#decides the best course of action is to project an arrogant and dangerous persona enough to stop anyone getting close enough to notice

[anobscurename]

ocean eyes – chris evans

previous part: PART IX — masterlist

concept: awkwardness was inevitable after the drunken birthday kiss you shared, but avoidance was near impossible given your living situation. confrontation comes when you help chris learn some lines for a romantic role he's pursuing. the slowest of slow burns. part ten of many

pairing: chris evans x reader

word count: 1.6k

warnings: strawberries and cringey dialogue, aNgSt

author's note: can't believe we're on part 10 what the fuck i started this on wednesday—?

You had avoided him successfully for a little over three days when you finally ran into him again. You had been going for a perfect fourth, but in spite of all the space the house had to offer, there were only so many rooms you could duck into, and so many midnight snacks you could sneak into your room to sustain yourself as the hours ticked by.

Having lived with Chris for six months, you knew his schedule. It helped in your goal of steering clear of the awkwardness.

He never outright saw you, anyways, always catching you just as you disappeared around a corner or into a room.

The first day had been the hardest. Chris was a firm believer of confronting an issue head-on – best way for cohesive living – and so there were soft knocks on the door, mugs of coffee – cold by the time you finally thought it safe to leave the room without encountering him – left behind for you on the kitchen counter.

He had even texted you. Can we talk?

He had managed to corner you in the bathroom once. That was entirely inevitable, considering you both shared it.

You had been brushing your teeth when you heard the door handle turn and squeak, and you were quick to spit out the frothy toothpaste to call out a dismissive "occupied!"

"Oh, sorry," Chris had mumbled sheepishly before shutting the door again. But he didn't leave. "I... I really think we should talk about last night."

You rinsed out your mouth, hoping to let the running water drown out his voice.

Patting your mouth dry, you pulled open the door. Chris practically fell into you, having been leaning against the frame, weight balancing on the forearm he had propped up.

You looked up at him innocently. "I don't know what you're talking about."

And that was the end of that. He stopped trying so hard the day after, and when the third day came around, he had decided to give you your space.

You knew you were being entirely unfair on him, not telling him what was wrong, but at first, you didn't even know. It wasn't as simple as a touch of the shoulder, not as mundane as jealousy. You hated that you had thought it was jealousy, and shuddered at the very idea of Chris thinking it might be. You were not a jealous person by nature.

And then you realised what that feeling was that had plagued you since that kiss – that kiss that you could still taste on your lips when you closed your eyes at night. It was fear.

It was fear of not being good enough. But not only that, it was fear of rejection, fear of losing one of your bestest friends.

Fear of being homeless if things were to end badly, and given the circumstances, things weren't running smoothly as is.

You weren't naïve enough to believe in a happy ending. In the words of the great philosopher Jane Smith – played by the ever great Angelina Jolie – "happy endings are just stories that haven't finished yet."

Fact of the matter was that the chances of the two of you making it were slim to none. You were both too different. Similar on a human level – Anthony would even say perfect – but different on almost every other. Financially, emotionally, physically. You couldn't contend with everything Chris had to offer.

You had served him drinks. You looked after his dog, his house, watered his plants. You lived in that home as his employee.

You weren't a pessimist. Only a realist. And realistically, you'd run the numbers and promptly concluded that while you'd ultimately fail as a couple, you'd soar as a friendship.

That was the final answer, come day four.

"Hey..."

You had stepped out of the sanctuary of your bedroom, only to see Chris stood at the kitchen counter, bent over something that grabbed his full attention. It was late at night, the rest of the lights in the house off, leaving only the warm glow of the kitchen lights. He looked up when you entered, a pained expression overcoming his features. "Oh, so we're talking now?"

You ignored the question, padding over to see what he was doing. The best way to continue on was to pretend that nothing happened. So that's what you did.

Reminiscent of a time before you knew what Chris' lips tasted and felt like, you easily hopped up on the counter beside him. You noticed the bags beside the front door, and curiosity got the better of you. "Where are you headed this time?"

