His gaze finds mine, and something in his expression softens—like he’s in on the joke and not making fun of me. I can’t help the warm smile I give him in return. Then he gives me a wink before turning toward the stairs, and it feels like he takes the air with him when he goes. My eyes follow every step he takes.
Ciarán pounces the second he’s gone. “Gabe! Why didn’t you tell us you’re into him?”
I whip my head back to them. Abbie is wide-eyed and nodding wildly in agreement.
“What? I’m not—”
But the denial dies on my tongue. I’m not into Noah. I’ve known him since we were kids. He’s my brother’s best friend. We’re just… close now. Friends. Close friends. That’s all.
Except—my brain starts pulling up every moment with shocking speed and clarity.
Noah making me tea without asking.
Noah hiding Oreos in the cupboard just for me.
Noah leaving me silly notes to make me laugh.
Noah running with me before dawn every day, even though he hates cardio.
Noah kneeling in front of me after the shelves broke, steadying my breathing until my hands stopped shaking.
My stomach flips.
Telling me I looked beautiful before the author event.
My heart thrashes against my ribs.
Noah’s hand in mine. Large and calloused, squeezing gently.
I think of the way his eyes linger when I talk. The way he never rushes to look away. The warmth in his voice when I talk about the store. The constant encouragement. His hands brushing mine, and the way he always backs out of my space, never getting closer than I can handle.
Is Noah attracted to me?
The thought is equal parts terrifying and electric.
I think he might be.
Suddenly, kissing him is the only thing my mind can picture—pressing my mouth to his, tasting his lips, feeling the solid weight of him close. The idea sends heat rushing through me so fast it makes me dizzy.
But panic comes as quick, sharp enough to sting.
Would he even want that? Or am I reading into something that isn’t there?
What would Aiden think—his brother kissing his best friend? My throat tightens, pulse hammering.
And… could I even do it? Could I even let someone touch me again?
The memory of cruel hands flashes unwelcome and vicious in my mind—the grip too hard, the words sickening, the sound of ceramic shattering, and the sting across my cheek. I feel like I can smell the stale alcohol in the air. My chest constricts.
Noah isn’t Kyle.
I know that. But what if my body doesn’t know that?
What if the first time someone tries to touch me, I ruin it and run, prove that I’m too broken to be wanted?
Why would Noah even want me?
The questions pile up until my vision blurs.
