Over just a few weeks, Ruth and Evan had managed to establish a routine.

He’d come home from work, and she’d hear his front door slam. Most days, he went for a run, and when he came back she’d hear the pipes of his shower clunk. Soon after, he’d turn up with dinner. She’d let him in with faux reluctance, and they’d talk shit for the next two hours. Or three. Or however long it took her to regain her senses and kick him out.

Ruth was aware that, as they said in American films, she had a good thing going. She rarely had a good thing going. She would not derail it by introducing complications such as kissing and touching and talking about serious things, even if she felt a painful need to engage in the first two and a strange, tentative desire for the last.

She bore that fact in mind on Saturday, when she heard Evan’s familiar knock. He’d come over early because it was a weekend, she told herself firmly. He had no work, and time to kill. It didn’t mean he was eager to see her. She shouldn’t be eager to see him.

Ruth forced herself to walk to the door, stifling the urge to skip through the house like a kid hyped up on E numbers. She took a deep breath before she opened up, hoping that the anticipation bursting in her chest wouldn’t show.

“Hey,” he said. “Since when do you wear glasses?”

Crap. Ruth yanked off the round, baby-pink frames, as if he hadn’t already gotten a good look. “I only wear them when I’m working.” And then, to explain their frivolous appearance: “I got them years ago.”

Back when she’d been someone else.

He followed her inside, towards the kitchen, as was their habit. “Don’t you need them all the time?”

She shrugged and took today’s steaming dishes off his hands, hoping he wouldn’t notice her lack of response.

But Evan noticed everything. “You know,” he said, arching a brow, “I’m kind of glad you don’t go out much. I’m surprised you haven’t been hit by a bus.”

“I don’t like having things on my face.” She sat down and dug into what appeared to be steak and kidney pie.

“Even if those things allow you to see?”

“Eat your food.”

“As my lady wishes.”

“Shut up.”

He smirked. It wasn’t an unusual exchange for the two of them, but something in the way he looked at her, something smouldering beneath the calm depths of his ocean eyes, made Ruth suddenly and uncomfortably… aware. Aware of him, aware of herself, aware of the memory of his hands against her skin. Painfully aware.

She hoped to God that she wasn’t making it obvious. Only, knowing her, she absolutely was. Somehow. Ruth went over their every interaction as she ate, running through memories of the previous days, making sure she hadn’t messed up.

“You finished?”

She jolted at the sound of his voice. His plate was empty, and so was hers, though she didn’t remember eating. She did that sometimes; disappeared.

He was looking at her expectantly, with his usual gentle smile—and was she imagining something else there? Something satisfied and hungry all at once?

Maybe she was projecting. That was another thing she did sometimes.

“Yes,” Ruth said, jumping up from her seat. “Of course. Let me take your plate.”

“I can—”

“Let me!” Her voice sounded squeakier than it should. She cleared her throat. “Um… Can I get you some…”

“Tea? Yes, please.”

She set the plates aside and went through the familiar motions of preparing their drinks. Typically, this was what she did towards the end of the evening. If she hurried up their unofficial routine, he would leave earlier. Right?

But you don’t want him to leave.

Yes, I do.

No, you don’t. He doesn’t want to leave, either.

“Ruth?”

“Quiet!” She snapped. It was automatic. Any interruption to the voices in her head, especially when she felt on the verge of an Important Discovery, was to be avoided.

But then she remembered that telling guests to shut up was extremely ill-mannered, and then she remembered that Evan was one of the few people in the world who deserved all of her time and all of her kindness. Clapping a hand over her mouth, she turned to face him. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that.”

He didn’t look offended. In fact, he was sitting casually in her little kitchen chair with an easy smile on his handsome face. “I know. It’s just your artistic temperament.”

Ruth pursed her lips. “I do not have an artistic temperament.” She turned back to the counter and grabbed a couple of tea bags, plopping them into the mugs before pouring the hot water.

“Sure you do. It’s why you won’t let me see your web comic.”

“No-one sees my web comic.”

“How do you make money from it if no-one sees it?”

