Evelyn's heart skipped.
She slipped on a cardigan, stepped into her slippers, and crept down the stairs.
She hesitated in the doorway before quietly stepping out into the cool night.
When she opened the front door, Alexander was standing on the porch.
He had no blazers, no tie and his shirt sleeves were rolled to his elbows. His hair was slightly messy as if he had run his hands through it too many times and his face looked wrecked.
He didn't look angry or cold, he looked wounded.
Seeing him in such a state twisted something painfully inside Evelyn's chest.
"Alexander," she began softly, "is everything—"
He cut her off, voice low and raw. "Don't comfort me, Evelyn. I didn't come here for that."
She froze.
He exhaled and his gaze dropped to the wooden porch for a moment before lifting back to her.
"I just need to ask you something," he said quietly. "And I need you to be honest."
There was no anger in his voice but only strained restraint.
