I regret saying it bluntly, but she only sighs and leans back against the counter.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She wipes her hands on a towel. “Because I’m about to ask you something, and I don’t know if it’s too much.”
Every muscle in my body prepares.
She notices. “Not bad too much. Maybe good too much. I don’t know. This is why I’m nervous.”
I step closer. “Ask.”
She looks toward the living room, then the small hallway, then the kitchen that barely holds me comfortably. “You stay here most nights now.”
“Yes.”
“Your coat is on my hook.”
“Yes.”
“You have tools in my bottom drawer.”
“The drawer was empty.”
“It had takeout menus.”
“Obsolete paper clutter.”
She almost smiles. Then the nerves return. “Your spare shirt is in my laundry.”
“I can remove it.”
“No.” Her voice comes too fast. She closes her eyes briefly. “No. That’s not what I mean.”
I wait because I understand now that waiting can be an act of care.
She opens her eyes and meets mine. “I want you to move in.”
The room goes silent.
Not truly. Rain still falls. The simmering sauce still bubbles. Traffic still hums far below. But inside me, every sound stops.
Move in.
Permanently.
Not shelter for a night. Not comfort after fear. Not convenience because my coat is already here and my body has begun learning the dimensions of her rooms.
Belonging.
A door. A key. A place where I am expected.
My first feeling is joy so powerful it frightens me.
The second is terror.
Evie sees both, I think, because her face goes careful and vulnerable at once.
