He smells like my hoodie and his own scent—soft, a little sweet, with a hint of whatever citrus shampoo he uses. I can feel his breath puffing gently against my jaw, and his hand is curled into the hem of my T-shirt.
I slide my arm lower, pulling him in closer, tucking my chin on top of his head. There’s nowhere I’d rather be than here in this small apartment with this boy I’ve loved since before I even knew I could love.
My brain catches up slowly, piecing together fragments of the night before—every vivid detail coming at me in flashes: his eyes, glassy with want, the broken sound in his throat as I touched him.
The way he came apart for me, beautiful and wrecked and safe in my arms. The taste of him, the tears he tried to hide, the confession in his voice that he’d never let anyone see him like this before. The way he apologized for a normal bodily reaction, and the way I’d do anything to keep him from apologizing for what his body is supposed to do.
My throat aches with the memory of him soft and wrecked and shining with trust, letting me hold him after. He let me see everything—his fear, his want, all the ways he’s never been seen.
He knows everything now—I told him everything, and he still let me stay. Still let me touch him. Still said yes.
He loves me. Not the idea of me, not the memory or the fantasy, or the echo of who I used to be.Me,right now, with all my mistakes and all my baggage and every scar I carry. He looked at me last night and chose me. For the first time in four years, I believe it’s real.
I run my fingers up and down his spine, trying not to wake him but needing to touch, needing to anchor myself in the reality of him. The room is quiet except for the hum of the heater and the steady, even sound of Noah’s breathing. Outside, the city iswaking up, but in here, time feels suspended—we’re tucked away in some hidden pocket where nothing else matters.
I never want to move. Never want to do anything but lie here and breathe him in. I could spend the rest of my life here, counting freckles, memorizing the way his nose wrinkles when he dreams, running my hand down the curve of his back. He leans in a little, humming under his breath, and his hand moves to my chest, fingers spreading over my sternum, right above my heart.
I press my lips to the top of his head, breathing him in. “I love you,” I whisper, not even caring if he hears.
He sighs, and I grin, letting myself relax further, soaking up every second. If I never get another morning like this, at least I’ll have this one, perfect and whole. I don’t care about the rest of the world. I don’t care about games or classes or anything that isn’t this boy wrapped around me.
Of course, the universe never lets me have nice things for long.
Noah’s alarm explodes through the room, some god-awful beeping that makes both of us flinch, the sound a harsh violation of the peace we built in the dark. He makes a noise halfway between a groan and a whimper, burrowing deeper into my chest.
“No, no, no,” he mumbles, voice muffled by my shirt. “Make it stop. Please. Just five more minutes.”
I reach out blindly, smacking my hand around until I find his phone, nearly knocking it off the nightstand before silencing the alarm. I drop it back in place, letting my arm flop over Noah’s waist, trapping him there. “It’s off,” I say, voice rough with sleep. “You’re safe.”
He grumbles, wriggling closer, and I laugh softly, tightening my hold. “Gotta get up, Blue,” I say, not moving an inch.
“No, I don’t,” he says, stubborn as ever. “Day’s cancelled.”
I snort, nudging my nose into his hair. “You have practice, baby.”
He makes a miserable sound. “I hate swimming. I hate mornings. I hate practice. I want to stay right here. I want you to keep holding me and never let go.”
My heart flips at his unguarded words, and I press a kiss to his temple, my lips lingering there. “I’m not letting go. Not unless you make me.”
He finally lifts his head, blinking sleepily up at me. His hair is sticking up on one side, cheeks flushed, and mouth swollen from sleep and all the kissing we did last night. He looks so young and vulnerable and gorgeous that it hurts to look at him.
“Good morning, Mien,” he whispers, all sheepish.
I kiss the top of his head. “Morning, Blue. Did you sleep okay?”
He hums and snuggles more into me. “I gotta get up, though,” he says, voice apologetic. “I just need… I need to do my routine. If I skip it, I feel off all day.”
He says it like it’s something to be ashamed of, and the old ache starts up in my chest. I know this script by heart. Noah’s always been meticulous—rituals and lists and steps he needs to run through before he can start the day. I used to watch him from the hallway, never really getting it, but always trying to respect it.
When we lived together, I learned quickly—don’t interrupt, don’t tease, don’t touch unless he asks. Some days, he wanted me close, wanted the comfort of a hand in his hair while he lined up his vitamins. Other days, he needed to be alone, and I’d leave without a word, only coming back when he called for me.
“I know.” I squeeze his waist gently, then sit up, stretching until my joints pop. “Want me to stay out of your way, or can I hover?”
Noah hesitates, biting his lip. I see the question in his eyes—uncertainty, shyness, the old fear that I’ll judge him for hishabits. “You can stay… I like it when you’re here. Just don’t talk for a bit?”
“Anything you need, Blue.” I mean it. I’d do anything to make this easy for him.
I throw off the blankets and join him, unable to resist. We pad to the kitchen, bare feet on cold tile, despite the apartment still holding last night’s warmth. Noah moves with practiced efficiency—coffee first, kettle on, mugs set out.
