@raine-jones
Look, he doesn’t — he can’t claim to know Raine, to really know Raine. He’s not supposed to be drawing these conclusions about them. Evan leans forward into the bathroom sink, one hand pressed against the glass, the other tracing the rapidly-healing bruise from the other day. Raine had helped him that day. Had looked at him with genuine concern. So why is it that when Evan looks at his reflection — the blues on his cheekbones — all he can think are Grey’s battered face, the fists that might have beat them, and the apologies people were screaming in this too-crowded house.
He’s got no proof Raine did it. But the body never needs logic to feel what it feels, that’s the frustrating part. Evan runs the faucet over his hands and spatters a splash of water over his face. He dries off with a roll of toilet paper because none of the towels are dry — it’s hard to get used to this, sharing a space with so many people — and when he’s done he hurls the rolled up ball over to the trash bin and swings the bathroom door open.
And of course, speak of the devil, Raine is there, waiting outside. Evan tries to relax his shoulders. He hated what his instincts did when Raine was around — hated how they made him want to shrink himself, hated how they made him more aware of the space he took. Evan takes a breath, schools his expression into something more casual, and wills himself to get rid of any evidence of fear in his body. Exhale. “Hey,” he says. “Got a minute? There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you.”