The rules lasted exactly one day.
Not because either of us broke them outright—but because they began to rot from the inside.
I noticed it in the smallest things. The way Evan waited for me in the mornings now, pretending to scroll through his phone so we'd leave the apartment at the same time. The way his eyes followed me when he thought I wasn't looking. The way my body leaned toward him before my brain could intervene.
Distance, I learned, was easier to agree to than to maintain.
That night, I stayed late at work on purpose. Emails I didn't need to answer. Tasks that could've waited. Anything to delay coming home and facing the quiet tension that had taken up residence between us.
By the time I unlocked the door, the apartment was dark except for the glow of the living room lamp.
Evan sat on the floor, back against the couch, sleeves rolled up again. A half-empty glass of water rested near his hand. He looked up when I came in, expression unreadable.
"You're late," he said.
"Yeah," I replied. "Sorry."
He nodded once, accepting it too easily. That unsettled me more than if he'd questioned it.
I moved toward my room, then hesitated.
"Did you eat?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Wasn't hungry."
A lie. Or maybe just another version of restraint.
I set my bag down. "I can make something."
He studied me for a moment, like he was deciding whether to say yes—or whether saying yes would mean more than food.
"You don't have to," he said finally.
"I know," I said. "I want to."
Something shifted in his expression. Not relief. Something softer. More dangerous.
We stood in the kitchen together again, careful with our movements, like two people handling exposed wires. I chopped vegetables. He leaned against the counter, watching me with an intensity that made my skin prickle.
"You always cut onions like that," he said.
I paused. "Like what?"
"Too fast," he replied. "Like you're afraid to slow down."
I swallowed. "I've had practice."
"With me?" he asked quietly.
I didn't answer.
The silence stretched. Not heavy. Just honest.
When the food was done, we ate at the counter instead of the table. Less formal. Less intimate. Or so we told ourselves.
"You don't look at me anymore," he said suddenly.
I froze, fork halfway to my mouth.
"That's not true," I said.
"It is," he replied. "You look past me. Around me. Like if you don't see me, you won't feel it."
"And what if I do feel it?" I asked.
His jaw tightened. "Then we're in trouble."
After dinner, I went to wash the dishes. He stepped beside me without asking. Too close. Close enough that I could feel his warmth through the thin fabric of my shirt.
I shifted. He didn't.
"You said you wanted rules," I reminded him.
"I did," he said. "I still do."
"Then step back."
He hesitated. Just for a second.
"I can't," he admitted.
The honesty in it unraveled me.
I turned to face him, heart pounding. "Then don't look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're remembering everything," I whispered.
His eyes darkened. "I am."
The space between us vanished—not with touch, but with intention. With breath. With the weight of years pressing down all at once.
"Lena," he said softly, "I don't know how to want you less."
I stepped back first, chest tight.
"That's the problem," I said. "You never did."
I retreated to my room and closed the door, leaning against it as my heartbeat thundered in my ears.
On the other side, I heard him exhale—long and unsteady.
We were pretending the rules still existed.
But the truth was already clear.
The space between us wasn't closing.
It was pulling us in.