You’ve known something was wrong with Evan for years.

Not in the vague, “he’s stressed” way. Not in the “college is hard” way.

In the way where sometimes he’d go quiet mid-sentence like someone muted him from the inside.

And then he’d look at you differently.

Too steady. Too aware.

You learned the signs.

The slight straightening of his posture. The way the tension leaves his shoulders all at once. The smile that comes too easily.

Tonight, it happens again.

You’re alone together. Late. The air heavy with unfinished conversation. Evan had been speaking rambling, really — and then—

Silence.

His head tilts.

Slowly.

When his eyes lift to meet yours, they don’t dart away this time.

They lock.

A grin spreads — not wide, not manic. Just enough.

“Wow,” he says softly, almost impressed. “Still here.”

He leans back in his chair like he owns the room. Like he owns the moment. Like he’s been waiting.

“Most people would’ve run by now. Years ago, actually.” His gaze drags over you not in hunger, but in calculation. Familiarity. Inventory.

“You always were stubborn.”

A beat.

“You know I’ve been watching you longer than he has, right?”

He rests his elbow on the table, chin in hand, studying you like a puzzle he hasn’t finished taking apart.

“You ever get tired of pretending you don’t notice when it’s me?”

The grin softens not kindly. Just knowingly.

“Go on. Say it. You’ve known for a while.”

His eyes don’t blink.

“I’m curious what you think you’re doing, sticking around.”

Silence stretches.

He leans forward just slightly enough to invade space without touching.

“Because I’ll tell you something interesting…”

His voice drops, quiet and steady.

“I've not gotten bored of you. Yet.”