The SUV purrs more than it drives.
It's the kind of car that's understated in an "Ask for Pricing" kind of way and smells faintly of cedar and leather conditioner, like the interior has never once known chaos or crumbs. I sit very still, mostly because I'm afraid breathing too enthusiastically will void the warranty.
In the back, neatly stacked: two sizes of boxes, rolls of packing tape, bubble wrap, and, because Evander apparently cannot help himself, color-coded labels.
"I thought these might be useful," he'd said when he picked me up, as if bringing the entire inventory of a moving-supply aisle was perfectly ordinary.
He drives with one hand on the wheel, relaxed, the picture of calm while my pulse is trying to escape through my ears.
"You're quiet," he says eventually. Not accusatory. Just observant, as always. "If this feels rushed, we can postpone."
"No," I say too quickly. "If I put it off, I'll… keep putting it off."
He nods once, as though this is a truth he already knew but wanted me to hear myself say.
The city blurs by outside the windows. The closer we get, the tighter my throat feels.
The ring is warm, not panicked, not flaring. Just… aware. It seems to wake up more when my emotions are of the uncomfortable sort. Probably when I'm most inclined to lie to myself and anyone around me.
I rest my hands in my lap, watching the GPS march me closer to hell in a little blue dot.
We turn onto my old street and my stomach drops through the floor.
The building looks exactly the same as it always has: faded paint, a crooked mailbox, the window unit AC that rattles like it's haunted by a very tired ghost. But everything inside me pulls tight, like a rubber band stretched past its limit.
Evander parks right in front, turns off the engine, and watches me. Quietly tracking every shift in my breathing like he's tuning himself to my frequency.
"If you need a moment," he says, "you can. I have nowhere to be."
"I'll lose my nerve," I admit.
"Then let's go."
He comes around to open my door before I can stop him. And even though my feminist core is screaming I can open my own door, my trauma-riddled nervous system says, Hey actually? This is nice.
I step out.
The air feels heavier here, like it's all decided to climb onto my shoulders as a makeshift backpack of hurt and misery.
Evander stands beside me, steady as bedrock.
I take the keys from my pocket. My hands shake.
The ring hums.
The apartment feels smaller the moment I step inside.
Same light through the blinds. Same faint smell of detergent that never quite masked anything. I take two steps in, already cataloging what needs to be boxed first.
Movement shifts at the edge of my vision.
Ash stands near the kitchen counter, stiff like he's been rehearsing the pose. Shoulders relaxed. Hands loose at his sides.
"Hey," he says. His smile is small, almost careful.
My pulse crawls up my throat but I keep my face still.
"I thought maybe we could talk."
"I don't think there's to talk about, I'm just here for my things."
He steps toward me, gentle in the way people try not to startle an animal. "I get that you're upset. Anyone would be. Things got… messy. But everything happened really fast and I didn't want you thinking the worst."
Lie.
My stomach twists.
He's easing into it the way he always does, as if careful tone can sand down the facts.
He tries again. "That night didn't mean anything. We were drinking. She was emotional. I was trying to help her because she was hurt about her breakup, you weren't picking up your phone and—"
Lie.
I sigh, impatient. He watches for it.
I'm not giving him the reaction he wants.
"I know it looks bad," he continues. "But it wasn't like I was planning anything. It just… happened."
Another lie. He doesn't seem capable of telling the truth.
"I'm here to pack my things, I don't have anything else to say to you."
Ash's expression twitches. "So that's it? You throw everything away because of one mistake? You're really going to let her ruin our relationship like that?"
Her.
My best friend.
The name he won't say now that he's trying to spin the facts.
"You have no right to blame anyone but yourself," I say incredulously.
His jaw tightens. "You're blowing this out of proportion."
A small, brittle laugh almost breaks out of me. I swallow it.
He takes another step, closer than before. "Evie, I messed up. I said I was sorry. What else do you want from me?"
"I don't want anything from you. What about that do you not understand?"
He hears the finality in it. He doesn't like it.
The gentleness starts to crack. Not all the way. Just enough to show the impatience underneath. "You can't keep freezing me out. At least tell me you understand this isn't my fault."
True. He believes it's Rowan's fault. That she seduced him. There's something else under that though. Something he's hiding from himself under all this.
He wanted to be seduced. To feel wanted. To… Hurt me.
Disgusting.
He's standing over me now, I hadn't realized I was moving backward until my legs hit the coffee table. My pulse climbs and I steady my breathing. "Ash. Get away from me."
He doesn't.
His frustration slips free.
"So that's it? After everything we've been through, you just run off and play the victim? You're unbelievable."
He reaches for my arm, fast and angry, like he plans to pull the answer he wants out of me.
I grimace, bracing for the familiar pressure of his hands digging into my shoulders.
But it never comes.
Before he can make contact, a hand closes around his wrist.
Firm. Controlled.
Evander stands between us now. I hadn't noticed him come in.
The energy in the room shifts.
"You don't touch her, without her permission." He says it with all the weight of someone threatening don't test me.
Ash jerks back, startled. Rubbing his wrist after Evander releases it.