The familiar back-and-forth eased her tightly coiled nerves. Feeling a little more like herself, Ruth rolled her eyes. “No-one I know sees it.” Except Marjaana, of course. “Strangers see plenty.” One sugar for her. Three, disturbingly, for him. Though she supposed his excessive taste could be justified by his ridiculous size.

“See?” He nodded sagely. “Artistic temperament. It also explains why you’re so moody.”

Ruth gasped. She turned, either to get the milk or argue with him. He already had the milk, was somehow standing before her, holding it out like bait. And she could tell from the gleam in his eyes that he wanted her to argue.

He arched a brow. Just one. It was something he did often, and it made her stomach flip every time. “Why do you look so outraged? Aren’t you the woman who threw me out for preferring Ayo over Okoye?”

“I didn’t throw you out,” she muttered.

“Okay.” His massive shoulders lifted. “Let’s say firmly invited me to leave.”

She bit her lip to hide a smile. “Whatever. Dinner was over anyway.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “If you say so.”

She rolled her eyes and picked up the mugs. He deftly took them from her and carried them into the living room, as if she wasn’t capable of handling it herself.

True, she usually spilled tea everywhere. But her balance would never get better if she didn’t practice.

Evan lowered the mugs onto her coffee table with irritating grace before sitting on the loveseat. Not for the first time, she wished she owned properly sized furniture. But when she’d bought these things, she hadn’t expected visitors.

He lounged against the plush, purple loveseat, his arm slung over the back, one ankle resting on his knee. Usually, he didn’t take up this much space. Or maybe she was just imagining things.

Wetting her lower lip slightly, Ruth sat.

“I enjoyed starting X-Men,” he said, and she relaxed. This was normal; this was their routine. It was just Evan, after all. She knew him, as much as you could know anyone after… how long had it been? Three weeks? Four? It felt like more than that. Could it be more than that?

She shook her head and focused on the conversation. Time didn’t matter, and neither did her rather inappropriate attraction. As long as she focused on X-Men, everything would be simple.

Everything was not simple.

Ruth didn’t know exactly when she transformed from a normal human being into an embarrassing jelly of desire. Maybe it started when he reached out, mid-conversation, to pull on a tuft of hair that had somehow escaped her braid.

He pretended not to notice the fact that she stumbled over her words, that she licked her lips a thousand times in the space of a minute. And she refrained from asking him what the fuck he was doing, because whatever it was, it sent a delicious streak of excitement through her, and she liked it.

Then he touched her again, casually, bumping his knee into hers. He’d never done that before. How many times had they sat together, just like this, and he’d never done that before? Enough, she thought.

And yet, tonight, his knee brushed hers repeatedly. And, as if something drew her towards him, Ruth did the same. She forgot to be careful about avoiding him, forgot to hold herself stiff and apart. And when she let go of that tightly-wound control, they came together like magnets. Until she regained her senses and pulled back.

Only, she kept forgetting to pull back.

By the time he swallowed the last sip of his tea, she was almost frantic. Could he see her tightening nipples through her clothes? It was times like this she wished she could wear a bra without wanting to be sick.

What if he noticed the stutter in her voice, the way her gaze lingered on his big hands, on the ink winding over his forearms?

What would he do if she knew that she was sitting next to him, barely listening to word he said, underwear soaking wet?

“I’ll get you some more tea,” she blurted out.

He looked surprised. “I don’t—”

“It’s fine. I want more too.” She stood quickly, practically leaping away from the warmth of his body. Then, with a tight smile, she reached down the take his mug. He stared up at her, a bemused expression on his face. But something heavy and molten burned in his eyes. It was something she’d only caught flashes of before, something that made her heart pound.

She wasn’t afraid of him. She should be, but she wasn’t. Strangely, it was her own fearlessness that scared the shit out of her.

As he passed her the mug, his fingers brushed over hers. A surge of electricity shot through her, dancing along her nerve endings, stoking the flames between her legs.

She whimpered.

His eyes flew to hers. “Ruth.”

She ignored him. As if nothing had happened, she picked up her own mug and turned to leave the room.

“If you don’t come back here, I’m coming to get you.”

She didn’t reply, because she couldn’t trust her voice. Instead she marched to the kitchen, as if movement could erase the mortification of what had just happened.

She’d whimpered. Jesus fucking Christ. She would never live this down.