The days passed like muted battles, each one small, silent, yet charged with a tension neither of us could escape.
I woke to the smell of coffee again, sunlight brushing the edges of the blinds. Evan was already up, moving around with his usual precise motions. I watched him from the doorway, pretending not to, heart tightening as I remembered the nights when his hands had found mine without thought, without question.
"Morning," I said, trying to sound casual.
"Morning," he replied, voice low, careful.
We avoided the dangerous electricity that hung between us, the way two magnets might repel and attract simultaneously.
I went through the motions of my day, but every message, every glance, every thought returned to him. I found myself tracing the memory of his hand at my waist in my mind, the way it had felt both gentle and commanding. The more I tried to push the memory away, the more vivid it became.
By evening, the apartment smelled faintly of cooking and something else—something lingering, a mix of him and me, the residue of what wasn't supposed to exist anymore. I walked in to find him in the living room, sprawled on the couch with a book in hand, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, the same casual armor I had memorized over months.
"Long day?" I asked, my voice quieter than I intended.
"Feels longer than it is," he said, looking up but not fully meeting my gaze.
We both knew it wasn't the work. Not today, not ever.
I settled into the chair across from him, pretending to read, though I saw him steal glances I couldn't ignore. My mind played tricks—every small movement of his hand, every tilt of his head, seemed deliberate, loaded with meaning we refused to name.
"You're thinking about last night," he said suddenly.
I froze.
"I can't stop," he added, softly, almost to himself.
"You shouldn't try," I whispered, though my voice cracked despite the control I had been clinging to.
He smiled faintly, a tired, knowing smile. "We never were good at rules anyway."
The room fell silent again, but the quiet was heavier this time. It was a quiet charged with longing, frustration, and unspoken confessions. I looked at him—truly looked—and realized that the space we had created to survive was collapsing, bending under the weight of unacknowledged desire.
I wanted to reach for him. To touch him. To make it stop and start all at once. But instead, I turned toward my bedroom, back straight, heart hammering.
"I need space," I said, even though I knew the words would barely hold him at bay.
"I know," he said.
We were at war with ourselves, battling emotions too dangerous to name, yet unable to avoid the pull toward each other. Each day, each glance, each brush of skin threatened the fragile boundaries we had agreed to uphold.
And still, we endured. Quietly. Carefully. For now.
But both of us knew—every quiet battle only delayed the inevitable.