His attention shifted back down to the manuscript that was before him. "I have an audition tomorrow morning in New York, I'm just going over the dialogue one last time before the flight."

The conversation was stilted, and so, to break the silence, you reached for a strawberry. There had been a plate of strawberries between the two of you, half eaten, stems brushed to one side. A playful slap on your hand halted your action, and you cocked an annoyed and inquisitive brow at Chris.

"Don't eat the props."

"I'm sure you won't miss just one."

"Well, it would be easier for me to learn my lines with someone else if you...?" He trailed off, the rest of the request piecing together in your mind.

"The things I'll endure for some food in this house," you jokingly groaned.

It was like his laugh shattered the awkwardness entirely, and suddenly it felt like normal again. And you realised how much you missed it. Missed being his friend.

He slide the manuscript over to you, telling you which character your were going to play. He had already memorised his lines, and was pensively watching as you skimmed over the dialogue.

"It's...?"

He chuckled sheepishly. "A romance, I know. If you don't want to–"

"It's okay," you said quickly. The guilt you felt for basically ignoring him the past few days with little to no explanation heavily outweighed your common sense. You just wanted to help him out – your way of apology. "From here?"

He nodded at the prompt you had your finger on, already shifting himself into the cocky persona of the character he was playing. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him pick up a strawberry, ready for his cues.

"It's a real shame nobody asked for your opinion," you read.

"I've had plenty of relationships," he shrugged, arrogant. "Makes me the authority on these types of things."

"Don't make me laugh," you chuckled. The film was by no means Oscar worthy, but it was a fun indie project, judging from the script. "I bet the longest relationship you've had is with that strawberry."

He looked down, contemplating it for the longest time while you flipped the page. This part was new, and as your eyes skimmed over it, you knew you'd made your fatal error. Guess that's where being a good person gets you.

Gentle hand on your cheek, he tilted your head to look at him. Making full eye contact, he bit into the strawberry. The perfect arch of pearly white teeth sank into it so slowly, you felt like time was frozen. "I don't know," he growled, licking the sweetness from his finger. "You can't fault a relationship when she tastes so good."

He plucked another strawberry from the plate, beckoning you over. You felt yourself lean forward, enraptured in his performance. But at what point did the line blur between acting and reality?

The touch of the strawberry against your lips was cold, fresh from the fridge. The script told you to reject him with a shake of the head, and without its guidance, you probably would've just dissolved before him. You denied him, whimpering a small "no."

“Open,” he commanded, voice authoritative but soft. His gaze was intense, eyes darkening as you slowly opened your lips to eat the offered fruit.

He watched your lips – a whispered “fuck” under his breath – and slowly threw the stem back onto the plate. His eyes never left your mouth.

And then his fingers came up to swipe the juice from your bottom lip before telling you to open again. You complied, but something in the back of your mind nagged at you: this wasn't in the script.

His finger slid easily into your mouth, smooth against your tongue, and you instinctively sucked on them gently, tasting the sweetness and suddenly he was ducking his head down, intent clear, and you just–

"Stop," you managed to get out, your lips so dangerously close to his that the feather light brush of your spoken words caused tingles to flow through you. The goosebumps were back, your skin cold, but body on fire. He withdrew, and you hated how your heart fell, plummeting to your stomach when he did. "We can't."

And then you explained to him why. And to his credit, he listened, didn't once try to interrupt or persuade you otherwise, and he understood.

He understood, because deep down, he knew you were right.

You explained it all, and at some point your eyes were stinging, but you didn't cry, and when it was all out, and what needed to be said was, he simply pulled you into his arms in a fierce hug.

Your breathing was ragged as you clung to him, hands bunching the fabric of his shirt. You never wanted to let him go. As a friend, of course.

And then he said his goodbye with a chaste kiss to your temple, and left, front door shutting behind him, bags in hand.

He left you alone to your thoughts, and the tears came tumbling after.