7
GABE
I towel-dry my hair as I head for my room. Running this morning helped, but only a little—there’s still a restless hum under my skin. I can’t believe I woke Noah up last night.
I also can’t believe he got a tattoo based on a book I gave him. It makes me feel like we’ve been connected in some strange way all this time, but I never even knew. The moment he mentioned it, I had the urge to ask him to show me. I obviously didn’t, that would have been too… intimate.
I pull on a pair of jeans and a navy T-shirt, the fabric soft from years of washing, then shrug into the chunky knit cardigan I reach for on days I need grounding. I hear Noah in the hallway, heading into the bathroom. My hair is still damp when I stand in front of the mirror and try to flatten it into something passable. The stubborn wave refuses to cooperate, repeatedly falling over my forehead.
My eyes catch on the scar curving over my right cheekbone. I tell myself to look away, don’t linger on it. Don’t get stuck there. But I can’t.
Everything in me stills.
The room tilts, sound narrowing to a dull buzzing like I’ve ducked my head underwater. My body is here, feet planted on the floor, but I can’t quite feel the weight of them. My face doesn’t look like mine. I try to raise my hand to it, but it doesn’t move.
My throat closes up, breath turning shallow. The cardigan that felt soft seconds ago is suddenly suffocating, the material scratching at the skin it touches.
Memories rush me, uninvited and unwanted—the crack of ceramic, the hot sting of impact, Kyle’s face contorted with anger. It feels like I’m back there, rooted to the spot, waiting for another blow.
He’s still in my mind. I can’t escape him. Maybe I deserved it. Maybe if I’d stayed quiet, been better, been lesspathetic.
My throat burns. I blink, my vision blurs, and suddenly, tears are falling down my face. I drag my sleeve over my cheeks like I can wipe them away before anyone sees, but there’s no one in the room with me. It’s just me. Me and the quiet, and this dark void that’s taken up residence inside my mind.
Then—faint at first, but so out of place it jars me—I hear it.
Off-key singing drifting from the hall.
“Oh mama dear, we’re not the fortunate ones...”
The sound cuts through the memories. Not loud enough to scare me, but enough to snap me back into my body.
Noah.
The sound swells as I step closer to the hall, his voice getting louder, bolder. He’sreallygoing for it.
I can't help but laugh. The tightness in my chest eases as I picture him in the bathroom, toothbrush as a microphone in hand, belting out Cyndi Lauper like he’s on stage.
By the time I reach the kitchen, I’m still smiling.
The bathroom door opens with a soft creak. I catch a glimpse down the hall—Noah, towel slung low on his hips, hair dampand curling at the ends—before disappearing into his room. I swallow roughly. I feel a strange tinge of disappointment that I didn’t get a look at his compass tattoo.
I busy myself in the kitchen, filling the kettle and setting out two mugs, the routine calming my nerves further.
When he comes out again, he’s ready for the day—black athletic shorts and a baby-blue muscle tank that makes his eyes look brighter than I remember. When I look closer, I see it saysI’m into fitness—fit’ness whole taco in my mouthon the front. I bite back a smile. Where does he even find these tops?
He looks focused. “Morning,” he says, voice warm but a little distracted.
“Morning,” I answer, as I hand him the mug I’ve already poured.
He takes it with a thanks, brows lifting slightly in question when he notices me looking at him. “What?”
“Nothing,” I say, then hesitate before adding, “except… that was some impressive singing.”
He freezes halfway through his first sip, then grins—it’s wide and surprised, and maybe a little pleased?
“You heard that?”
“Hard not to,” I tease lightly, my cheeks heating even as the corner of my mouth tips up. I duck my head to hide it.
