"I got the good stuff." I held up the bags to prove my reformed character. "Dragon Palace. Even remembered the extra sauce packets you hoard like the apocalypse is coming."
Evan looked up from whatever organizational crisis had captured his attention. His expression was neutral—the face he wore when trying not to give anything away.
He stood and moved to the kitchen with mechanical efficiency. Plates from the cabinet. Chopsticks from the drawer. Paper towels folded into precise triangles. He was trying extra hard to pretend everything was normal.
I emptied the containers onto the plates, ginger and garlic scented steam rising from the dumplings and lo mein.
Evan arranged his chosen food on his plate with the same care he used for everything else. One dumpling. A small portion of noodles. Vegetables separated from the sauce. He sat and picked up his chopsticks, then set them down again without taking a bite.
I tried for light conversation. "So, fortune cookie predictions. I'm betting yours says something about organization bringing inner peace, and mine warns against viral rap videos."
Nothing. Not even a twitch.
I couldn't bear the silence and had to ask about it. "Are we okay?"
Evan's chopsticks clattered against his plate. "Don't leave without telling me."
He went there right away. Not angry. Not accusatory. Raw and small and terrified in a way that made my throat close up.
I stopped breathing.
Evan stared at his untouched food, shoulders rigid, bracing for me to confirm his worst fear. He was waiting to hear that I was already gone. That scouts and call-ups mattered more than whatever we'd accidentally built in a cramped apartment with weird fridge notes, perfect cookies, and moments when he looked at me and made me feel like I mattered.
You didn't think you were that important.
The thought lodged sideways in my chest. I'd spent so much time worried he'd figure out I wasn't worth the trouble. Instead, he was scared I'd disappear.
I couldn't find words that wouldn't sound like lies or promises I wasn't sure I could keep.
I reached across the table and slid the plate of dumplings closer to him. Only a few inches. Close enough that he could reach them without asking.
It wasn't enough. It wasn't nearly enough.
But it was everything I had.
Chapter sixteen
Evan
My equipment bag had exactly seventeen items, arranged in the same order every day. I placed the helmet in the bottom right corner, nested the shoulder pads against the left side, and tucked the gloves into the specific pocket that kept them from getting crushed.
It was a system that worked—had worked for three years without fail—until somehow four empty protein bar wrappers infiltrated the sacred space like contraband. I was elbow-deep in hockey gear archaeology when the combat boots announced themselves.
The sound pattern was too deliberate to be accidental foot traffic. Someone approached with intent, and in my experience, that never ended well.
I kept my head down, focusing on extracting the wrappers. The boots stopped two feet from my equipment bag.
"Evan Carter."
I looked up. Juno Park leaned on a support beam like she'd been there all day, one shoulder pressed against the painted concrete, coffee mug steaming in her left hand. The late Octoberwind had slightly mussed her blue hair, and she held her digital recorder in her right palm.
"Juno." I crumpled the wrappers in my palm. "Interview's over. Jake already gave you enough material to boost your download numbers."
"I've got Jake's story." She sipped her coffee. "I'd like yours, too."
I looked up. "That's not necessary. Jake's the one people Google."
"You might be right, but what if one foster kid hears you and thinks, 'Maybe I don't have to white-knuckle it alone'?"
