I didn't sleep that night. I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling, listening to the apartment breathe around me. Pipes clicked. The soft hum of the refrigerator. The faint, unmistakable sound of Evan moving in the room across the hall.
We hadn't kissed. We hadn't done anything.
And yet my body remembered it all. His hand at my waist replayed on a loop in my mind—how careful it had been, how honest. Like he had touched something fragile, something worth protecting.
I turned onto my side, pressing my face into the pillow, trying to bury the memory. This was exactly why we had rules.
Morning came too quickly.
The smell of coffee drifted under my door—I knew he was already awake. Evan always woke early. Always needed something to do with his hands before his thoughts caught up with him.
I lingered in bed, gathering courage like armor.
Finally, I stepped into the kitchen. Sunlight spilled in through the window, painting him in gold. He looked up. Our eyes met.
"Morning," he said.
"Morning," I replied.
We both sounded careful.
I reached for a mug; our fingers brushed. Electricity shot up my arm. I pulled back too fast, coffee sloshing dangerously close to the rim.
"Sorry," I muttered.
"It's fine," he said, voice rougher than before.
Silence settled. Not awkward, but charged.
"I shouldn't have touched you," he said suddenly.
I froze.
"No," I said quietly. "You shouldn't have said you wouldn't stop."
He laughed under his breath—not amused, just tired.
"I was being honest."
"I know."
Honesty had always been our downfall.
We tried to act normal. He left for work. I left for mine. Texts about groceries and bills were safe, but they didn't stop my mind from wandering.
Evening came. I returned to find him on the couch, jacket tossed aside, tie loosened. He looked exhausted in a way only emotional restraint can cause.
"Long day?" I asked.
He nodded. "Felt longer than it was."
We sat at opposite ends of the couch. Too far, yet too close.
"I've been thinking," he said.
My stomach tightened. "That's never good."
A corner of his mouth lifted. "We need clearer boundaries."
"I thought we had those," I said.
"Apparently not."
He turned fully toward me, no distractions, no pretending.
"We can't keep doing… whatever last night was," he said. "It's not fair to you."
"To me?"
"Yes. If I cross that line again, I won't be able to walk it back."
My chest ached at the implication.
"And what if I don't want you to?"
His breath caught. Restraint snapped just a little.
"I look at you like that because you are," he said. "And because I never stopped."
For a moment, we just stood there, balanced on a choice neither of us wanted to make.
I stepped back.
"We should stick to the rules," I said.
His jaw tightened, but he nodded. "Yeah. We should."
The way he looked at me told the truth: we were already failing.