The sight of Ruth approaching with food should’ve shocked Evan half to death. But he wasn’t exactly himself, so he only felt a muffled sort of surprise as she pushed the tray into his hands. A tray containing buttered bread and a steaming bowl of chicken soup.

He looked up at her, slightly worried. “Did you slice the bread yourself?”

She held up her hands. “I still have all my fingers. See?”

That was true. He stared at her outstretched hands for a moment, at the fine, brown lines etching her palms. Probably for too long. Only, he’d like to trace the lines.

She dropped her hands and said, “Eat.”

“Are you going to loom over me until I do?” Huh. Ten minutes with Ruth and he was able to make bad jokes.

She didn’t laugh, of course. After a shrug and a wary look at the space beside him, she sat on the far end of the sofa. She crossed her legs, her fluffy, spotted socks peeking out from beneath her knees, her hands folded in her lap. Then she said again, “Eat.”

He ate. The hot soup seemed to fill the icy chasm in his chest with something warm and soothing.

Or maybe that was Ruth’s glowering presence.

When he was nearly done with the enormous bowl of soup, and feeling halfway human, she spoke again.

“Are you sick?

“No,” he said.

“But you’re not okay.”

Evan felt himself smile. “I’m flattered that you noticed.”

“I was just hungry,” she shrugged. “Usually, when I’m hungry, you arrive. So I decided to investigate.”

“Bollocks. You were worried about me and you wanted to see me.”

“Your head is the size of a hot air balloon. What’s wrong?”

Those last words were forceful enough to make Evan look up from the dregs of his soup. He frowned over at Ruth, guilt breaking through his foul mood as he realised that she was actually worried.

Did he really look that terrible?

“I had some… bad news,” he began.

She nodded, her hands twisting in her lap. It was a movement she made a lot, apparently absent-mindedly; slowly rolling her hands around each other, wringing them gently.

He had no idea how to explain what had happened to him today. He barely understood it himself. But he had the oddest feeling that if he told Ruth everything, she’d see it from a perspective he hadn’t considered and say something that would make it all better. So he told her. Everything.

“When I was 15, my dad died in active duty.”

Ruth didn’t make any exclamations of shock or horror. She didn’t apologise. She just nodded, which was good, because if anything interrupted the story he might never finish telling it.

“We got some money. My mum hadn’t worked for a while, but she’d been a librarian. So we moved to some town in the south, and she started working at a library again. After a year or so, I started to feel better. You know; happy. Like there wasn’t a gaping hole in the family. We were doing okay. But then she got cancer.”

He heard Ruth swallow. He watched her bite her lip.

“Are you hungry?” He asked, suddenly concerned. “You haven’t eaten.”

She looked at him, her eyes gentle for once. “Keep going.”

Right. She wouldn’t let him stop now. He nodded. “So, she got cancer. Breast cancer. Had chemo, had surgery. Was in remission for a little while, but I feel like she knew…” He shrugged. “I don’t know. It ended up in her spine, and I feel like even when they said she was better, she knew she wasn’t. But my mum was very cheerful. She was always smiling and focusing on everyone else, on helping people. She didn’t think about herself much.”

“Like you.” Ruth said. Not as if it were a compliment, exactly; more like she was clarifying, verbalising her understanding. So Paris is the capital of France, and your mother was like you.

He shrugged, feeling suddenly awkward. “I don’t know. I’d like to be like her. She was a good person.”

Ruth nodded.

“But when she died I signed up to the army. So I suppose I’m more like my dad. I mean, he was an officer, but I like making things, so I became a metalsmith. That’s what it’s called.” Most people had no idea what he meant, when he told them what he’d done. Ruth just nodded. She was doing a lot of nodding right now. He didn’t mind. “I served for eleven years, and I felt like it made me… better. I felt like I got over it.”

Ruth gave a sad smile. “There are some things you don’t get over. You just accept them, and keep breathing. That’s enough.”

He huffed out a humourless laugh. She didn’t know how right she was. Eleven years in the army, while everyone else forged friendships that would last a lifetime, and all he had was friendly acquaintances and fuck buddies.

He hadn’t been capable of much else, not for years, no matter how hard he tried. He hadn’t been over the loss of his family. He’d just been trying to accept it.

“I wish I’d had someone to tell me that,” he admitted. “My mum would’ve told me that. But…” He shrugged. Because he was better now, and had been for a while. “I met a guy here in Ravenswood. At work. I like him. Turns out, his mother’s sick too.”

“Zachary Davis,” Ruth said.

Evan stared. “How’d you know?”

“Hannah told me. Hannah knows everything about everyone.”

Hannah, her mysterious older sister. The way Ruth talked, Hannah just might be God Herself. Evan shook his head, a smile creeping past his sadness. “Right. Well, I’ve been visiting Zach’s mother. She’s a great woman. But they…”

Now that Ruth knew who he was talking about, giving her details felt like a betrayal of trust. He wanted to. Desperately. But sharing the Davis’s business was not something a friend would do, so he tempered his words.

