The gallery ends with sticky plastic cups, half a tray of cheese cubes, and my heels screaming in protest.
Evan and I walk back to his place in the cool night air, the city buzzing gently around us. Neither of us talks much—not in a bad way, just in that full, content kind of silence where every breath feels understood.
Once we get inside, I immediately kick off my shoes like a dramatic Victorian widow and collapse into a kitchen chair.
"I swear," I mutter, "if I die young, it'll be from cute footwear."
Evan chuckles as he sets down his bag. "Noted. Avoid emotional conversations while you're wearing anything with a heel."
"Exactly."
He pours us both a glass of water and hands me one without asking.
The kitchen's quiet. Dim. The only light comes from the open fridge and the glow of a streetlamp outside the window. It's warm in that sleepy, 2-a.m.-talks kind of way.
"You handled the Mason thing like a champ," he says suddenly, leaning on the counter.
I shrug. "You handled it cooler. I was about two seconds from throwing a grape at him."
"Fruit-based revenge. Very classy."
"I contain multitudes."
He's looking at me like I'm a painting that just made a joke.
And then—somehow—he pulls out his phone, scrolls through it, and hits play on a song.
It's soft. Jazzy. A little grainy, like it's playing from an old record even though it's clearly Spotify.
"What's this?" I ask.
"Kitchen jazz," he says casually. "For late-night decompression."
Then he walks over, hand outstretched.
And asks, "Wanna dance?"
I blink. "Here? In your kitchen?"
"Why not? It has good lighting."
It really doesn't. But I take his hand anyway.
We move slowly. No rhythm. No plan. Just swaying gently in socked feet on cold tile, the air between us full of unspoken things.
His arms settle around me. Mine circle his neck.
It's awkward and perfect at the same time.
"I liked tonight," I murmur.
"Me too."
"I even liked the weird bookstore wine."
He smiles. "You liked me tonight?"
I nudge him with my forehead. "I like you most nights."
We sway for a bit longer before he says it. Quietly.
"I think I'm falling for you."
It's not loud. Not dramatic.
Just real.
And that's what makes my heart do the terrifying little backflip.
I could panic. Could pull away.
Instead, I lean closer.
"Then maybe… don't fall alone."
He exhales like he's been holding his breath for a week.
And kisses me.
No fireworks.
No music swelling.
Just warm hands, soft lips, and a quiet jazz song playing in a kitchen that now smells vaguely like brie and bravery.
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