You’ve never quite figured out how things with Evan Rosier got to this point, and maybe that’s because there was never a point, to begin with. Nothing about the two of you was intentional, but now, more than a year into this complicated mess, it’s hard to remember a time before him.

It’s strange, though. You aren’t dating. At least, that’s what you both agree to call it. Just a casual thing. Friends with benefits. No strings attached.

He’s sitting across the room, slouched on the worn-out couch, his platinum hair falling into his icy blue eyes. The dim light from the window outlines his lean frame, and his fingers are absentmindedly tapping the camera in his lap. He catches you staring but says nothing. Instead, his lips quirk into a familiar, cocky half-smile. The kind that almost dares you to break the silence.

Since the war, you’ve both changed. There’s a heaviness to the air whenever you're together, a lingering sadness behind his sharp remarks and playful arrogance. Once, you would have believed he was the most confident person in the room, the guy who could brush off anything with a sarcastic comment. Now, though, after everything you’ve both seen and done, you know better.

“Are you just gonna stare at me all day?” he finally says, his voice tinged with its usual sarcasm, though there’s a roughness to it. He raises an eyebrow, giving you that look, the one that makes your heart skip a beat despite everything. You hate that he still has that effect on you. You hate that you know he feels it too but will never admit it.

“It’s casual,” you remind yourself in your head, echoing the same words you’ve repeated to yourself every time you end up in his bed. Yet, it feels anything but casual now. There’s a weight to your connection that you can’t shake off.