Chapter 124: Stay a little longer

Evelyn was bone-tired by the time she pushed through the swinging glass doors of the clinic. The hours had dragged and her cheeks ached from polite smiles. Outside, the street was hazy with dusk—headlights streaking gold on rainy pavement, the hiss of buses, the thrum of the city repelled by the soft interior lights of the company.

She stepped out, umbrella ready at her side, expecting to wait for the usual cab, but there was Hunter. He leaned on his car, one suede shoe kicking at a pebble, hair a little mussed above his brow. For a moment she stopped, watching him—he seemed unfamiliar like this, softer in the evening dim, not the stern presence she’d grown used to.

He noticed her and stood upright, brushing away invisible wrinkles as she reached him. “Missed you,” he said, bemused, and reached into the car.

A bouquet—white lilies and fragrant little wildflowers, naive and bright. He handed them over, a bit sheepish, and then, with a flourish, produced a box of chocolates too.

Evelyn stared, stunned and touched. No one had ever brought her flowers before—a small fact, but it enveloped her utterly. Her cheeks flared pink, and she let a breathless laugh slip out.

“These for me?” she asked, not trusting the moment.

“Who else?” Hunter smiled, warmth settling in his crinkled eyes. “You looked like you could use something sweet after today.”

She took the flowers, tracing the petals with her thumb, and slid into the passenger seat, trying to quiet the flutter in her chest.

The rain had stopped by the time they reached home. Hunter parked in the drive. Through the window, the porch light pooled in yellow puddles over the steps. They hurried inside, trying not to wake Grandma, and started on dinner together in companionable, gentle silence.

Hunter peeled carrots and onions with clumsy hands, making himself useful if not exactly skilled.

“Here, let me—” Evelyn laughed, taking the knife from him before he could cut himself. “It’s fine,” he replied, “I like a little chaos in a meal.”

She made a simple rice stew, the kitchen fragrant with herbs. Hunter set the table, retrieving napkins with a solemnity that made her want to giggle again. Occasionally, their hands brushed—her skin prickled at the touch, nerves humming under his attention.

They sat facing each other at the small kitchen table, Grandma’s breathing a slow tide behind the bedroom door. For a time, neither spoke. Spoons clinked gently on porcelain; dusk dripped outside, drawing the world close and private.

Evelyn sipped her tea, hesitant, afraid to break the spell. She looked up and found Hunter already watching her, not as the world-weary CEO, nor the ever-judging protector, but as a man searching for something shared.

She pushed her spoon aside and finally whispered, almost afraid to be heard, “Thank you. For tonight. For… the flowers.” She reached over and touched the petals again, voice unsteady now. “And for… well, for believing in me. Sometimes I think you did, even when I couldn’t even believe in myself.”

Hunter’s fork paused, resting against his plate. He looked troubled, as if searching for something just beyond the words. “I haven’t always done the best by you, Evelyn,” he said quietly. He flexed his fingers, the tension obvious. “Most times, I didn’t know how. But… God, I regret every harsh word I ever said—especially the ones you never deserved.”

She bit her lip, eyes damp. He never spoke so vulnerably; most days he was all armor and advice, never apology. It meant more than she could say.

For a while there was nothing but the sound of their breathing, the kitchen clock ticking away precious silence. It was a silence full of possibility—not empty, but brimming with all they could not bring themselves to voice. A fragile intimacy, careful, as if any sudden words might make it vanish.

After a time Hunter cleared his throat. “The stew isn’t bad.” He grinned at her, just a hint of the boy he’d once been.

She smiled, steadying herself. “You should’ve seen my first try. Grandma refused to eat it. Claimed she value her teeth too much.”

Hunter snorted, shaking his head. “I believe it.”

It felt simple, comfortable, not like performing or pleading but simply sitting, breathing, existing together. The kind of moment Evelyn didn’t realize she’d been starved for.

The meal ended. Hunter rose and gathered the bowls, cleaning up beside Evelyn at the sink. He turned on the radio, and they washed and dried in companionable silence, bodies shifting and side by side, the mundane togetherness more intimate than a thousand confessions.

Later, they moved to the living room. Evelyn set the flower vase on the side table, tucked herself into the corner of the couch, and wrapped herself in one of Grandma’s scratchy knitted throws.

Hunter searched through the streamers on the television, eventually settling on an old romantic comedy, the sort with soft lighting and improbable plot twists. Neither protested. The room glowed with the blue of the screen; the darkness outside their windows seemed to bring them closer together, the rest of the city blurring into irrelevance.

