17. Drowning Man
17
Drowning Man
Sophie
Something’s off with Evan.
I notice it straightaway, even as I pull him into my room.
He climbed up to the window even though I told him to tell me when he got here so I could sneak him into the building myself.
It’s raining outside: his bomber jacket is already drenched, his wet hair plastered to his forehead and neck.
It’s grown a little too long, like he’s not had a haircut since before the last time I saw him.
There are shadows beneath his eyes like he’s not slept in days.
“Are you alright?” I try to ask as I push his jacket off his shoulders.
He doesn’t even answer.
He catches me up in his arms and kisses me hungrily.
His lips are wet and cold—his tongue is hot, his breath almost feverish as he roughly deepens the kiss.
I pull away and try to put his wet jacket next to the radiator, but he grabs it out of my hands, tosses it carelessly on the back of my desk chair.
He picks me up one-armed and tips me back onto my bed, mouth moving sloppily from my mouth to my chin, my jaw, my neck .
There’s something different about the way he’s holding me tonight, like someone lost at sea clinging to a rope, with the silent despair of a drowning man.
His hands grasp me, refusing to let me go.
“Evan.” His name comes out in a hitching sob as he pulls up my shirt.
He cups my breasts in his hands, kisses the tender flesh, sucking my nipples into his mouth.
There’s a dark, desperate hunger to him that calls to the yawning pit of sadness and need inside me: I arch up into his touch, into his mouth, fingers curling into his wet hair, hips writhing against the mattress.
It’s quick, this time, quick and desperate and a little dirty: Evan kicking off his shoes, pulling his jumper and T-shirt off at the same time while I quickly roll down my tights and underwear.
Me scooting back on the bed, him falling down on top of me, bracing on his arms above me like a predator pinning down prey.
He sucks pink bruises along my collarbone while cupping me in his hand, fingers dipping between my legs, where I’m already wet and aching desperately.
“C’mon, c’mon,” I hiss against his hair, nails digging into his neck.
“Need you. Now. Please .”
Evan pushes up my thigh with his knee, spreading me open for him before thrusting home.
A whimper escapes my throat; he plasters his hand over my mouth, stifling my cries.
He keeps his hand there as he fucks me in complete silence, eyes burning into mine, his breath a sharp low hiss.
He comes with a strangled grunt, one hand still on my mouth.
Afterwards, we lie together for a moment, sweaty foreheads pressed together, bodies still entangled.
“I needed that,” I whisper when I’ve finally caught my breath.
“I know.”
We shower together, squeezed into the small stall.
I stand in a blissful, lazy haze as Evan washes my hair, my body, between my legs.
He rinses me off, and I let him.
I let him towel me off.
I let him dry my hair, then brush it.
Back in my room, I pull on his sweatshirt, and I’m rifling for some underwear when Evan pulls me away, firmly closing the drawer.
“Back on the bed,” he commands in a low voice.
“I’m not done with you.”
I let him push me back onto the bed, reaching for the hem of his sweatshirt.
Again, he stops me with a firm hand.
“Keep it on,” he says.
“I like you in it.” He pushes me back, forcing me to fall back into my pillows, and he props my naked thighs on his shoulders.
“Makes you look like you’re mine.”
I am yours , I want to say, but then his mouth is on me, and the terrible, unexpected truth that I am his is swallowed up into a hot, wet chasm of pleasure.
Afterwards, we lie together in bed, the teddy bear relegated to the desk chair to make room for Evan’s big body.
He lies on his stomach and I’m on my side, tracing invisible patterns on the broad, smooth expanse of his back.
I don’t need to press him for what’s wrong.
I just wait, soothing him with my touch, until he mumbles, “I don’t know how much longer I’m going to stay at KMG.”
My fingers still for a moment.
I don’t know why, but it takes me by surprise that of all the things that could be stressing Evan out, it would be work.
“You don’t want to work with your dad anymore?”
He scoffs.
He’s lying with one cheek propped on his crossed arms, strands of hair falling over his eyes, which he doesn’t bother pushing away .
“I’m not working with my dad, Sophie. I’m doing the opposite. Working as far from him as possible.”
I didn’t know this.
All along, I imagined Evan working near his dad’s office, given pointless, easy tasks that make him look important without requiring any effort from him.
Just a rich kid riding on his father’s coattails while he waits to be handed the crown and sceptre to the empire sprawling at his feet.
But this couldn’t be further from the truth.
For the first time, Evan actually explains to me what’s been going on since he started at KMG.
He’s hesitant at first, cheeks flushed a high pink, but then the words start flowing out of him like a broken dam.
He tells me about his rocky start in Operations, how it was supposed to teach him the basics of the company, give him a foundation.
“So my dad pulled me out before I could do any more damage, and now I’m in Corporate Partnerships, which is easier but somehow so much worse. I pretend like I know what the hell I’m doing, but I don’t. I never do. Because I’m not actually good at anything.”
“You are,” I say softly, but he shakes his head.
