Maya didn’t expect him to actually sleep. Evan didn’t seem like the kind of person who could fall asleep on someone else’s couch, especially not after the day he’d had.

But after she handed him the blanket and turned off the living room light, she heard him shift, settle, and exhale in a way that sounded almost like surrender.

She went to her room, closed the door halfway, and changed into old shorts and a T-shirt. She lay down, staring at the ceiling. She thought she’d fall asleep quickly—exhaustion usually did that to her—but tonight her mind wouldn’t turn off.

Every thought she’d been avoiding came back at once.

Evan walking into her apartment like he didn’t know where else to go.  

Evan shaking.  

Evan saying she was the only person he wanted to see.  

Evan falling asleep on her couch like it was the safest place available.

Her chest tightened.

She rolled over. Then again. Then again.

After an hour, she sat up abruptly, breath uneven.

She hated this feeling—the feeling like something inside her was too full, too tight, like her own thoughts were pressing against her ribcage.

She swung her legs out of bed and walked quietly into the kitchen for water.

When she flipped on the dim counter light, her reflection in the microwave door startled her.

Eyes tired.  

Face tight.  

Something trembling.

“Great,” she muttered. “Perfect timing.”

She leaned both hands on the counter, breathing in through her nose, out through her mouth. It didn’t help. It never did.

Another breath. Another.

Still nothing.

Her throat tightened. Her chest followed. She felt pressure building with no place to go.

She whispered to herself, “Not now. Not tonight. Come on.”

But her body didn’t listen.

Her eyes stung—sharp, sudden, unfair.

“No,” she whispered. “No, no, no—”

A board creaked behind her.

She froze.

“Maya?”

She closed her eyes.

Of course.  

Of course he woke up.  

Of course this would happen now.

She didn’t turn around. “You should be asleep.”

Evan’s footsteps were slow, soft, cautious. “I heard something.”

“It wasn’t me.”

“Maya.”

“Go back to sleep,” she said, too quickly.

“I’m not tired.”

“Go anyway.”

He stepped closer. “Are you okay?”

Her grip tightened on the counter. “Don’t ask me that.”

“You’re shaking.”

“I said don’t.”

He didn’t touch her. He didn’t move closer. But he didn’t leave.

“Maya,” he said quietly, “talk to me.”

Something in her chest snapped.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” she said, voice breaking in a way she hated.

He didn’t respond.

She kept going, faster, like something spilling she couldn’t catch.

“I should be fine. I should be totally fine. Nothing happened today, not really, not compared to your day. I should be able to handle a stupid shift and a stupid morning and a stupid brain that won’t shut up, but everything feels—”

Her voice cracked.

“—too much.”

The words hung there, raw and humiliating.

She covered her face. “I don’t want you to see me like this.”

Evan said, “I already do.”

“Then stop looking.”

“No.”

“Evan—”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

She let out a shaky laugh, half hysterical. “Why? Why do you stay? You barely know me.”

“That’s not true.”

“You don’t know everything.”

“I don’t need to know everything.”

Her hands trembled.

He stepped closer—not touching, just enough for his voice to find her more clearly.

“Maya,” he said softly, “you’re allowed to fall apart.”

“I don’t want to.”

“You don’t have to want to.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“It feels stupid.”

“It’s not.”

She shook her head, breathing sharp. “I don’t want to cry.”

“You don’t have to.”

“But I think I’m going to.”

“Then do it.”

She choked on a laugh-sob. “You’re terrible at comfort.”

“I know.”

He paused.

“But I’m here.”

He said it like a fact he wasn’t debating.

Something inside her gave way. She didn’t want it to. She tried holding her breath the way she always did, tried pushing everything down, but it didn’t work.

A tear slid down her cheek. She muttered, “This is so embarrassing.”

He moved to stand beside her, close but not touching.

“It’s not embarrassing,” he said.

“It feels like it.”

“It’s still not.”

She wiped her face angrily, which only made more tears fall. “I hate this.”

“I know.”

“I don’t want you to—”

“I’m not leaving.”

Her breath broke.

She turned toward him without meaning to—like her body made the decision before her head could argue.

He didn’t reach for her.

He just stood there, steady, warm, calm, letting her choose the distance.

Maya stepped closer.

And closer.

And then her forehead pressed lightly against his chest.

He inhaled sharply—but he didn’t move away.

He just stood still.

Present.  

Quiet.  

Here.

The way she didn’t know she needed until the moment it happened.