Ruth had been carrying a certain amount of guilt for quite some time, and she’d become used to it. Too used to it, clearly; because the extra guilt created by the way she’d treated Evan was unbalancing her quite horribly. She felt too big for her own skin.

Ruth had come home from her mother’s yesterday, determined to knock at 1B and apologise profusely. She’d managed step one just fine: knocking. Step two had been thwarted by the fact that Evan had not answered, because he was not in.

The man was bloody inconvenient sometimes.

But she found herself grateful for his absence. If he’d been there, what would she have said?

Sometimes my mind gets overwhelmed and all I can do to cut through the confusion is lash out.

Sometimes I think about one thing and remember another and see another and hear another, and that’s just too many things, and I don’t handle it well.

You shouldn’t want to kiss me, because I clearly don’t deserve you.

There. That one worked. That one worked just fine.

Her determination faded overnight, and so did the bravery it had provided. Ruth wasted most of Monday trying to work, failing utterly, and talking to herself about why she should or should not apologise.

When she heard Evan unlock his front door that evening, she abandoned the pretence of work completely and lay down on the floor in her hallway, staring up at the ceiling.

The carpet was thin and scratchy. The floorboards beneath it were hard. She didn’t mind, because the blankness of it all helped her to think, and she wasn’t fit to do anything else.

It wasn’t even that bad. You tell him to fuck off all the time.

But you never meant it, and it never hurt him, so it didn’t matter. This is different.

The worst part was that he hadn’t seemed upset at all. He’d remained composed, had barely even flinched, while she pushed him away with careless, reckless words.

So why was she so sure that he’d actually been devastated?

“I just am,” she mumbled.

And what if she went over there, and apologised—and therefore admitted that she actually gave a shit about what he thought—and it turned out that he wasn’t even bothered?

“Of course he’s bothered,” Ruth sighed. “He wanted to kiss me. He… he caught me off-guard.”

No; the flowers had caught her off-guard. And she’d taken it out on Evan.

You crazy bitch.

“Fuck off,” she muttered. Sometimes her mind spit out recycled epithets instead of actual thoughts. Sometimes her mind was someone else’s weapon.

And sometimes Ruth reacted badly under pressure and made very poor decisions and pushed away people she kind of sort of needed desperately.

Things happened, sometimes.

“So fix it.” She let those words dissolve into the air. Usually, telling herself what to do elicited more efficient results.

It didn’t work. She remained on the floor for at least another hour, or possibly ten minutes. She wasn’t sure. Her phone was in her room. Evan had her number, but she hadn’t heard it beep. She had heard him shower, which meant he should be coming over soon, except he wouldn’t because she’d effectively told him to fuck off.

Actually, you literally told him to fuck off.

Oh, yes.

She got up off the floor.

But wait—she couldn’t go over there. If he was avoiding her, she had to give him… space. Right? That was what you did, after a fight. Was it a fight? That word seemed to belong exclusively to couples, to people with actual relationships.

Well, whatever. They weren’t a couple, but they’d had a fight anyway. And in Ruth’s experience, trying to make up after a fight was… horrible. It involved many cruel words and lots of grovelling and, eventually, mildly painful sex.

The sex part probably wouldn’t happen, at least.

What about the cruelty? The grovelling? Suddenly, she wasn’t sure. Because Evan… well, Evan simply wasn’t cruel. She didn’t think he was physically capable; like an AI with morality parameters, his mouth wouldn’t open to emit unkind words. She couldn’t see it.

Okay. So she’d be an adult and go over there and apologise. And then she’d see what happened next.

She had a feeling that he’d surprise her.

* * *

Ruth had never felt self-conscious about her pyjamas until she found herself standing on Evan’s doorstep, expecting him to open it and tell her to go away.

It was one thing giving herself pep talks from the safety of her flat, but it was another hearing his footsteps come down the hall. Knowing they were about to come face to face. Realising that she was essentially about to admit that she… missed him after a day apart? Desperately needed him not to hate her? Something along those lines.

Before she could psych herself out further, he opened the door.

He looked like shit. There were dark circles under his eyes. His handsome face seemed tight around razor-sharp bones. His thick, blonde hair stuck out at all angles, and when he looked at her, his expression betrayed… nothing. Not even a hint of recognition. She might as well have been made of smoke.

