Ciarán is back on it.
“Sexuality?”
“Ciarán!” I hiss at him, but Noah is taking it all in stride, eyes crinkling at the corners.
Abbie drops her head, but I hear the snort escape her. I ask myself weekly why my friends are like this, but I’d also never change them.
“I’m bi,” Noah answers easily.
Ciarán nods before continuing. “Interesting. Favorite drink order?”
I sigh in relief, hoping he keeps the rest of the questions tame.
“Tough one. Coffee. Black. Or mint tea.”
“Boring, but not offensive. Favorite movie?”
“Die Hard.”
Abbie groans loudly. “Of course it is.”
“It’s a classic!” Noah defends, eyes dancing.
I laugh, unable to help it. “How are you not sick of that movie? You watched it so many times growing up.”
“Andwewill be watching it again while I live here,” he teases, pumping his eyebrows.
Ciarán’s eyes ping pong between us as he smiles, before waving a hand. “Last one. Most important. Your feelings on Italian food.”
Noah pretends to think, then says, “Pro. Very strongly pro.”
Ciarán claps. “We can keep him.”
“Good,” I say dryly. “I hear returning roommates is a lot of paperwork.”
Abbie giggles. Noah is watching me, eyes soft but intense. There’s something in the way he’s looking at me that I can’t make sense of.
The table is noisy, full of overlapping voices. It should feel overwhelming, but somehow it doesn’t.
Ciarán keeps the spotlight on himself enough that I don’t feel it burning me. Abbie’s gentle nudges keep things from tipping into chaos. And Noah looks like he’s been here all along. He fits perfectly.
When he glances over again with a warm smile and catches my eye, I don’t look away quickly. Just a flicker of connection, before I drop my gaze back to my plate, lip between my teeth, holding my smile at bay.
8
NOAH
I thought I was an early bird; years of gym openings have me waking up before sunrise, but Gabe’salwaysup first. Sometimes he’s already gone out running, and I get to see him come back, sweat-soaked and flushed. Which I’ll never complain about.Fuck, he looks good all hot and panting.
But sometimes this is what I get.
Pajama pants hanging loose on his hips, cardigan that looks older than him, and hair sticking up in about fifty different directions. Just… warm. His feet are bare, pale against the wood floor, and he moves slowly, still sleep-heavy. He looks so soft like this. Like he’s made to be held close and kissed on the forehead.
He stirs his tea with quiet focus, shoulders sloping forward, cardigan slipping down one side. The morning light coming in through the window softens him even more—edges glowing, skin warm, lips tilted in that almost-frown he makes when he’s thinking. Then he blows across his tea, and his mouth goes soft, plush and tempting, and I’m done for.
I shouldn’t find that hot. He’s just blowing on his tea. But I do. Way too hot. The kind of hot that makes me want to step in close,pull that cardigan off his shoulder, and see if he’s as warm to the touch as he looks.
Fucking hell.
