“Nah, I’ll grab something.” I hop up and head to the kitchen. “Want a sandwich?”
I start pulling ingredients out to make one and look over my shoulder at him. He shakes his head. He definitely doesn’t eat enough, but I’m not sure how to encourage him without sounding like a dick. When I have my sandwich made, I grab a sleeve of Oreos and bring them over to the sofa.
He eyes them, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. When he finally releases it, I can’t stop staring at how it glistens in the low light.
I clear my throat and force my gaze away.
“I love this movie, but it’s not the same without your mom’s roast.” I settle back into the sofa, remembering all those days that felt like family and home. “Nothing I eat will ever live up to it. I’m ruined.”
That gets me a fond smile. “She’d like that.”
I chuckle. “Me being ruined by her cooking?”
“You remembering,” he says.
My chest squeezes. I shrug, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. “Hard to forget. I basically lived at your house.”
He’s quiet for a second, his face relaxed in a way I haven’t really seen yet. “Mom and Dad loved having everyone there. You included.”
I know they did, I remember the look in their eyes when they’d see us all on the sofa. Like having us together was everything they ever wanted.
I swallow against a lump in my throat, the regret for not visiting them more washing over me.
His eyes are still on the TV when he asks, “Why do you love eighties movies and music so much?”
Because it reminds me of warmth, home, being welcomed into a family that actually wanted me around. That all feels too heavy to say, though, so I settle on, “I dunno… I guess it’s familiar. We started watching them at your house growing up, and it always reminds me of that.”
He hums in acknowledgement, and I see his lips curve.
“Why doyoulove them?” I ask, wanting to know everything about him. “Whenever it was your day to pick, you’d choose an eighties classic, too.”
He peeks at me from the corner of his eye. “I picked them because I knew you liked them”—he laughs lightly—“and I alwayshatedthe movies Aiden picked.”
I can’t help the loud snort. Aiden always picked something terrible.
We fall back into an easy silence as I eat. I keep thinking about the fact that Gabe picked movies he thought I’d like. That he’d make a choice even when we were teens to do something that would brighten my day. Does he even realize how important those moments were to me?
It’s familiar and strange at the same time. Same music, same stupid clock shots, same skateboard stunt. But instead of Aiden yelling about how he could totally do that, it’s just the sound of Gabe’s careful breathing next to me.
I sneak glances at him when it feels like I can get away with it. He’s watching the screen, but his eyes flick down to the subtitles a lot. His mouth moves with certain lines, like he knows them by heart. His socked foot taps now and then against the cushion. Every time I know something loud is coming—the car, the big crash—I turn the volume down before it hits.
“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers, sounding embarrassed.
“I know,” I reply gently. “But the quiet is nice.”
Hisquiet is nice. It’s comforting.
He studies my face for a second, then looks back at the movie, fingers tracing patterns in the blanket he draped over his lap. “Thanks,” he says, almost under his breath.
The air between us feels… easy. Easier than yesterday. Easier than the day I dragged my bag in and tried not to stare at the scar on his cheek.
“Hey,” I say. “Just so you know, if I’m ever too… much? Too loud, too in your space, whatever. You can tell me. I’ll dial it back. Or vanish into my room.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He rubs his hands over his thighs.
“You’re not too much, Noah,” he says eventually. “You’re very… calm, actually.”
The way he says my name makes heat creep up the back of my neck. The deep, hushed tone of his voice wrapping around each syllable sounds unexpectedly sensual. I swallow.