“Come on, Sophie. You know I’m not. And I know it’s my fault I never bothered to learn.” He sighs, drops his forehead on his arms, his voice coming out muffled.
“The truth is I don’t belong there. I didn’t work and earn my way in. I’m not clever like you. I’m not ambitious. My dad got me in, and I’m not even capable of doing something with the opportunity.”
His words tug at something in my chest, a deep ache of empathy.
Evan has always seemed so sure of himself, so unshakeable.
A laughing, golden idol, all sun-kissed skin and athletic prowess and easy charm.
To hear him admit his own inadequacy is startling, humbling, almost .
I never imagined he and I would share a feeling so similar, and in this moment, all I want is to be the person he can lean on, just like he was there for me last time.
“Why do you think you’re not clever?” I ask.
“You went to Spearcrest. You got your qualifications, you were captain of the rugby team—”
“I only went to Spearcrest because my mother made a charitable donation to renovate the library,” he cuts me off.
“None of it was me, Sophie. It’s always been other people pushing me. My parents, teachers— you .”
I push myself up on my elbow, looking down at him.
He’s still facing away, face half-hidden by his arms, but I can see the straining line of his jaw, the tension in his shoulders.
“Evan,” I say, my voice firmer now.
“Just because something was handed to you doesn’t mean you can’t earn it after the fact. So what if people at work think you’re just the boss’s kid? That’s their problem, not yours. Aren’t you the one who told me to not give a fuck what people think?” He huffs, but I continue.
“If you’re struggling, fine. So what? Everyone struggles, and the more you care, the more you struggle. Struggling doesn’t make you a failure, but giving up just because it’s hard will.”
He doesn’t say anything, but he’s turned his head, blue eyes fixed on me through strands of golden hair.
“Remember what you said to me last time? That I kept going because I wanted to prove to everyone—and to myself—that I deserved to be here. You think that’s easy? It’s not. It’s exhausting, and it’s lonely, and it’s terrifying. I’ve never felt so scared or sad in my life. But you were right, I am too good to give up, but Evan, so are you .”
His head lifts by a fraction, eyes widening in surprise.
“You don’t even see it, but you have so many great qualities. You’re charming, you’re magnetic. Everyone in Spearcrest wanted to be around you, even Luca, and I’m pretty sure Luca’s never felt a real emotion in his life. Even your teachers liked you, and you didn’t even pay attention in their classes. People are drawn to you, they want to be around you because it makes them feel good to have your attention. Do you know how invaluable that is?”
His mouth falls open, soft and pink, almost vulnerable.
I have the urge to close the space between us and claim that gorgeous mouth in a kiss, but I don’t.
I keep going.
“And you’re not stupid: you’re quick. Do you remember our tutoring sessions? I used to think you were failing because you didn’t get it, but the moment you started paying attention, you picked things up immediately. You’re a fast learner—when you try. You’re just not used to trying because guys like you think trying is lame.”
He frowns and finally interrupts me.
“I don’t think trying is lame.”
“Yes, you do. You think everything should be effortless and cool. You think that pouring your heart and soul into a task makes you a loser. That’s why you and your friends never achieved anything in Spearcrest.”
“What about Zachary?”
I wave a hand.
“He doesn’t count.”
“What about you?” He raises himself up on his elbows to glare up at me.
“You cared more than anybody I’d ever met, and I was obsessed with you.”
“But you thought I was a loser.”
“I thought you were—” He stops, shaking his head almost in disbelief.
“Sophie, I thought you were fucking divine . I liked that you care. I liked that you were a prefect, I liked your little clipboard and all your fancy pins. I found it unbearably fascinating, how hard you worked, how much you tried. ”
I lean down so we are almost nose to nose.
“So then why don’t you do the same thing at KMG?”
He sighs.
“Because I’m not like you, Sophie.”
“That’s the good news, you idiot. You don’t have to be. You just have to be you . Lean into your strengths: your charm, your way with people. Your ability to learn quickly, to form connections and put people at ease. Use it—all of it. And when there’s something you don’t know, learn it. That’s what actual smart people do: they keep learning. They ask questions. They practice until they get it right. Remember how I taught you about Hamlet ? You didn’t have a clue at first, but you still smashed the exam. Do what you did then—and keep doing it.”
He watches me in silence for a long moment.
His blue eyes are darker than usual, heavy with unspoken emotions.
And it’s heart-warming, somehow, seeing Evan Knight like this, teetering at a crossroads, weighed down by doubt and uncertainty.
“What if I fail?” he asks softly.
“You won’t,” I say firmly.
“And if you do, you’ll get back on your feet, dust yourself off, and try again. If for no other reason, then do it to shut up everyone who’s doubted you. Prove them wrong, Evan. Because when you do, I promise you it’ll feel so fucking good you’ll never want to stop.”
He reaches up, cupping the back of my head, and pulls me down into a kiss.
It’s slow and lingering, filled with a quiet gratitude that makes me ache.
For a moment, he just looks at me, eyes searching mine.
He takes a faltering breath.
“You promise?” he says, so boyish it makes my heart ache. “I promise.”