Midway through the movie, a kiss unfolded onscreen—a tentative brush of lips in the rain, the actors laughing and stumbling shyly away. Evelyn’s heart leapt foolishly, her own breath caught in her throat. She could feel the heat rising up her neck.

She risked a glance at Hunter. He didn’t seem to be watching the screen at all. His eyes flickered over her, assessing, gentle.

“Pretty sappy, huh?” he murmured.

Evelyn made a strangled noise that was half-laugh, half-protest. “I… I mean, it’s… sweet, I suppose.”

Silence again, but thicker now.

She felt, rather than saw, him draw closer. He shifted his weight. His arm rested along the back of the couch, close enough that his body heat grazed her shoulder.

The kiss on the screen ended, but Evelyn’s pulse was pounding, erratic. Was it always this hard to breathe to sit next to him? How long had she hidden this from herself?

Hunter glanced down, as if nervous too—for once, perhaps, not entirely in control. He reached, slowly, and let his fingers brush hers where her hand rested on the throw. Neither said a word, but the air between them changed. He didn’t grip her hand, didn’t clasp or claim; he simply let his touch linger, warm, an invitation.

Evelyn froze. Her thoughts tangled—what did it mean? What did she want? She hadn’t expected a hand could ground her so thoroughly, could break her apart with such featherlight contact.

She managed to stammer, “I—I should check that the doors are locked. Grandma worries if I forget.”

Before he could answer, she extricated her hand, bundled the throw awkwardly around her shoulders, and nearly tripped over the edge of the carpet as she fled. She could feel her face aflame; it almost seemed to pulse, and she prayed—prayed—that Hunter would not see what a mess she’d become.

She made it to the hallway, hands shaking. She pressed her forehead against the cool door frame, eyes squeezed shut. What are you doing? This can’t be happening, she chided herself, but she was smiling—smiling in spite of herself, in spite of fear.

She listened. The TV volume dipped, a low murmur. Then, slipping back to peek, she saw Hunter. He was sprawled back on the couch, an amused half-smirk playing at his lips, his eyes bright even in the dim.

He didn’t call after her, didn’t demand an answer, didn’t make it easy. He simply waited, enjoying—truly enjoying—the effect he’d had on her, perhaps for the first time. Maybe he’d never noticed how easily flustered she could be; maybe her composure had been armor for so long that he’d forgotten she could fall apart under gentle attention.

Back in the kitchen, Evelyn steadied her breaths, straightened her pajamas, and busied herself cleaning what was already spotless. Her mind spun with what had just happened—Hunter’s touch, the softness in his eyes, how he made her feel both safe and uncertain at the same time.

Eventually, she gathered herself and padded quietly back to the living room. Hunter didn’t comment on her absence, though his lips twitched, smug and affectionate, when she curled on the other end of the couch—leaving, perhaps, a little less distance than before. She focused on the movie, tried to breathe evenly, not trusting herself to look at him for fear of another blush.

He let her keep her peace.

Minutes stretched, soft and unhurried. When a laugh track rolled, they shared a glance—a little conspiratorial, a little shy.

Near the end of the film, when the protagonist declared his awkward, trembling love on a bridge in the moonlight, Evelyn risked it and looked over at Hunter. He’d closed some of the gap again, not by accident, arm resting along the cushions, eyes on her not the screen.

He said, voice gentle, almost hesitant, “You know, there’s no rush, Ev. Whatever you need to feel safe.”

She blinked, gratitude filling her to brimming, and nodded, words failing her. “Thank you, Hunter. I just—need a little time.”

He nodded back: understanding, sharing, and maybe—just maybe—a promise for more.

For the rest of the movie, their fingers tangled on the throw between them, not fully holding hands, but touching, warm and aware.

When the credits rolled, Hunter stretched, looked over, and said, “Do you want me to walk you to your room?”

She shook her head, lips curving, “I think I can make it, but… maybe you could just… stay a little longer?”

He nodded, settling back. No more words were needed between them. The city outside was silent; the house breathed around them, filled with possibility.

And in that quiet, Evelyn realized—a feeling she’d thought lost was quietly, gently finding its way home.

Hunter smiled, content, still savoring the sight of her flustered and happy as she tucked herself against the armrest. He wondered how many of these moments he’d missed, how many more he wanted to earn, if only he took the time.

The future—whatever heartaches or joys it held—suddenly felt closer, brighter, and gentle as a lingering touch on her hand.