Chapter 13: What Almost Slipped Out
(Evan Carter POV)
Christmas night arrived without ceremony.
No fireworks. No countdown. Just the slow settling of darkness and the soft glow of lights behind windows, as if the world itself had decided to speak more gently.
I hadn't planned to see Mia again that day.
Plans were dangerous things.
But she texted anyway.
> Are you awake?
I stared at the screen longer than necessary.
> Yes.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
> Can you come outside? Just for a bit.
I should have said no.
Instead, I put on my coat.
---
The courtyard was almost empty.
Snow lay undisturbed, smooth as untouched paper. The decorations from earlier still glowed faintly, strung between trees, their light softened by frost.
Mia stood near the bench by the old oak, hands tucked into her sleeves, breath visible in the cold.
She looked… different.
Not dressed up. Not trying. Just quiet. Present. Real. With a sense of natural beauty at it's peak
"You came," she said.
"Yes."
She smiled at that, then immediately looked embarrassed by it. "I wasn't sure you would."
"I said I was awake."
"That doesn't mean you'd come."
She wasn't wrong.
We stood there for a moment, the silence comfortable but charged, like the pause before a held breath finally released.
"I couldn't sleep," she said finally.
"Neither could I."
She glanced at me. "That surprises me."
"It shouldn't."
"Why?"
Because every time I closed my eyes, I saw the lanterns.
Because the wish I'd made hadn't been tactical.
Because I could still hear her voice when the night went quiet.
"I don't sleep well," I said instead.
She accepted that easily, which unsettled me more than disbelief would have.
We sat on the bench, a careful distance apart. Snow crunched softly beneath us.
"For someone who says Christmas is quiet for him," she said, "you didn't look unhappy today."
"I wasn't."
She tilted her head. "That's rare."
"Yes."
She laughed under her breath. "You really do ration words."
"I choose them."
"That's worse."
"Probably."
She hugged her knees, staring at the snow-covered ground. "Can I ask you something… selfish?"
"Yes."
"Why do you spend time with me?"
The question landed softly.
Too softly.
That made it dangerous.
I turned to look at her. Her face was calm, but her fingers twisted slightly in her sleeves. She wasn't teasing. She wasn't fishing.
She genuinely didn't know.
"Because you asked," I said.
She frowned. "That's not an answer."
"It's the first one."
She waited.
I felt the weight of everything I didn't say pressing against my ribs.
Because you feel like warmth in a cold room.
Because you look at me like I'm human, not useful.
Because when you smile, my calculations slow down.
"I don't spend time with people casually," I said.
Her breath caught. Just slightly.
"So I'm… not casual."
"No."
She swallowed. "Evan, sometimes I feel like you're standing right in front of me, and at the same time… very far away."
"That's intentional."
She turned fully toward me now. "Why?"
Because distance keeps people alive.
Because closeness blurs lines.
Because if I let myself—
"I don't want to hurt you," I said.
The words slipped out before I could stop them.
Her eyes widened.
"Hurt me?" she echoed. "You've never even raised your voice at me."
"That's not the only way people get hurt."
Snow drifted down between us, slow and silent.
She searched my face, like she was trying to decide whether to push… or retreat.
"I'm not fragile," she said quietly.
"I know."
"Then why do you look at me like you're already saying goodbye?"
That one struck deeper than it should have.
I looked away.
Because if I didn't, I might tell her the truth.
The real one.
The one that would ruin everything.
"Mia," I said carefully, "some people don't get to want things."
She shook her head. "Everyone gets to want."
"No," I said. "Some of us only get to choose what we're willing to lose."
Her voice softened. "And what would you lose?"
I opened my mouth.
The answer was right there.
You.
The snow fell heavier, muffling the world even more, as if the night itself was leaning in to listen.
My chest felt tight.
This was the moment.
The dangerous one.
The almost.
I could feel it—words gathering, pressing against my teeth, against my control.
I wanted to say her name differently.
Wanted to reach for her hand.
Wanted to let myself be selfish, just this once.
"Mia—"
She looked up at me.
Hope flickered in her eyes.
And that was enough to stop me.
I swallowed.
"…you should go inside," I finished quietly. "It's cold."
The hope didn't vanish immediately.
That made it worse.
"Oh," she said.
She nodded once, slow. "Right. Yeah. Of course."
She stood, brushing snow from her coat. "I'm glad you came out anyway."
"So am I."
That part was true.
She hesitated, then leaned forward and hugged me.
Just briefly.
Just enough.
Her arms were warm. Her hair smelled faintly like vanilla and winter air.
My hands hovered at my sides.
I didn't hug her back.
If I did, I wouldn't let go.
She pulled away first, smiling—but this time, it didn't fully reach her eyes.
"Merry Christmas, Evan," she said softly.
"Merry Christmas."
She walked away, footsteps fading into the snow. Swallowed by white and silence
I didn't move.
The bench was cold beneath me, but I stayed there, staring at the space she'd left behind—as if she might return if I waited long enough.
She didn't.
The confession hadn't happened.
No words spoken. No lines crossed.
And yet something irreversible had settled in my chest.
Because restraint didn't mean innocence.
It meant choice.
I had chosen silence over truth. Distance over desire. Control over honesty.
And it hurt far more than a clean wound ever could.
I rested my elbows on my knees, breath slow, steady—just like I'd been trained.
Just like always.
But for the first time, the discipline felt like punishment.
I could still feel the ghost of her arms around me. Still smell winter in her hair. Still see the way her smile had faltered—not broken, but questioning.
She would lie awake tonight, wondering what she had done wrong.
That was the cruelest part.
Not the danger. Not the lies. Not even the mission.
It was knowing that when she thought of me later, she would remember a man who almost said something—and chose not to.
I closed my eyes.
Wanting her was reckless.
Letting her want me was unforgivable.
Snow continued to fall, covering footprints, erasing evidence.
By morning, it would be as if nothing had happened.
But I knew better.
Because some things didn't need to be said to be felt.
And some silences were louder than confessions.