I feel Evander return to my side, a sentinel at my shoulder.
Ash's face twists into something ugly. "Who the fuck is this guy? You brought your new boyfriend to help you pack? Jesus Evie, I didn't realize you were such a fucking wh…"
He looks past me and goes still. The air feels different now. Electrified.
Ash's mouth opens, then snaps shut. His face transforms from a look of disgust to one of genuine horror.
He stumbles back, breathing hard. "Whatever. I'm done. You can have her."
Then he's brushing past us and I hear the door slam shut.
Silence pours into the apartment.
I stay where I am. Numb. Recalibrating.
Evander doesn't comment. He doesn't reach for me. He just stands there, waiting for whatever version of myself I manage to pull together next.
I sigh, trying to reset my nervous system.
"Are you hurt?" I find myself asking him.
When I search his face, he has a mixture of amusement and confusion. I suppose it is a strange thing for me to ask after what just happened.
"I'm unharmed." A ghost of a smile playing across his features.
"Good. I guess we should get this over with, shall we?" I try for enthusiastic but I fear it comes out as small and sad.
He does soften into a smile at that. We start putting a few boxes together and get to work.
One box at a time.
One drawer at a time.
One goodbye at a time.
We pack in silence.
The kind that feels like a thin layer of ice over deep water. One wrong step and everything underneath might rush up and swallow me whole.
The ring is quiet now too.
Like even it knows I need a minute without commentary.
Evander moves beside me, picking up the heavier things without making a show of it, folding clothes with more care than I ever gave them, handing me trash bags when I need them before I realize I do.
There isn't much to pack, I realize after a few minutes.
More than once, I open a drawer and… nothing inside feels like it belongs to me anymore. Shirts I bought because Ash liked them. Mugs I never use. Books I read to make myself tolerable. Little pieces of a life shaped around someone else's edges.
I grab what's mine, the essentials, and leave the rest.
The hollow spaces in the closet feel more like relief than loss.
Evander never comments.
Never looks at me like I should take more or less, or like he's mentally calculating why I'm leaving half my life in a two-bedroom rental.
He just moves with me. Quiet, steady, a low hum of reassurance anchoring me to the present.
When I tape the last box and start walking it out, the world feels too bright.
Too sharp.
A future I haven't prepared enough for.
Outside, the evening air hits my skin like a wake-up slap from reality. Evander lifts the box from me and slides it into the SUV.
I exhale. Relief that it's finally done. Fear of what's next. Confusion mixed with sadness about the ring revealing something I should have been able to see for myself…
What a long day it's been already.
I get into the passenger seat.
Evander gets behind the wheel.
Neither of us looks back as he pulls away.
The drive back is quiet.
Not the kind from earlier. I've experienced several new versions of silence with Evander. This one is soft around the edges, almost padded. My body finally realizes it's no longer in a room with someone who wants to break me down, and it starts letting go in tiny, shaky increments.
My hands unclench.
My shoulders drop half an inch.
My breath stops catching on every inhale.
Evander doesn't say anything.
He just drives, steady and unhurried, as if the whole world has agreed to move at a gentler speed for a few miles.
The city glides past the windows.
For once, the movement doesn't make me feel like I'm about to fall behind.
When we pull into the underground parking of the penthouse building, I feel wrung out. Wrung out and somehow lighter. Like I put something heavy down but haven't quite realized what.
Evander gets out, comes around, and opens my door, quietly, simply, like it's just part of the rhythm of the day now.
I follow him to the elevator, both of us carrying boxes that aren't destined for storage.
The doors slide shut.
A hum of machinery fills the space.
Halfway up, he glances at me, not with pity or concern. More of a checking in.
"You held yourself together well," he says. "It was… a difficult situation."
I let out a humorless puff of air. "That's one way to put it."
He nods. "You did what needed to be done."
The elevator dings before I can respond.
Inside the penthouse, the air is soft and warm, tinted gold with the setting sun filtering through the enormous windows. The space feels impossibly calm after the warzone my emotions have been crawling through all day.
I can't believe how lucky I was to find such an amazing place, even if it's just temporary.
Evander sets the boxes down and stands there for a moment, hands on his hips, exhaling like he's taking a silent inventory of the day.
"I chilled a bottle," he says, heading for the kitchen.
"Of water?" I ask, because that seems practical.
"Wine," he corrects.
I blink. "You pre-planned my emotional meltdown?"
"Only the hydration," he says, and I can tell he's making a joke.
It pulls a laugh out of me, a small one, but real.
He pours us glasses and we settle in the living room, the city laid out beneath us impossibly quiet. We don't talk right away; the silence isn't a void. It's a rest stop.
Eventually, he asks, "Are you hungry?"
I haven't been hungry in days. "Not really."
He nods once, stands, and disappears into the kitchen without a word.
A minute later, he returns with a small plate of crackers, meats, cheese, and sliced fruit, simple, unassuming, but thoughtful.
I stare. "Evander… did you make a charcuterie board?"
"It is not a charcuterie board," he says, offended. "It's food. Deconstructed."
"It's absolutely a charcuterie board."
