she doesn’t hold on.
The contact hits me like a punch to the chest. I don’t move closer.
I don’t rush. I just hold her hand and let this new reality settle between us.
I’m holding Evie’s hand.
And it really does feel like we’re sixteen again… until she speaks.
Evie’s eyes squeeze shut for a second. When she opens them, she’s looking at me like she’s standing on a cliff.
“I’m not forgiving you yet,” she says.
“I’m not asking you to,” I whisper.
Evie’s gaze drops to our hands. “Then what are you asking?”
I take a shaky breath. The words feel stick in my throat, but I force them out anyway, because if I don’t say them now, I’ll spend the rest of my life choking on them.
“I’m asking to say it,” I whisper. “Properly. Even if you don’t… even if you never—”
Evie’s eyes meet mine, wary. “Say what?”
“That I’m sorry,” I say, and my voice breaks immediately, humiliating and honest. “Because I am. I’m sorry…
I was a stupid kid. I was a coward. I got scared and I made you pay for it.
” I swallow hard, blinking fast. “I said things I didn’t mean because I didn’t know how to want you without panicking.
And then I left like—like that was better than facing what I did. ”
The pier light blurs. Tears sting hot behind my eyes, and I hate that she can see them.
“I’m sorry,” I repeat, quieter. “I’m so sorry, Evie.”
Evie’s face goes still. Then she leans forward as if she can’t stand the sound of my apology in the air. Not fast. Not dramatic. Like she’s testing whether the world will punish her for wanting. And she kisses me.
Her lips are soft, yet the kiss is pure heat and relief and anger and hunger tangled together, like we’re biting back years of silence. A tear slips down my cheek as our mouths move, as if the grief has to go somewhere.
She makes a small sound against my mouth that goes straight through me. My hand tightens on hers. My other hand lifts—hesitates—then cups her jaw carefully, like she might shatter if I’m too rough. Evie grabs the front of my hoodie and yanks me closer like she’s done being careful.
The pier disappears.
There’s only her.
Her mouth. Her breath. The taste of salt and smoke and something achingly familiar that I tasted once years ago and never again.
We break for air, foreheads almost touching.
Evie’s voice is rough. “This is a bad idea.”
“Maybe,” I whisper.
Evie’s eyes squeeze shut. Then she kisses me again, harder, like she’s trying to erase thought. It’s desperate and real and it makes my whole body hum.
When we finally break, we’re both breathing hard, the night air cold in my lungs, her warmth blazing against me anyway.
“I should go,” she says, voice rough. “It’s late. And my grandma… she gets restless at night sometimes. She’ll wake up and decide it’s 1998 and she needs to go to work. Or she’ll go looking for me.” Her jaw clenches. “I need to make sure she doesn’t wander.”
The word wander lands like a weight. I picture Grandma Calder alone in the dark, confused and stubborn, and my stomach turns.
“Okay,” I say, because I’m not going to argue with that.
Evie shifts as if she expects me to let go. I don’t. The idea of her walking home alone—after everything, after demons and schedules and my own stupid gravity toward her—feels intolerable.
“I’m walking you though,” I say.
Evie’s eyes narrow instantly. “You don’t need to do that, Kaia.”
“Yes,” I say, gentler than I feel. “I do. Not to control you. Not to—” I swallow. “Just… to your gate. Your porch. Whatever you’ll allow. Please.”
Evie looks like she hates that word.
She looks away toward the dark water, toward the fog, toward anything except me.
“Fine,” she says finally, resigned. “Walk me. But if someone recognizes you and freaks out, it’s your own fault.”
My mouth twitches. “Deal.”
We stand and I make sure my long hair is still tucked into my jacket and covered. Then, we leave the pier together, hand in hand.
The town is quiet in that late-night way that makes everything feel too intimate. Fog blurs the streetlights into soft halos. The lantern frames overhead sway.
Evie’s thumb drags once over my knuckles—absent, unconscious—then she seems to realize what she’s doing and stiffens like she caught herself committing a crime.
I don’t comment.
I don’t squeeze back too hard.
I just keep my hand where it is, letting the contact be what it is: a thin bridge over a canyon.
We pass dark storefronts and closed booths. I keep scanning the shadows because my body refuses to trust silence anymore.
