It feels like a glass box.
Noah turns toward me, resting on his elbow. “Do you want me to hold you?”
The instinctive answer—the honest one—is no.
Noah’s touch right now feels like a cage when my skin is already too tight.
But the version I say aloud is:
“…yes.”
He pulls me against his chest, one arm circling my waist, warm breath brushing my hairline.
His heart beats steady.
Predictable.
Human.
And I lie there stiff in his arms, feeling everything except comfort.
The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable.
My gaze drifts toward the bathroom door.
The cupboard.
The hidden letters that feel like they’re vibrating through the walls.
My chest pinches.
Kai’s handwriting is burned into my skull.
His words embedded in my veins.
His presence still clinging to my skin like a second layer.
I swallow hard, throat aching.
Noah exhales. “You’re shaking.”
I freeze. “I’m fine.”
“You’re not.”
His grip tightens.
His voice drops lower.
“You haven’t been fine in weeks.”
He’s right.
But not for the reasons he thinks.
I force myself closer to him, lying through my teeth. “Just tired.”
His chin dips to my shoulder, breath warm on my neck. “Do you want me to check the house?”
