14. I don’t blur lines for the hell of it
Chapter fourteen
I don’t blur lines for the hell of it
Penny
Iwake slowly, tangled in warmth and weight and the faint, steady rhythm of breathing that isn’t mine.
It takes a second to remember where I am.
The ceiling above me is unfamiliar, the mattress beneath me firmer. And then Elle shifts against me, one leg flung over my hip, and everything settles back into place.
I turn my head instinctively and realize the other side of the bed is untouched.
For a moment, I frown at it, then push myself up onto one elbow. Surely he’s home by now, at least I assume he must be. I’m sure I heard something distantly, the shower going maybe, but I was too far gone to surface from sleep properly.
The faint smell of soap lingers in the air, subtle but unmistakable. So he’s home—he’s showered. But he’s not in his bed.
I ease out from under Elle, moving quietly so I don’t wake her. She makes a small protesting sound in her sleep, and I tuck the blanket higher over her shoulders before slipping out into the hallway and gently tugging the door closed behind me.
It’s still early. There’s no morning light filtering through the windows, but the house feels settled and secure regardless.
Gus lifts his head when he hears me and gives a lazy wag of his tail before dropping it back down with a sigh. I round the corner into the living room, and there he is.
Evan’s stretched out along the couch, one arm thrown over his face with his eyes closed, the other resting across his stomach. Elle’s unicorn blanket is tangled loosely around his legs like he dragged it over himself without fully committing, or overheated and kicked it off again.
He looks wrecked.
My throat tightens unexpectedly, and I move toward the armchair, picking up the folded throw draped over the back. I step closer to the couch, careful not to let the floorboards creak, and shake the blanket out gently before draping it over him.
As my fingers brush his forearm accidentally, his eyes spring open.
He’s alert in a split second, sitting up slightly as his arm drops away from his face, no groggy confusion whatsoever. His gaze finds mine, sharp at first, but then it softens.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough from sleep or whatever he’s been thinking about.
“Hi.” I shift my weight slightly, suddenly aware of how close I’m standing. “You looked cold.”
He huffs a quiet breath, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he sits up more. “Thanks… I’m good.”
“You’re on the couch.”
“Yeah.”
I cross my arms loosely, leaning back against the edge of the coffee table. “You could’ve got in your bed.”
His eyes flick to mine, unreadable for a second.
“I know.”
There’s something about the way he’s not pushing me away like I expect him to that makes my pulse trip.
“I would’ve gone to the spare room or back out to the guest house once you got back,” I say. “But you didn’t wake me.”
“No.”
“And you didn’t go to the spare bed?”
“No, I wanted… wanted to hear the sounds of the house.”
But the house is quiet, the night’s stillness stretching between us. I study his face, the faint shadow beneath his eyes.
“Was it bad?” I ask softly.
He watches me for a second like he’s measuring how much to give, then he nods.
“Yeah. Overdose, with a kid on the scene. Little guy was terrified.”
My chest pulls tight, and I step closer and sit gently next to him before I think about it too much. The couch dips slightly under my weight, close enough that my thigh brushes his.
“I’m sorry,” I murmur.
He shrugs lightly. “Comes with it.”
I don’t push for details. I can see the residue of it in the way he’s holding himself, anyway. But I nod, folding one leg slightly beneath me so I’m angled toward him. “Still doesn’t make it easy.”
His mouth pulls at one corner, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “No.”
There’s a beat where neither of us speaks, but I can hear the faint hum of the fridge, the ticking of the clock, and the soft shift of Gus resettling somewhere behind us. These are the sounds Evan wanted, I realize. Normal, comforting, home sounds.
“Does it make you think about her?” I ask carefully.
He doesn’t pretend he doesn’t know who I mean.
“Yeah,” he says after a pause. “Especially ones like tonight.”
My stomach twists, thinking how heartbreaking it must be to experience these moments that could have easily been his own.
“I used to think I could manage it,” he continues, gaze drifting past me toward the dark hallway. “Her volatility and the excuses. That if I stayed steady enough, it’d balance everything out.” His jaw flexes slightly, and he shakes his head. “It didn’t. It doesn’t.”
I hum, and let those words sit for a second before I speak. “I used to think if I stayed long enough, it would get better, too.”
His eyes flick to mine.
“My stepmother,” I clarify. “I kept telling myself I just had to be patient, that if I was useful enough, agreeable enough, it would feel like home again.” A small, humorless breath leaves me. “It didn’t. It doesn’t.”