After a few minutes, Evie exhales through her nose. “Looking for monsters?”
I swallow. “It’s hard to turn off.”
Evie’s hand tightens on mine for half a second. Then loosens again like she’s reminding herself not to.
Her neighborhood comes into view—small houses, wet lawns, white fences, porch lights glowing faintly through the fog. We reach her house. Evie slows at the gate. Her keys jingle in her fist.
“This is fine,” she says, and I can tell she means you can stop here.
I nod, because I’m trying to learn restraint. “Okay.”
Then she swings the gate open and starts toward the porch. My feet follow without thinking.
Evie glances back sharply, then says an exasperated, “Kaia.”
“Porch,” I say, soft. “Just… to your door? I want to make sure you get in.”
She studies me, then shakes her head and mutters, “Fine."
Though she huffs a laugh right after and climbs the steps. The porch boards creak under our weight. I remember those creaks. I remember them under teenage feet, under laughter, under whispered plans that felt permanent.
Evie unlocks the door slowly, listening. The house is quiet.
She turns to me. “Thank you…”
“Of course.”
I don’t move.
I wait.
Evie exhales, sharp and frustrated with herself. “Can I—” she starts.
My breath catches. “Yes,” I say, too fast.
Evie rolls her eyes like she wants to throw something at me. “I didn’t even ask yet.”
“Sorry,” I whisper.
She stares at me for a beat, then her voice drops. “Can I kiss you again?”
It’s not a demand. It’s not a dare. It’s a genuine question. The fact that she asks breaks something open in my chest.
“Yes,” I say, and it comes out as a plea. “Please.”
Evie steps closer and kisses me on the porch. It’s slower than the pier kiss. Less frantic. Still sharp with anger at the world, still hot with want, but steadier. Intentional. Her hands slide up to my hoodie, fist bunching the fabric.
My hands hover at her waist, then settle—careful, reverent. A silent question.
Evie answers by pulling me closer.
When we break, she rests her forehead against mine for half a heartbeat, eyes squeezed shut, like she hates how good it feels. Then she exhales, and the words come out like surrender.
“Come inside,” she says.
My whole body goes still. “Evie—”
She glares up at me with bright brown eyes, cheeks flushed. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not,” I say, voice rough. “I just—are you sure?”
Evie’s eyes flash. “No,” she admits. “But I’d still like you to…”
My chest aches. I nod once. “Okay.”
We step inside and close the door softly behind us, like we’re trying not to wake the past.
Warmth washes over us, along with a mix of scents: old wood, laundry detergent, something faintly sweet like pancake syrup that never fully leaves a house once it’s lived in. My throat tightens with nostalgia so sharp it almost makes me dizzy.
The living room is dim. There’s a blanket folded on the couch and a little table crowded with pill bottles and sticky notes. A framed photo sits on the mantle—Evie and her grandma, both smiling. Evie looks younger. Happier.
My chest aches.
Evie sets her keys down with careful quiet. “I’m going to check on her,” she whispers.
I nod and stop in the entryway, hands at my sides, trying not to touch anything.
Evie disappears down the hall. I stand there and listen to the house breathe. A floorboard creaks somewhere deeper in. A soft murmur—Evie’s voice, too gentle for the person who snarls at me in public. A pause. Then another murmur, quieter. A door closes softly.
Evie comes back a minute later, expression tight but relieved. “She’s asleep,” she says.
“Good,” I whisper, and I mean it.
Evie looks at me like she doesn’t know what to do with the fact I’m standing in her house. Neither do I.
The silence stretches. I should leave. I should go back to my hotel. Back to schedule. Back to my girls and my weapons and the safety of distance.
Blaire is going to kill me if she finds out I’m here…
But my body is still buzzing from Evie’s mouth. My hand still remembers her grip like it’s branded.
Evie’s gaze drops to my hand, then lifts back up. “You’re still here,” she says, as if surprised.
I nod.
“Come on,” she says softly.
Evie leads me down the hallway. I recognize the framed family photos on the wall. The scuffed spot in the wood where someone dragged a chair too hard. The little hook by the bathroom where Kaia-from-years-ago used to hang her jacket when she came over drenched in pier fog.
Some things are the same in a way that hurts.
Some things are different in a way that hurts worse.