The door to Evan’s small apartment creaked open.  

Light spilled across the room—  

a space as simple as he was.  

A worn couch.  

A wooden table cluttered with notes and open pens.  

At the center, his *Small Restaurant Plan*, pages half-filled with ideas that never made it past the paper.  

Lynne looked around, saying nothing.  

Then, as if she’d done this a hundred times,  

she set the takeout bag on the table and started unpacking.  

“Come on,” she said.  

“Beer first.”  

A sharp click—the cap twisted off.  

She handed him the bottle, still sweating cold.  

Then began laying out the skewers, neat and quick.  

“They’re still warm. Eat before they dry out.”  

Her tone was casual, familiar—  

like they’d done this many times before.  

Evan took the bottle,  

his mind heavy and slow from drink.  

He wanted to say something—anything—  

but the warmth in his chest drowned every word.  

He only murmured, “Thanks,”  

and took a long swallow.  

The bitterness bit his tongue,  

and for a moment, it almost felt good.  

Lynne sat across from him on the couch,  

beer in one hand, a skewer in the other,  

laughing as she ate.  

“Didn’t expect your place to be this clean,” she teased.  

Evan smiled faintly.  

“Nothing much to mess up.”  

She tilted her head, eyes glinting.  

“Still. I like it.  

Feels like you actually live here.”  

Her voice carried something softer now,  

something that didn’t sound like a joke.  

The skewers disappeared one by one.  

The bottles emptied.  

Evan’s vision blurred slightly at the edges.  

Even through the haze,  

he could feel the air between them shifting.  

Lynne’s laughter grew quieter.  

Her gaze lingered longer.  

“Evan.”  

Her voice cut through the silence.  

He looked up, half-dazed.  

“Yeah?”  

She set her bottle down, leaning closer.  

“Do you… always live alone?”  

The question was gentle—  

too gentle.  

He froze.  

For a second, the image of *her*—  

the woman he couldn’t forget—  

flashed through his mind.  

The one who had left him with both warmth and ache.  

“…Yeah,” he said finally,  

his voice low, heavy with something he couldn’t name.  

Lynne smiled faintly.  

“No wonder you looked so tense at the hotel.”  

Her tone was light, but her eyes searched him.  

“You’ve got something on your mind, don’t you?”  

He shook his head.  

“Nothing. Just… work.”  

She didn’t push.  

Instead, she leaned back, hair falling loose over her shoulder.  

Lifting her last drink,  

she clinked it softly against his.  

“Well, Honest Guy,  

if you say you’re fine—  

I’ll believe you.”  

Her words were lazy, warm,  

and for a heartbeat, almost sincere.  

Evan looked at her,  

the lines of her face soft under the light.  

His pulse thudded,  

his thoughts tangled between guilt and want.  

The room felt smaller by the second.  

And the night—  

was far from over.