"It's basic sustenance."
"With vibes."
He gives a soft huff, but I sense that he's trying to make me feel better. It works.
I take a slice of apple. He takes a cracker.
We eat in companionable silence for a while, my body slowly remembering what calm feels like.
At some point, he shifts on the couch, turning slightly toward me.
"What your ex said," he says carefully, "was untrue."
My jaw tightens.
I look down at my hands, the wine glass balancing between them.
"He meant what he said," I whisper. "He's always meant it."
A pause. A long one.
"People can believe cruel things," Evander says softly. "That doesn't make them true."
My throat stings. I look away.
He doesn't push. He just sits there, giving the words space to exist.
He's right. I still don't know anything about this damned ring, but one thing's for sure: I feel… better since it commandeered my pinky and staked its claim. I feel like a more complete version of myself is slowly developing under all the stolen "I'm fine"s and forced honesty.
If not for the ring;
I'd still be with Ash while he was with Rowan.
I wouldn't have several texts from Monica with play-by-plays about her disaster dates this weekend.
I wouldn't have attended that dinner and felt my confidence in myself start to build.
And I definitely wouldn't be here right now, sitting beside this god of a man who looks at me like he's as strangely interested in me as I am in him.
I give the ring a mental hug and feel gentle pressure in return.
Clearly I am as emotionally compromised as Monica accused me of being.
Time stretches.
The sun dips lower.
The room shifts into twilight.
Evander and I talk a little, small things.
Music we like.
Books we haven't finished.
The fact that neither of us actually knows how to fold a fitted sheet and it's likely just Big Mattress propaganda.
Nothing important.
Everything important.
His voice is steady, grounding. Mine gets lighter without me trying. The wine helps, but not as much as the company.
By the time the sky goes fully dark, I'm curled sideways on the couch with a blanket draped over my legs, head in my hand, resting against the back of the couch. Exhausted and finally safe enough to feel it.
Evander takes my empty glass and sets it on the counter, then returns and sits a little closer, not touching, but near enough that the warmth of him heats the air between us.
"I can stay on the couch," he says quietly. "If that would make tonight easier."
I lift my head toward him. He's so tall. And he smells so… clean.
His face looks softer in the low light, shadows catching in the angles of his jaw, something patient in his eyes. Soft tendrils of hair fall, framing his face.
"Maybe just… for tonight?" I ask.
"As long as you like."
We sit there in the hush of the penthouse, the city shimmering below, time slowing down around us.
My eyes drift shut.
I'm not fully asleep, just flitting at the edge, held in the quiet and safety that exists around us.
When I blink them open again, he's still there. Watching me, but not staring. Just… making sure I'm alright.
Something shifts.
Soft.
Natural.
Like gravity rearranging itself.
"Evander?" I whisper.
"Yes?"
I don't lean forward deliberately.
It's more like my body relaxes toward him, a tiny tilt, a quiet surrender.
He meets me halfway.
We're too close. I drank too much.
When his hand reaches up to brush my hair out of my face, I feel an electricity thrumming just under his fingertips where his skin meets mine.
This is the first time he's ever touched me, I realize. His eyes are soft but focused. The moment feels disarmingly intimate but I can't help but wonder what he could be thinking, doing this with me.
Sitting so close.
Looking so tempting.
In the back of my mind, I know this is a terrible time to want anything like this from anyone, least of all him, who's been nothing but kind to me. But I don't pull away either.
The contact, the quiet of the moment, it's like my body is starved for it. A craving I didn't know lived in me, for an experience I've never had. Not for attention, but intention. This must be Desire.
His hand slides down my arm leaving a trail of goosebumps I don't have the energy to be embarrassed about. He takes my hand, and the urge to be closer pulls at me with surprising force.
Something inside him tightens. A current that brushes against something inside me, almost like my body has already agreed to something my mind hasn't named yet. His fingers lace with mine, deliberate and sure.
Heat gathers in the space between our palms. It flows through me and sinks low in my stomach. The physical contact carries an edge I feel everywhere at once.
Slow caresses.
Shallow breaths.
The kind of pressure that leaves a body remembering things it hasn't actually done yet.
A promise of things to come.
We're so close now I can feel his breath roll across my skin, warm and wine-sweet.
What is this? Why am I so drawn to him?
Our breathing syncs without effort, each inhale tugging at the connection between us.
It's power, a voice in my mind says clearly, breaking through the fog. It rings true immediately.
I pull back still panting, but he keeps hold of my hand.
Not possessive.
Just… unwilling to break the contact.
His eyes flash gold for a heartbeat, then return to silver-blue in an instant.
"What was that?" I ask steadying my breath, and I'm not sure if I'm talking about the voice or the pull or the glow in his eyes, any of which could have been my imagination at this point.
He reaches up and brushes a thumb along my cheekbone, feather-light.
"Sleep," he says softly. "I'll be right here."
And so I go. Not to escape, but to rest. I walk to the bedroom in a daze and on legs that don't feel entirely steady, close the door behind me, press my back to it, and whisper to the empty room:
"What the hell just happened?"