“They got some bad news about Mrs. Davis’s condition,” he finished. “Nothing is certain; it could be a mistake. They’re running tests. And I don’t know why it upset me so much—I mean, it’s bad, but I feel like…” Like his heart had been torn out of his chest. Like an invisible hand had plunged into his body, grabbed his guts, and twisted.

Ruth said, “Like your mother’s dying again?”

His mouth fell open. His throat was dry, his eyes stinging, his pulse thick and sluggish. “I… Yes. Shit. Yes.”

She ran her tongue over her teeth. She was thinking. And since when did he know her every subtle expression? Since when had he learned to read an unreadable woman?

He’d been expecting her to spring into action suddenly, but he still jumped a little as she rose. With one of those almost-smiles he’d grown to love, she plucked the tray from his lap. Then she said, “Want to go for a walk?”

Evan stared. “With you?”

Her smile flickered, disappeared. “I… Um… Not necessarily—”

“I just meant—you want to go outside?”

She raised her brows. “You have seen me outside before. It happens. You know that, right?”

Evan squinted, pretended to think about it.

“Oh, behave yourself,” she huffed. “Do you want to, or not?”

“I do,” he said. “I really fucking do.”

* * *

Evan didn’t know what he’d expected when Ruth disappeared to change clothes, but it wasn’t this.

They wandered into town, their arms swinging close enough for him to fantasise about holding her hand. He wouldn’t, though. She might push him into the road. Instead, he took furtive glances down at her. At this strange, pyjama-less Ruth.

It had genuinely never occurred to him that Ruth might have real clothes. He’d seen her in the car park, after all, the first day they’d met, and she’d been wearing pyjamas even then.

But, as she’d crisply informed him ten minutes ago, that had been a ‘period emergency’. He wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but it sounded grim.

Apparently, when she deigned to leave the house, Ruth actually wore leggings and oversized T-shirts. The T-shirt was barely distinguishable from her pyjamas, but the leggings…

Dear God, the leggings.

“I know you’re always running and shit,” she said. The word running sounded like an epithet, coming from her lips.

Evan tore his gaze off of her legging-clad calves just in time. She was looking up at him, waiting for an answer while his mind scrambled.

“You should come with me,” he finally managed.

She barked out a laugh. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s good for your heart.”

“Fanfic is good for my heart. Running is a disaster waiting to happen, and you know it.”

Evan snorted. “We should take more walks, then. It’s bad for you, staying inside all the time.”

“You’re such a dad.”

He grinned. “That’s me.”

Ruth smiled back. Not her usual purse of the lips, a smile that was more in the eyes than anything else—no. Her cheeks plumped and her mouth widened and her adorable teeth came into view, and Evan thought he might do something ill-advised. Like kiss her in the middle of town.

Instead, he forced himself to look away. “Speaking of substitute parenting,” he said, “have you eaten?”

She snorted. “You know I haven’t.”

“Do you want to?” Evan’s gaze slid back to her legs of its own accord. He focused on her ankles this time, on the snatch of brown skin between her socks and the hem of her leggings. “We could go to the Unicorn,” he said, naming the local pub—he hoped. It was hard to think clearly when he could see the shift of her muscles beneath tight, grey fabric. Her thighs shook as she walked. If that T-shirt weren’t so fucking huge he’d be able to see her arse.

“I don’t know,” Ruth said. Her voice was tight. He dragged his eyes up to her face and found her looking tense, distant. She was gazing across the town square at the pub in question, and he had no idea what she was thinking. Probably because he’d been distracted by her legs.

Evan didn’t think he’d ever stared at a woman so much in his life. What the hell was he doing? Knowing Ruth, she wouldn’t notice for a while—but then she would. And even though they were okay now—supposedly—he had no idea where they stood on the whole… I’d like to keep you in my bed for a week and feed you grapes but I don’t even know if you’re single issue.

He probably should’ve asked her earlier, when she’d been ready to apologise. Ah, well.

Forcing himself to stare straight ahead, at the shops lining the street, at the cars circling the square—at anything other than Ruth—Evan spoke. “You don’t go to the pub much, I take it?”

It was a ridiculous question, because he knew very well that she didn’t. He had the vague idea that it was down to her reputation, as archaic as that sounded. Ruth acted like she was some kind of social pariah.

Then again, so did everybody else.

Evan turned his gaze back to Ruth—her face, this time. She hadn’t answered. That didn’t necessarily mean something was wrong; she often fell silent for no reason that he could discern. Thinking, she’d say.

But she didn’t always stare into the middle distance with despondent eyes as she did so.

“Are you okay?” He asked. The urge to touch her swelled within him like a river breaking its banks. He shoved his hands in his pockets.

“Yep,” she said shortly.

“Because that sounded believable.”

