The apartment still smelled like him. Cedar soap, faint coffee, the lingering scent of his shampoo—Evan. It hit me the second I stepped inside, unrelenting and familiar, pulling memories forward I had spent years trying to bury. Three years, three long years of pretending I could survive without him, and yet, some things never fade.
I closed the door quietly behind me. The lights in the kitchen were on, soft and welcoming, though they did nothing to soothe the tight knot in my chest. There he was—Evan—at the counter, sleeves rolled up, damp hair falling slightly across his forehead, the same sharp eyes scanning, the same subtle grace in every movement. Older, sharper, like time had carved him into someone I barely recognized, yet still the same Evan I had loved.
I slipped off my shoes, keeping my voice even, neutral. "I had work," I said, the words calm but brittle beneath the surface.
"You're home late," he said, eyes flicking to my dress. Not accusing. Not curious. Observant. Carefully so.
"Work doesn't usually look like that," he added.
I met his gaze evenly, refusing to flinch. "You don't get to comment on me anymore."
He paused, then nodded, an acknowledgment that cut sharper than any argument could have. "You're right," he said softly.
And that hurt more than if he had fought me.
Living with your ex should come with instructions, or at least warnings. There should have been a list taped to the fridge: Do not let your hands brush; do not linger in the same room; do not remember how it felt when he held you close.
Instead, we had rules.
No sleeping together.No touching.No talking about why he left.No pretending this meant more than it did.
The rules existed only to fail. I could feel it already.
I walked past him toward my room, acutely aware of the inches between us. He didn't move, but I felt him behind me anyway—warmth, familiarity, danger wrapped in a human form.
"I missed you," he said quietly.
"Don't," I whispered.
"Don't what?"
"Don't say things like that," I muttered, words barely audible. Because I still loved him. Because missing him had nearly destroyed me. Because I didn't trust myself to survive falling again.
"You don't mean it the way I need you to," I added, softer now, almost defeated.
He stepped closer. Not touching, not yet. But close enough that I could feel the pull, the heat of proximity, the quiet tension that wrapped itself around us like a physical thing.
"I do," he said, voice low and rough, "and that's what scares me."
My heart stuttered.
I turned to face him, acutely aware of the space that remained between us. His eyes searched mine, unguarded in a way that made my chest ache.
"If you touch me," he said, every word deliberate, "I won't stop."
The honesty of it made my knees weak.
"Then don't," I whispered.
But he did. Slowly, carefully, as though even the act of reaching out could break us both. His hand settled at my waist—deliberate, patient, a question and an answer all at once. My body reacted before my mind could. Heat. Memory. Want.
Three years of pretending unraveled in a single heartbeat.
And just like that, the rules no longer mattered.