Chapter Ten: The First Touch
Writer's POV - Age 14
Summer arrived with oppressive heat, and with it, mandatory summer reading assignments.
Mrs. Patterson posted the list on the last day of school: To Kill a Mockingbird, The Outsiders, Lord of the Flies. Students groaned. Fabiola copied down the titles dutifully.
As she packed her bag, a shadow fell across her desk.
Evan.
He stood there, backpack slung over one shoulder, looking at her with an expression she couldn't quite read.
"The library," he said. "Tuesday. Two o'clock."
Then he walked away before she could respond.
Fabiola stared after him, heart hammering.
Was that... was that an invitation?
Tuesday came hot and humid. Fabiola changed outfits three times before settling on jean shorts and a yellow tank top, her hair pulled back in a puff. She told her mother she was going to work on summer reading.
Not technically a lie.
The town library was a small brick building that smelled like old paper and air conditioning. Fabiola found Evan in the back corner, in the fiction section, running his fingers along book spines.
He looked different in civilian clothes. Black t-shirt, dark jeans despite the heat. His hair was unstyled, falling into his eyes. Without the school uniform, he looked younger. More vulnerable.
"Hi," Fabiola said softly.
He turned, and for the first time in months, his expression wasn't completely shuttered. Something almost like relief crossed his face.
"You came."
"You asked."
"I thought maybe you'd..." He trailed off, shoved his hands in his pockets. "Never mind. Did you get the reading list?"
"Yeah. It's terrible."
The corner of his mouth twitched. Almost a smile. "All of them?"
"Well, The Outsiders might be okay. But Lord of the Flies? About boys turning into savages? Who thought that was appropriate for fourteen-year-olds?"
"Someone who understands human nature," Evan said quietly.
He pulled a copy off the shelf, studied the cover. "People are only civilized until they're not. Until something breaks them."
The words hung heavy between them.
Fabiola stepped closer. "Is that what you think? That you're broken?"
"I know I am."
"I don't believe that."
Evan's eyes met hers, and the pain in them was visceral. "You don't know me, Fabiola. Not really. You know the version I show you. But there's..." He stopped, shook his head. "There's more. Darker things."
"Then show me."
"I can't."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm barely holding myself together." His voice cracked. "And if I let you in, really in I'm afraid I'll fall apart completely. Or worse, I'll drag you down with me."
Fabiola reached out slowly, telegraphing her movement, and placed her hand on his arm.
Evan froze.
She could feel him shaking under her touch. Could feel the tension in his muscles, the rapid pulse at his wrist.
"I'm not afraid of your darkness," she said softly.
"You should be."
"Stop telling me what I should feel." Her voice was gentle but firm. "I get to decide. And I decide that you're worth knowing. All of you. Even the dark parts."
Evan stared at her hand on his arm like it was a miracle. Like he couldn't believe she was touching him willingly.
Slowly so slowly Fabiola almost didn't notice he turned his wrist. Opened his hand.
An invitation.
Fabiola laced her fingers through his.
His hand was cold. Always cold. But his grip was tight, desperate, like she was the only thing keeping him anchored to the earth.
They stood like that for a long moment, hands clasped in the fiction section, surrounded by stories of other people's lives.
Then Evan did something that made Fabiola's breath catch.
He pulled her closer. Gentle. Careful. Like she might break or run.
And he buried his face in the space between her neck and shoulder.
And breathed.
Deep. Deliberate. Drawing her scent into his lungs like it was oxygen.
Fabiola's heart hammered against her ribs. She could feel his nose against her skin, could feel the way his whole body shuddered as he inhaled.
"What are you doing?" she whispered.
"Making sure you're real." His voice was muffled against her neck. "You smell like cocoa butter and vanilla and something else. Something sweet and warm and alive." He breathed in again, deeper. "It's the only thing that makes the cold go away."
Fabiola didn't understand. Didn't know why he needed to scent her like this, why it seemed to calm something wild in him.
But she didn't pull away.
She let him breathe her in, let him hold her, let him take whatever comfort he needed.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes were wet.
"Thank you," he whispered.
"For what?"
"For being warm. For being here. For being you." He touched her cheek, feather-light, like she was something precious. "I don't deserve your kindness, Fabiola Morales. But I'm selfish enough to take it anyway."
"You're not selfish.."
"I am." His thumb traced her cheekbone. "Because I know I should stay away from you. Should push you away for your own good. But I can't. I'm too weak. Too cold. Too..." His voice dropped to barely a whisper. "Too hungry for what you give me."
"And what do I give you?"
Evan's eyes were storm-dark as they searched her face.
"Hope," he said finally. "You give me hope that maybe I can be more than this grief. More than this guilt. More than..." He stopped himself, pulled his hand back. "I should go."
"Wait..."
But he was already walking away, moving fast, like he was running from something.
Fabiola stood in the fiction section, her neck still tingling where he'd breathed against her skin, her hand still warm from his touch.
And she realized something that both thrilled and terrified her:
Evan Harlow needed her.
Not wanted. Needed.
Like she was medicine for some sickness she couldn't see.
And Fabiola stubborn, persistent, warm-hearted Fabiola was absolutely, irrevocably determined to be whatever he needed.
Even if she didn't understand why.
Even if it scared her.
Even if her mother's warnings echoed in her head.
That boy carries death in him.
Fabiola touched her neck where he'd scented her.
Death or not, he was hers.
And she was keeping him.