“Oh, piss off,” she muttered, but her lips tilted into a little smile. Then, after a few more silent steps, she said, “I don’t think the pub is a good idea. I’m supposed to be cheering you up.”

He frowned. “You are cheering me up. You made me soup.”

She didn’t laugh.

Evan stopped. And then, finally, he touched her. Wrapped a hand around her arm, above her elbow, because then a layer of cotton would be between them, and she might not react so strongly.

She choked back a gasp, then bit her lip.

He let go. “Does it scare you? When I touch you?”

She met his gaze. “You know it doesn’t.”

That sparked a flame in his chest, one that felt part hopeful, part hungry. “I don’t mean to do it,” he said. “I suppose I’m just touchy.” He was not touchy. He helped old people carry their shopping; he picked up stray children and gave them back to their parents. That was the extent of his casual touching.

Unless he was around Ruth.

Ploughing on, he said, “If something’s bothering you—"

“Shut up,” she said. Not in her usual, subtly teasing way, the way that dared him to ignore her. No; her voice was flat, her body rigid, her eyes pinned to something in front of them.

Evan followed her gaze to a group of women about Ruth’s age, walking down the street towards them, dressed to the nines. He had no idea where they could be going on a Monday night, dressed like that, but they seemed happy enough. The women chatted and laughed together, looking carefree and perhaps slightly tipsy.

Then one broke off from the others, her smile fading, her stride becoming purposeful. And her eyes were on Ruth.

Evan’s internal alarm rang shrilly. Which was ridiculous. The sight of a skinny woman in a pair of high-heels shouldn’t rattle him, even if her biceps were impressively defined.

But then, Ruth didn’t have defined biceps, and she was staring at the woman as if ready for battle. The woman’s face betrayed a similar expression, determination edged with the promise of violence.

And, since he couldn’t let Ruth lose a fight, he might have to do something she’d hate, like pick her up and carry her home.

For now, he grabbed her arm and tugged gently. “Come on,” he said. “I’ll make you something at mine.”

“No,” she gritted out, her voice mutinous. “You wanted to go to the pub. We’re going to the pub.” With that, she began walking again, heading inexorably towards the group of women.

What else could he do but follow?

Evan wasn’t at all surprised when the women fell silent, one by one, as they noticed Ruth. As if by mutual agreement, when they came within a metre of each other, everybody stopped. About ten women on one side, he and Ruth on the other. The standoff held all the tension of a Wild West shootout.

But, he hoped, with fewer guns.

The woman leading the pack flicked grey eyes up and down Ruth’s body as if a gnat had crossed her path. She tossed her long, chestnut hair and drawled, “Ruth, honey. They let you out the whorehouse?”

Evan ground his teeth.

Ruth smiled a wicked little smile and said, “I’m doing a town tour, since you left your men unattended.”

This elicited a chorus of scoffs and disgusted sighs from the women. All except one, whose blonde hair fell well past her waist in an improbable riot of curls. “Ruth,” she said softly, her voice chastising.

Ruth turned to the girl and folded her arms. “Yes, Maria?”

After a pause, Maria looked away.

“Alright,” Evan said loudly. His patience for this—for the sharp, judgemental looks spearing a woman he respected—had worn thin surprisingly quickly. He hadn’t meant to force himself into… whatever was going on here. But his temper was rising, and he could see that Ruth’s was too.

Now was not the time to find out if she did reckless shit when she was angry.

Slinging an arm around Ruth’s shoulders he said, “We’ll just be on our way. If you ladies wouldn’t mind.”

For the first time, the women’s attention turned to him.

The leader, the brunette, arched a brow. And then she smiled. It was a pretty smile; she was a pretty woman. “You’re Evan Miller, aren’t you?” She said.

Evan set his jaw. “Yep.” He wouldn’t ask how she knew. It seemed like everyone did.

But she told him anyway. “I’m Hayley Albright. Daniel Burne is married to my sister. You know, he’s told us all so much about you.” She stepped forward and held out a hand for him to shake.

Since that would require him to remove his arm from Ruth’s shoulders, Evan simply gave the hand a blank look. After a moment, the woman’s cheeks coloured, and she stepped back.

“Well,” she went on. “I know you’re new in town, but you should know that—”

The blonde, Maria, cut in sharply. “Hayley,” she said, her voice low and warning. “Leave it. Let’s go.”

Hayley rolled her eyes. It was an eloquent gesture that reminded him, strangely, of Ruth. “Fine,” she eventually clipped out. “We can’t let a little trash ruin our night, after all.”

The group of women, now silent as a funeral procession, made their way past Ruth and Evan. They moved threateningly close, employing expert intimidation tactics.

When they were finally gone, Evan looked down at Ruth. “If we circle past the Unicorn, we can head home and they won’t see us.”

To his surprise, Ruth nodded without protest. “Please,” she said.

Now he was really worried.