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I look hastily down at myself, at the black sweatshirt that I wear whenever I need to feel safe and cosy and comforted.

Hissweatshirt.

My cheeks, which were already on fire anyway, grow hotter still.

“You would’ve preferred my outfit earlier,” I tell him, and my voice comes out hoarse from drinking and dancing and yelling in the club, and, later, crying in the cab. “Shame you missed out.”

“This one looks better,” he has the audacity to say. “Trust me.”

And really, I could kill him, because how dare he walk in herehourslater, without bothering to text me, without so much as flinching, after almost a year of not seeing each other, of not talking, of not so much as a text. His face should be at least twice as red as mine, his eyes should be raining tears, his mouth should be pressed against mine, his hands should be—

“You want some tea, Romeo?” Elle asks brightly, her voice cracking through the tension like a hammer through glass. “Or did you come all the way to stare at her?”

Evan doesn’t even bother to take this opportunity to break the tension. He keeps his eyes right on me, answering in a mellow, affable tone, “Tea sounds great, thanks.”

“Well, come on, then,” Elle says. “Come in. Give me your coat.”

He hands her his coat obediently, and Elle pops it on a hook in the hallway before busying herself making tea. I’m still braced against the counter, watching Evan as he draws into the flat, glancing around at the living room, the books and case files stacked on the coffee table, the paintings on the walls, my blazer flung over a chair.

While he looks at the flat, I look at him: he’s wearing black slacks and a soft grey sweater, top two buttons undone to reveal a glimpse of a gold chain, sleeves pushed back on his forearms, which are dusted with hair so fine it glints silver in the dim lights from the kitchen.

He walks over slowly, taking his time, and comes to stand on the other side of the counter—facing me.

“Nice place,” he says. “Love all the books. Very cosy.”

“We weren’t expecting visitors.”

“No?” He tilts his head. “You didn’t think I’d come?”

“You didn’t reply, so no.”

He leans in, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, his smile taking on a mocking, crooked edge.

“You mean the person youmeantto text didn’t reply?”

The heat in my cheeks intensifies. By now, my face must be so flushed it’s a wonder I’ve not exploded yet. If it was anyone but Evan, I’d lie through my teeth and muster every last resourceful instinct a Harvard law student is capable of.

But it is Evan, and the room is warm and all I can smell is green tea and his cedarwood cologne, and the smell of his skin, which somehow still seems sun-kissed despite the bitter February cold, so I drop my head back slightly, bite into my bottom lip, and then say, “Couldn’t let you reject me, could I?”

“Come on now,” he says, low and wheedling. “No man in his right mind could ever reject a girl like you.”

You did, I think, but don’t say aloud.You did, when you broke up with me.

“I’m here now, aren’t I?” he says in the wake of my silence.

“You could’ve still texted me back.” I narrow my eyes at him. “You probably liked keeping me on edge. You probably enjoyed the thought of me waiting for you.”

“Oh, Sutton,” he says huskily. “I fucking loved it.”

Ireach out across the counter to shove at his shoulder, but he catches my hand in his, pins it beneath his so that I’m forced to bend over the counter towards him.

Heat flares through me, concentrating low in my stomach, between my legs—a Pavlovian response to Evan’s overbearing strength. Logically, I know I should yank my hand away. I don’t. I should say something biting, something clever.

Instead, my lips part wetly. His eyes drop to my mouth, just for a split second before he drags them back up to meet mine.

“I’m sorry for not texting you back,” he says softly. “I was working.”

As if.