There are three kinds of awkward silences.
1. The "Did I just accidentally like my ex's Instagram story from 2017?" silence.
2. The "We kissed and now we're pretending to be chill about it" silence.
3. And the one I'm currently sitting in—the "I just met your mom while wearing your hoodie and no bra" silence.
Mrs. Keller—Evan's mother—is perched primly at the kitchen table like it's a royal throne and I'm the peasant who stumbled into the palace after a wine-and-popcorn bender.
Evan, bless him, is completely oblivious to the chaos brewing under the surface. He just says, "Mom, I didn't know you were coming by."
"I texted you." She looks pointedly at her phone. "At reasonable adult hours."
"I was a little... distracted."
She raises an eyebrow.
I try to shrink into the hoodie. It doesn't work.
"So," she says, turning her attention to me like a cat preparing to pounce, "Leila. That's a pretty name. What do you do?"
"I'm in grad school," I say quickly. "Psych. Also I do freelance editing and occasionally spiral emotionally in grocery store aisles."
Evan coughs on his juice.
Mrs. Keller blinks. "How modern."
"She's very modern," Evan says, smiling like he wants to put a hand on my knee but knows that might cause his mother to combust.
"I see." She takes a sip of coffee. "And how long have you two been… involved?"
"Involved?" I echo. "That sounds like I committed a white-collar crime with him."
Evan looks amused. Mrs. Keller does not.
I scramble. "Uh—technically we're still figuring things out? But we've kissed. And danced in a kitchen. So, like, emotionally adjacent to dating."
Mrs. Keller stares at me like she's trying to decide whether I'm charming or just deeply unwell.
Evan changes the subject. "Did you bring banana bread?"
"Yes. And my opinion."
"Unavoidable, I see."
She finally softens a little. "I just want you happy, Evan."
He glances at me.
"I am."
And that's it. That's the moment.
Because I'm suddenly aware that he's not saying it to shut her up. He's saying it because he means it. Because he really, truly is happy.
With me.
Even when I overshare.
Even when I'm wearing his hoodie and making nervous toast jokes.
Even when his mom is eyeing me like I might spontaneously combust.
I smile, and something eases in my chest.
I'm not what she expected.
But maybe—I'm exactly what he needed.
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