The symmetry hangs there between us, similar stories filled with pain in different ways.
“I won’t put up with that shit anymore,” he says with a shake of his head. “Not around Elle.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t blur lines for the hell of it.”
My eyes slide down to my hands, and I pick at my T-shirt hem. “I know that too.”
He studies me carefully. “You sure about that?”
It’s not banter, not tonight. Because this thing sitting here, this connection between us—it’s a blur.
“I didn’t move to Maplewood to crack someone else’s stability.” I swallow. “I moved here because I was tired of being somewhere that didn’t want me.”
His eyes soften just slightly. “You’re wanted here, Pen.”
Something ripples deep inside me, and I look back up at him.
“You don’t get to say that like it’s a fact,” I whisper.
He shifts closer without meaning to, his knee pressing more firmly against mine.
“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”
I feel those words hit deep, not only because I’m attracted to him—this runs so much deeper. It’s history meeting history. Two people who left something unstable to build something solid. And now he’s sitting too close for me to ignore what’s happening.
“Did you stay with the kid?” I ask after a second.
“Yeah.”
“Was… was he okay?”
Evan exhales, his gaze dropping to his hands before lifting back to me. “He will be.”
I swallow, my fingers worrying lightly at the edge of my shirt again. “That’s a lot for someone so little.”
“Yeah,” he says again, quieter this time.
“He reminded you of Elle.” It’s not a question.
He bites the inside of his cheek. “About the same age.”
I sit with that for a moment, letting it settle instead of pushing further, and when I glance back at him, I catch the way his shoulders are still holding tension, even now, like he hasn’t fully come down from it.
“You didn’t wanna be alone,” I say softly, and his eyes flick to mine. “That’s why you stayed out here? On the couch?”
There’s a pause. “Didn’t feel like going to bed yet.”
It’s not the full answer, but I nod anyway, accepting it for what it is.
“You could’ve woken me…”
His eyes meet mine, and he studies me for a beat, then they drop to my mouth briefly. “You need sleep too, Pen.”
“You always do that,” I say, unable to stop myself. “Put everyone else first.”
For a moment, I think he’s going to deflect, but instead, he holds my gaze.
“Not everyone.”
My pulse trips, and the insinuation lands heavy between us. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? He means it.
I become aware of everything all at once. The way I’m sitting too close to him, my leg brushing against his and absorbing the warmth from his body, the quiet way his hands are resting on his thighs like he’s holding himself in place.
I search his face, looking for hesitation, for doubt, for anything that gives me an out.
“You don’t even know me that well, Evan.”’
“Yeah,” he says roughly, brow furrowing. “That’s kinda the fucking problem.”
I blink at him. “What?”
He drags a hand down his face and looks away like he already regrets saying it. “You’re in my house, and Elle’s attached to you… I’m attached to you.” His laugh is short and humorless. “And I don’t even know what the hell we’re doing.”
“Oh.” I nod once, trying to keep my voice casual as something sharp twists through me. “Right.”
His brows pull together slightly at my tone, but I’m already shifting back, putting space between us before he can see too much on my face. Because of course. Of course, I’ve overstepped.
“I should probably go back out to the guest house now,” I say quietly. “Now that you’re home.”
“Pen—”
“It’s okay.” I stand too fast, smoothing my hands over my shorts like that’ll somehow steady me. “You had a bad call, and I think maybe I read this wrong—”
“Jesus Christ.” He pushes forward suddenly, frustration cracking through his voice. “That’s not what I meant.”
But I shake my head, my body already feeling tight and hot with humiliation. “I don’t wanna make things harder for you, and I certainly don’t want to overstep. I’m so sorry.”
I turn before he can answer, but I barely make it a step before his hand closes around my wrist.
“Penny.”
The way he says my name this time is low and wrecked, and I turn back slowly.
“You think I’m sleeping on this couch because I don’t want you?” he asks roughly, and my breath catches.
His hand loosens slightly around my wrist, thumb dragging once against my pulse point as though he’s only just realizing he grabbed me at all.
“I’m on this couch because if I got into that bed with you tonight,” he says, eyes dropping briefly to my mouth, “I wasn’t gonna keep pretending this is nothing.”
The words hit me like a physical thing, and for a second, neither of us moves. His hand is still around my wrist, warm and rough and grounding, and I’m certain he can feel my pulse beating hard beneath his thumb.
“Evan…”
He exhales sharply through his nose and lets go of my wrist, then he rests back against the couch again, dragging a hand through his damp hair.