They don’t, they change shape—sharp to dull, noise to pressure. My head starts to swim. If I starve my lungs, everything else will starve with it, too—the panic, the impossible pull of wanting something I can’t have. The fear. The shame. The constant barrage of sickening memories.
Why did I let him do those things to me?
My lungs protest, but I stay with it. Longer than I should. I let the fire spread beneath my ribs. I deserve this pain. I don’t deserve brunch with friends who still choose me after everything. I don’t deserve a table full of laughter when I can’t even look in the mirror without wanting to cry.
My nails dig crescents into my palms. My head buzzes. Black spots flicker at the edges of my vision. I count past the place I usually stop. Past safe. Past reason. It feels like a punishment and a release at once.
For a few seconds, it’s just me and the pain.
My body wants to breathe, but I don’t.
The pressure builds until it’s all I can feel.
The rain starts suddenly, hammering against the window, and it startles me enough that my breath stutters. It’s ugly, a gaspthat rattles like a sob. Air burns down my throat. Shame floods in right behind it—thick and choking.
I don’t even need to tell myself I shouldn’t keep doing this. I already know.
The rain is relentless, like a drumbeat, and it drags me back into the present. Noah comes to the forefront of my mind; I think of him walking back in this weather—hoodie plastered to his shoulders, hair darkened and curling damp against his temple. Concern rises. I focus on that instead.
I go to the living room, I gather one of his sweatshirts from the back of the couch—the navy one he wears most often—and run my thumb over the soft cotton, the faint roughness where it’s started to age at the cuffs. It smells like him, cedarwood and fresh linen and something warm underneath. I have the urge to bring it to my nose, inhale the scent of him. The comfort.
Instead, I tuck it into the dryer, so it’ll be warm when he gets home. The low sound fills the apartment, and I lean against the counter, letting it soak through me.
When the tension in my body eases, I pull a blank note from the drawer.
Your hoodie is in the dryer.
I stare at it for an eternity, thenadd:
Didn't want you to be cold. – G
I stick it to the apartment door, where he’ll see it before coming in. Then I turn out the lights and head back to bed. Fatigue overcomes me. I turn onto my side, pull the blanket up to my chin, and lie there in the dark, feeling wrung out but more settled than I did before.
I don’t remember if I locked the door. I’m too tired to get up, my eyes feel so heavy.
Noah will lock it.
10
NOAH
By the time I climb the stairs, I’m soaked through, sneakers squeaking with every step. My hands are so cold I can barely grip the key. My hand freezes in midair. There, taped right to the door, is a little pink square.
Your hoodie is in the dryer. Didn’t want you to be cold. – G
I stand there, dripping all over the floor, staring. Heat spreads through my chest. I grab the note, brushing my thumb over his tidy words, then stick it in my pocket before opening the door. I kick off my wet shoes and head straight for the dryer. When I open the door, heat spills out.
The hoodie is warm when I pull it against my chest, so warm I close my eyes and breathe it in. My smile is wide and crooked. I pull my wet hoodie and top off in one. Sliding the heated fabric on feels like stepping into something I’ve always wanted—like he wants me here. Thinks of me even when I’m not standing in front of him.
Which is insane. It’s a hoodie, not a love letter. But try telling my brain that.
It floors me anyway. Because Gabe… after all the ways the world’s been unkind, he still thinks like this. Still notices what someone else might need and goes out of his way to make it better.
It’s sweet. Thoughtful. It’s him, through and through. Kind in ways he doesn’t even see.
“Gabe,” I whisper, needing to feel his name on my lips.
This man is so damn beautiful. Not just the way he looks, though those green eyes could stop me in my tracks, but the way he carries himself. Quiet, thoughtful, always thinking of someone else. There’s always been something about him. For so long, I tried to file the attraction away as a dumb crush—harmless and temporary. I assumed he was straight until Aiden mentioned he had a boyfriend years ago, and hearing it gutted me. Which is stupid, he never looked at me in that way. But it made me feel bereft. Like I’d lost something I never even had a chance to hold.
