“Noah.”
He turns to me.
“Do you want to come in?”
Something flickers in his expression. Hunger, maybe. Or relief.
But he still doesn’t move.
So I do.
I lean in, slow. Measured. Until our faces are inches apart. I can smell the faint trace of his cologne, clean, warm, familiar. He closes the distance with a quiet sound, not quite a groan, not quite a sigh. Just need, barely contained.
The kiss starts soft. Like the one on my front step all those weeks ago, tentative, reverent.
But then it changes.
Then he cups my face with both hands and deepens it, like he’s been holding this in for years and now got permission to want out loud.
And I let him.
Because I want it too.
God, I want it too.
We barely make it to the front door. My keys fumble in the lock. He’s behind me, hands at my waist, lips at my neck. Igasp, the sound catching somewhere between a moan and a laugh.
By the time the door swings open, we’re already tangled up in each other.
He kicks it shut behind us, and I stumble backward, pulling him with me, both of us breathless with something half-wild.
That’s when I see it.
A note on the counter written in Viv’s aggressive cursive:
We’re staying at Harper’s friend’s house tonight (in case things escalate).
Marin’s neat, tidy block letters follow in smaller letters:
(Viv means we’re getting a younger generation’s perspective on party details. And can’t wait to hear how your date went and share details about mine. Hint: he’s dreamy.)
There’s a drawing of a condom wearing a glitter hat in the corner of the note.
Of course there is.
Noah picks it up, reads silently, and lets out a low chuckle that sends goosebumps dancing up my spine. He sets his keys beside it with a little clink. “Well. That’s not subtle.”
I shrug, trying to look unbothered. “I have very supportive friends.” Then I lean in toward him, rising slightly on my tiptoes, practically begging for his lips to send fire through my veins again.
But he doesn’t kiss me right away.
Instead, he steps back, his eyes lingering on my face.
A shadow flickers across his features—hesitation, guilt, something heavier than just nerves. Like he’s weighing what this means not just for us, but for the memory of someoneelse.
“How are you?” His voice is low, sincere. “After the poem.”
I blink, thrown for a second by the tenderness.