“Evan?” She raised a hand to touch him, hesitated, and the moment—the few seconds when it would have been a reflex, and thus justifiable—passed. Her hand fell. “Are you okay?”

He blinked, then rubbed a hand over his face. Just like that, he became more human than hollowed out husk—but his eyes were still dull, his face still hopeless.

“Ruth,” he said. “Fuck. I forgot to make you dinner.” His head fell back, and he sighed like a teenager who’d forgotten his homework.

She stared at the column of his throat for a second, the bob of his Adam’s apple just beneath his beard, then gave herself a mental slap on the wrist. This was really not the time to ogle his neck.

“You don’t need to apologise,” she said. “Actually, I should—”

“Quiet,” he instructed firmly.

“Um… what?”

“You’re going to say sorry. I’m going to say sorry. Everyone will be sorry. I can’t take it.” This odd little speech was delivered with enough bone-deep weariness to spark Ruth’s concern. He looked down at her and said, “Can we just be okay?”

Well. She’d certainly been right to expect a surprise.

“Ooo-kay,” she said slowly. “Um… Are you alright?”

He shrugged. That was the final straw. Evan never shrugged.

Ignoring the rampaging butterflies in her chest, Ruth manoeuvred her way into the flat—which was difficult, considering Evan’s size and the narrow doorway. But she managed it, easing into his hallway and saying, “Come on.”

He stared at her for a second, blinking slowly. Then his lips tilted in a ghost of his usual smile. “You’re voluntarily seeking out my company? I don’t have to force it on you?”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.” She rolled her eyes and stalked off to the living room. After a long, heavy moment, she heard him shut the front door and follow.

She’d only been in his flat once, but she remembered it well. She’d replayed that evening in her mind countless times, going over every word and look and almost-touch between them, trying to decipher their meaning. And the moment he’d actually touched her, the moment he’d reached out to stop her leaving…

Ruth came to stand by his living room window, staring out at the Elm block’s car park with unseeing eyes. Piecing together the snatches of memory, the rasp of his rough palm against her skin.

She heard him enter the room, and turned to find him watching her, quiet and intent as always.

“Why do you look at me like that?” She blurted out.

His lips tipped into a sharp, unfamiliar smile. “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

Ruth raised her chin. “If we’re okay,” she said, with ice in her voice, “let’s be okay. If we’re not, say so and I will leave.”

With a sigh, Evan sagged. His broad shoulders slumped, his face darkened. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m really fucking sorry. Sit down. Let me get you something.”

Ruth shook her head. “You sit down. You look terrible.”

For a minute, she was certain he’d argue. But then, with a shrug, he came to sit on the sofa, just a few feet away from her.

“Stay there,” she said, walking past him. She had a plan. It was heavily based on the sort of thing her sister might do in this situation. In fact, as she walked, her mind asked on a loop: What Would Hannah Do?

As she passed the sofa, Evan reached out for her. Ruth stopped dead, feeling as if he’d punched her in the stomach, stolen her air and shocked the shit out of her, when all he’d done was wrap an arm around her waist.

She looked down. His head was bowed, resting against her hip. He took breaths so deep that she could see his shoulders rise. Then, his voice muffled slightly, he asked, “What are you doing?”

Really, she should be the one asking him that. Instead, she said lightly, “I’m looking after you.”

He swallowed. “I don’t need looking after.”

“Why? Because you’re the world’s saviour?” Ruth smiled as he looked up sharply, surprise all over his face. “Everyone needs looking after, Evan. And you have stolen my apology, so you can let me do this instead.”

He gave a weak imitation of his usual laugh. But it still counted. Ruth allowed her hand to settle on his head, just for a second. Her fingers sank into his soft, sandy hair, and she watched as his eyes widened.

Then she pulled away and walked briskly to the kitchen. Her hand tingled all the way.

She wasn’t surprised to find his cupboards fully stocked. Ruth chose some bread and three tins of chicken soup. Then she figured out the microwave, because setting his kitchen on fire wouldn’t make him feel any better.

Ignoring her still-tingling palm, she heated up the meal.

It was what Hannah would do.