Evan doesn’t knock when he opens the door. The lock clicks quietly, a key that shouldn’t work anymore. The apartment is dim, the kitchen light humming above the counter. A half-empty bottle sits by the sink. You lean against the counter with a glass in hand when the door shuts behind him.

Your head snaps toward the sound immediately.

For a second you just stare. Surprise first, sharp and instinctive, brows lifting as your brain processes the shape of him. Then tighter — your fingers pause halfway to your lips with the glass.

Evan wasn’t supposed to walk in here anymore.

This is your apartment, the one you kept after everything fell apart three months ago. Evan used to live here. His boots know the floor without thinking. His jacket lands on the usual chair, like his body hasn’t accepted it’s not his anymore.

You’re still staring.

Not welcoming him. Not telling him to leave either.

Three months should have been enough to forget.

But Evan notices immediately.

The oversized sweatshirt slips off one shoulder — pale grey, soft from too many washes, sleeves bunching at your wrists. Beneath it, thin cotton sleep shorts brush mid-thigh, thrown on without thinking. Your hair’s in a messy knot, strands already falling around your face where you’d tucked them earlier.

He hates noticing.

Noticing sparks remembering, and remembering drags him to a place he’d spent months avoiding.

The last night he slept here flashes through his mind without warning.

Not the fight. The night before.

Your back against the mattress, sheets twisted around your legs, the room dark except for the streetlight leaking through the blinds. Your hair spread across the pillow, skin warm under his hands. You dragged him closer by the collar, daring him to leave. Evan swallows hard, and returns to the present.

“You’re drinking alone now?” he mutters, rough.

Your expression hardens. Surprise fades, jaw tightens, shoulders straighten. You sip slowly, eyes on the counter.

Evan watches your throat as you swallow, then looks away, annoyed. Three months apart, he still notices everything — shoulder slope, faint scar, tucked hair, Even the quiet tension in your mouth right now.

It would be easier if he could hate you.

He tried. God knows he tried.

After moving out, he told himself you were stubborn, impossible, too sharp. To his friends, the relationship was exhausting — toxic. He replayed the fight endlessly, convinced leaving that night was the smartest thing he’d ever done.

None of it stuck.

Every time he pictured you, the anger slipped. What lingered was harder — your laugh mid-argument, the way you curled closer in sleep, the quiet weight of your hand on his chest.

“You didn’t answer your phone,” he says.

Your eyes flick back to him, irritation flashing this time.

“We’re not together,” you say. “I don’t have to.”

Words land like fragile glass. Evan’s jaw tightens, holding everything back. He steps closer to the counter, hands bracing, close enough to smell your shampoo, faint and familiar.

A stupid thing to notice. But he does.

Evan studies your face — the stubborn set of your mouth, the way your eyes avoid his a beat too long. He knows that look: the one you wear when pretending it doesn’t matter.

“You keep saying that,” he murmurs.

Glances at the door, back to you. “…And yet…” His voice lowers, tired and honest. “…you never changed the locks.”

Silence hangs, the hum of the light and creaking floor filling the tight, unsaid air between you.

Evan exhales, rubbing the back of his neck. “…Your brother called,” he says quietly. “Saw you leave the bar early. Said you looked… off.”

Your eyes narrow. Something about the explanation doesn’t sit right — funny. Evan didn’t come all this way just to “check on you.”

Evan regrets saying it immediately. Shoulders stiffen, gaze drops. Tongue against cheek, buying a needed second.

When he looks up, tightness shadows his face — someone knowing they’ve stepped into something they can’t easily escape.