Chapter 202

Sunlight filtered through the curtains as Evelyn Carter awoke.

She reached for her phone out of habit. The screen lit up, revealing a message sent at four in the morning.

["What color are you wearing today?"]

Sender: Peter Harrison.

Evelyn stared at the cryptic text for a long moment before typing a reply: ["White sweater, jeans."]

The moment she sent it, her phone buzzed.

["Got it."]

Just two words, yet they brought back the memory of his flushed ears outside the hospital yesterday.

Evelyn opened her closet. Since leaving the Hamilton estate, her wardrobe had grown sparse. Her fingers hovered over the muted tones before settling on a white turtleneck sweater.

Suddenly, she understood Alexander Hamilton.

That look in his eyes when Annabelle turned back—was it the same dizzying joy of something lost and found?

The doorbell rang at noon.

Peter stood in the hallway, sunlight spilling in behind him. Evelyn's gaze landed on him—white sweater, dark jeans.

An exact match.

"You—" Her fingers curled unconsciously.

Peter's ears reddened again. He hastily pulled out a wax-paper bundle from his coat, the sweet aroma of roasted sweet potatoes filling the air.

"From that shop in Greenfield," he said, voice tight. "I queued since five."

Evelyn accepted it. The plastic spoon wrapped in cling film pressed into her palm, a faint sting.

"Thank you."

Peter's Adam's apple bobbed. He raised a hand as if to rub his neck, then froze mid-motion.

Evelyn smiled. "Relax."

The words turned him to stone.

On their way to deliver hospital documents, they maintained a careful distance. Evelyn cradled the sweet potato, steam fogging her glasses.

Then—the lightest brush against her hand.

Like the flutter of a butterfly's wings.

She glanced down.

Peter's hand hovered, fingertips trembling. He inched closer, only to retreat at the last second.

Evelyn pretended not to notice, though her lips curved.

So this was what falling felt like.

Terrifying.

And utterly inevitable.