Fragile

Happy Sunday! Sorry I forgot to post this morning. Totally slipped!

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The air between us felt heavy.

Not just with the conversation, but with something else—something simmering just beneath the surface, something neither of us had acknowledged but both of us felt.

Evelyn was sitting close, close enough that I could feel the warmth of her body, close enough that if I shifted even slightly, my knee would brush against hers. She was watching me, eyes flickering over my face like she was trying to figure me out, like she wanted to say something but didn't know how.

I didn't know how either. So instead, I let myself look at her. Really look at her.

Her lips were slightly parted, her fingers resting on her thigh, her chest rising and falling in slow, measured breaths—like she was keeping herself in check. Like she was feeling exactly what I was feeling. I swallowed, my throat dry.

"This is weird, right?" I finally murmured.

Evelyn huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. "Yeah."

I dragged my fingers over my knee, shifting slightly toward her. "Do you want me to leave?" She didn't answer right away. And that told me everything.

I saw the hesitation in her eyes, the way she bit her lip like she was thinking about it—like she knew she should probably tell me to go.

But she didn't. Instead, she exhaled, shifting toward me just slightly, her gaze flickering down to my mouth for half a second before she caught herself and looked away. And fuck, that did something to me.

My stomach tightened, heat curling low in my spine. This was dangerous. I knew that. But knowing didn't stop the way my body reacted to her, didn't stop the way my fingers twitched against my knee like they needed to reach out. I licked my lips, my voice lower when I finally spoke.

"Ev."

She inhaled sharply, like she hadn't been expecting me to say her name like that. Like it affected her as much as this was affecting me. I reached out before I could stop myself, fingers brushing against her knee, testing, waiting to see if she'd pull away.

She didn't. Instead, her breath hitched, her eyes darkening just slightly, and that was all I needed to know.

She wanted this. Even if she wouldn't say it. Even if she was fighting it.

My fingers trailed higher, slow, teasing, my pulse pounding as I watched her react—watched the way her chest rose with a deeper breath, watched the way her lips parted just slightly, watched the way she waited.

I leaned in, my voice barely above a whisper. "Tell me to stop."

She swallowed, her hand curling against the couch.

But she didn't say a word. Then I leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to her lips.

It was barely anything—just a brush, a moment—but it sent a sharp thrill through me, heat curling in my stomach. I pulled back, searching her face, waiting for her to tell me no. She didn't. Instead, she went for it. Her hand caught my hoodie, fingers curling into the fabric as she tugged me toward her, kissing me again—longer, deeper.

I exhaled sharply, sinking into it, into her. Her lips were warm, slow but deliberate, like she was tasting me, like she had spent months pretending she didn't want this and now she was making up for lost time. I groaned softly, my hand tightening on her thigh, my fingers digging in just slightly. She sighed against my mouth, tilting her head, her other hand sliding up my arm, over my shoulder, like she needed to hold onto me.