Apartment means entering her space. Her real space. Not the bakery. Not transit platforms or tunnels or crowded bars. Her home. The place where she sleeps, where she removes the bright public armor she wears for Halo every day.
Vakutan culture treats thresholds seriously. Entering someone’s private dwelling after courtship begins carries weight. Intent. Trust.
I go still enough that she notices immediately.
“Hey.” Her voice softens. “You don’t have to.”
I look at the apartment entrance behind her.
Warm light glows faintly through the stairwell window. Somewhere upstairs, plumbing rattles through old pipes. Someone laughs through a thin wall. Ordinary domestic sounds. Human life continuing quietly behind doors.
I have not belonged inside ordinary life for a very long time.
Evie watches my face carefully. “Kauss?”
“This matters,” I admit.
Understanding moves across her expression slower than surprise but deeper. “Oh.”
I nod once.
Not fear of sex.
Fear of wanting permanence.
Fear of stepping into something that might begin to feel like home.
Evie reaches for my hand carefully, threading her fingers through mine. “Then we can go slow.”
The gentleness in her voice nearly breaks me.
“You should know,” she says softly, “I invited you upstairs because I want more time with you. Not because I expect anything.”
“I know.”
“And if you come up, we can literally just sit on my couch and make fun of downtown people.”
“That seems unkind.”
“You already called one man structurally inadequate.”
“He deserved it.”
“There he is.”
I look at our joined hands.
Then at her.
Then at the apartment entrance again.
The fear remains.
So does the wanting.
Finally, I squeeze her hand lightly. “I would like to see your apartment.”
Her smile blooms slowly, warm enough to light the whole miserable street. “Okay.”
