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“Nothing,” I answer. “You ordered those things very confidently.”

He leans forward, taps my chin with a fingertip. “Have I gotten anything wrong?”

I laugh a little breathlessly. “You know you haven’t.”

“What can I say?” He leans closer as he slides his finger lightly along my jaw, my neck, brushing my hair over my shoulder, the low bronze light highlighting the angles of his face, those cheekbones, that cocky, devastating mouth. “I know what you like.”

And doesn’t he just.

Heat pools low in my stomach. I reach for my water, take a hasty sip to settle the flutter in my chest, almost embarrassed by how red I can feel mycheeks growing.

Dessert comes, a welcome distraction, and Evan pushes his plate casually closer to me, letting me dip my spoon in his dessert as he fills me in on what he’s been doing at Inkspill.

“We finally signed that deal with NYU Press,” he says, eyes glinting with pride and satisfaction. “Matt and Patch had a pool going that we’d never pull it off, but ever since we got that feature inThe New York Times, we’ve been basically doing the impossible. We’re probably going to have to hire a team for Matt—the poor bastard’s swamped—he hasn’t left the office in a week straight.”

I’m trying hard to listen, but his arm is draped around me, and his thumb, while he speaks, is stroking the sliver of skin between my black turtleneck top and the waistband of my skirt, and shivers are running all along my body.

“Never thought I’d see the day Evan Knight’s job was getting books out into the world.”

“Don’t worry, I’m still a cool kid,” Evan says, grinning. “I’m still a swimming champ and I’ve traded rugby for tennis, which is arguably cooler.”

“Less risk of brain damage,” I nod wisely. I know he’s been playing tennis because he’s looking leaner and he’s gold all over from spending time catching the sun in tennis courts, hair bleached almost silver. “So does landing NYU Press mean you’re staying at Inkspill, then?”

He hesitates, his grin wavering.

“Well, it means we’re on solid ground, finally, not just buying ourselves more time before disaster. Technically, I’ve done what I was supposed to do—what Dad sent me there to do. Inkspill is profitable, and it’s only going to get better, which means…”

His voice trails off for a second.

“Which means, yeah, I don’t have to stay there. My dad’s offered me a position at KMG. Any department of my choice, andhis mentorship towards a leadership role.” He smiles slightly, though not with his usual boyish enthusiasm. “It was the reward he promised me if I saved Inkspill.”

“And? Isn’t this what you wanted, though?”

He pauses. Drags a hand through his hair in that distracted way of his.

“Yeah, I should take the KMG offer,” he says, the conviction in his voice about as fragile as the caramelised sugar of my crème brûlée. “It’s what I worked for, right?”

A strange emotion blooms in my chest. It’s surreal, realising how much he’s changed. That the boy who used to care about nothing but winning and breaking rules is now this man, sitting across from me, questioning his future, weighing his choices. A man with paperbacks littering his car and long nights spent working overtime to help his production manager sort out late shipments.

But more than that, it’s surreal knowing I’m the only one who’s ever seen both versions of him. That I’ve watched him grow into this.

And, God, I’ve never loved him more.

I shrug, cracking my dessert with the tip of my spoon.

“Or you could just stay at Inkspill.”

He looks back at me. His thumb presses into my back, tracing the ridge of my spine. “You think?”

“Why not?”

“Because—wouldn’t it be a bit fucking crazy?” he asks, grinning crookedly. “Choosing my dusty desk at some nerdy little imprint when I could have my own office in New York?”

“Definitely crazy.” I laugh and feed him a spoon of crème brûlée. “We can be crazy together, since I’m also thinking I might not take the job at KMG after I graduate.”

“You’re not?”

Despite the question, he doesn’t actually sound surprised.