It rings, and my heart rate increases. A woman answers. “Good morning, Dr. Keane’s office, how may I help you?”
My fingers tap nervously against the edge of my mug.
“Hi, my name is Gabe Shaw. I…” My voice cracks, and I glance at Noah.
He hasn’t moved, blue eyes watching me steadily. But I see the shaking of his fingers where they hold the mug, the shallowness in his breathing, the way he’s not blinking. There’s fear in the depths of that blue, fear I put there. Guilt twists my insides again, but it only strengthens my resolve.
I draw a breath and finish. “I need help. Tr—” I falter and take a shaky breath. “Trauma. Anxiety… and d-depression. I’d like to make an appointment. As soon as Dr. Keane can see me.”
Her voice is warm and calm. “Of course, Gabe, would Monday morning suit you, or is it an emergency?”
I look back to Noah again; he’s sitting straighter now, leaning toward me.
I clear my throat. “Monday is fine. Thank you.”
I give her my payment details and we say goodbye. I hang up, and the phone clunks on the table.
My pulse skyrockets as I watch Noah. Will this be what finally pushes him away? Am I really too much?
His eyes shine. His lips part, like he wants to say something, then close again. His shoulders drop further, and he lets out a sigh, a release so visible it’s almost violent. His fingers let go of the mug and press flat to the table, one hand inching toward mine, fingers making contact.
Something in me cracks open at the simple touch.
I push up and round the table. He doesn’t move, but I hear his breath hitch as I step closer.
I lift my hand to touch his cheek. His breath ghosts over my wrist. His hands come up and find my hips, resting there lightly.
I lean down and kiss him.
It’s gentle. His mouth is soft, warm. He exhales into it, and the sound he makes settles on my lips. A hand comes up to my jaw, thumb brushing the edge of my bottom lip. Relief pours out of him and into me, out of me into him, tangible and weighted.
I linger. Long enough to feel the shiver run out of his fingers. Long enough to know he understands how grateful I am for him.
When I pull back, I press my lips to his forehead. His chest rises and falls harshly against my palm pressed to his heart.
“I’m sorry,” I whisper.
He doesn’t tell me not to apologize. We both know he deserves this apology. He just kisses me again, and all I feel is acceptance.
I take his hand and lead him back to my room. We lie down facing each other, eyes locked as we hold each other close.
The water still calls, faint and insistent. But louder than that is this—the steadiness of him, the warmth of his breath, the way his whole body told me he needed me to come back.
And I decide, right here, I’m never going back under.
Not when there’s him.
Not when there’s us.
Not when there’sme.
46
NOAH
Sweat’s running down Gabe’s temples; he’s standing in the living room, hands on his hips, chest heaving. He’s wearing a pair of black shorts and a white T-shirt that makes his hair look darker, and his eyes brighter. I don’t even know how long we’ve been dancing now. The sun was out when we started, and now it’s dark. A late summer breeze is coming through the open balcony doors, doing little to cool us down.
“I’m gonna own your ass on the next round,” I tell him.
