“Hey, you don’t have to apologize for that,” he says in a hushed voice. “Ever. You don’t need to apologize for your feelings. If you’re having a bad day”—he swallows roughly and looks directly at me—“I’ll still be here for you, for as long as you want me.”
He shifts on his feet, thinking over his next words. “I want to be here,” he says more firmly. His fingers twitch, like he’s holding back from reaching for me. “For you. If you want to talk about it, we can. Or we can just sit together, not talking at all. And if you need to be alone, I can leave.”
I can’t hold his gaze for more than a second. But when I do, there’s no judgment there. No frustration. Just a quiet sort of promise. I want to sob. To cling to him and make him promise he won’t leave. Beg him to hold me while I shatter into a million pieces.
I shake my head. “Don’t go.”
I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about everything, but I know I don’t want him to leave.
“Dinner?” he asks after a stretch of silence, as if the question can build a bridge between us.
“Yeah,” I manage to grit out through another sniffle. “Let me see what we have.”
He gives me a gentle smile and shakes his head. “I’m cooking. You sit down and relax. Let me take care of you.”
He nods once, like he’s settled it, then moves around the kitchen.
I stay standing and watch him.
The ordinary domesticity of it makes something ache beneath my breastbone. He’s not angry with me, not disappointed. He’s staying, taking care of me.
And for the first time since waking, the shadow pulls back. It’s not gone, not even close. But it’s thinned by something, a light that feels like it’s coming directly from him. From the way Noah moves around me with care, from the way he treats me like every part of me is worth patience.
We stand there a moment, close but not touching, sharing the same breath of air. The space between us feels frail, like you could blow on it and it could break, or you could cup your hands around it, keep it safe, and it might hold. I want so badly for it to hold.
“Thank you,” I say. I don’t just mean for dinner.
The words aren’t enough. My chest feels too tight, too full, and before my nerves can rise up and strangle the impulse, I step forward. One breath, then another, and I’m close enough to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. My shaking hand finds his jaw, and I lean in.
My lips brush his softly; it’s not tentative but not forceful, either. His lips meet mine like he’s been waiting for it, deepening just slightly, enough to send a slow ache spiraling through me. The light scrape of his stubble, the steady weight of his breath, the faint taste of something sweet on his tongue—it’s all I can hold onto.
His hands come up my back, thumbs brushing back and forth in a comforting motion. I press closer, my fingers threading into the soft hair at the back of his neck, pouring everything I’m feeling—gratitude, safety, the start of something I’m afraidto want as badly as I already do—into the shape of our mouths meeting.
It’s over too soon, and when I pull back, I inhale sharply.
He’s looking at me like nobody ever has, like I’ve handed him something rare, eyes warm, mouth parted, as if he can't find words.
“Just… thank you,” I murmur, and it feels heavier than the words themselves.
20
NOAH
Eye of the Tigercomes on, the guitar riff loud enough to rattle the windows, and Aiden groans like he’s physically in pain. The hit of happiness I get from annoying him makes me downright giddy.
“Seriously? This shit again?” He slams a towel down on the front desk aggressively, and I have to bite my lip to stop from laughing. But his scowl only makes me want to laugh harder. “You’re doing this on purpose. You’ve got the entire history of music at your fingertips, and this is what you choose. Why are you like this?”
“It’s motivational,” I say, smirking as I check the board for the midday class. “Classic. Timeless. The clients love it. Really gets the blood pumping.” I start squatting just to be an obnoxious shit.
“It’s torture,” he mutters while rubbing his temples.
The gym door opens, saving him from what I’m sure would have been more ribbing.
And… Gabe walks in. The effect is instant; my heart starts to gallop in my chest, and my breathing becomes labored.
He’s got a brown paper bag in one hand and a drink carrier in the other. Dark jeans, a forest-green button-down that makes his eyes look brighter than last night, cheeks already pink from the cool air outside. His hair’s a little wind-swept, he looks…Fuck, he looks gorgeous.
No, that word isn’t enough for someone like him.
