Noah set the bags down on the counter and pulled out burritos like he’d planned it. He also pulled out a container of cut fruit and a couple of bottles of water. He didn’t ask if we wanted them. He started placing things where we’d see them, like he’d learned fast that asking gave people room to say no.
He held up the bag of ice. “For your hands,” he said, looking at me directly. “Daniel told me they were hurting.”
“I’m fine,” I started automatically, because that was my favorite lie.
Noah’s eyes narrowed slightly. Not angry. Firm. “Em,” he said, like my name was a warning.
I shut my mouth.
He grabbed a clean dish towel, dumped a portion of ice into it, and folded it into a rough pack. Then he walked it over and pressed it gently into my palms like he had every right to take care of me. The cold shocked my skin. The relief that followed made my throat tighten again, because apparently I was emotional over ice now.
“Hold that for five minutes.” He sat next to me, positioning my hands between his. His eyes were intense again as he stared at me. He smelled like cologne and soap, and my stomach fluttered when he brought my hands up to his mouth and kissed the back of my hands. “Good girl.”
My stomach swooped. “I-I thought you were the one with a praise kink,” I whispered, damn well blushing and not caring Daniel could probably see us right now.
“Not the only one.” He winked, and his attention moved to the organized chaos. “Okay, talk me through the plan. What’s happening?”
I filled him in on the plan. Theo and Audrey, renting a place. Getting help. “They are flying in tonight I think, then we can move all this to a place tomorrow.”
He nodded, his full attention on me almost unnerving. He never stopped holding my hands, and his thumb rubbed small circles over my wrist. “I can get you help.”
My brows came together. “What do you mean?”
“Do you need people who can sew or do everything else?”
“Uh, both, probably?”
Noah grinned and leaned back, his teeth flashing at me. A spark entered his eyes. “I need to call the squad.”
“What squad?”
“Oh, Em. What is the point of being on the Rampage if I can’t call in an SOS to the boys’ chat?”
I rolled my eyes. “Noah, the team cannot help with this.”
“And why not? Don’t think a bunch of jocks could do it?”
“No, it’s not that. Just why would they want to help? This work is tedious. Hard.” I swallowed, already imagining them scoffing at what they would say. My dad’s words echoed in my brain, how this wasn’t real or worth it or stable.
“Yeah, and we help each other. You’re part of the family now, Em.” Noah kissed my forehead, taking the ice from my hands. “Now, I’ll take the trash out and walk Sassy. You get back to work.”
I nodded, even though my chest was tight with that familiar mix of gratitude and disbelief. Noah made things sound simple without making me feel small for needing help, and that mattered more than the actual help itself. I studied him as he grabbed the trash bag, tied it off with a practiced twist, and slung it over his shoulder. He didn’t make a show of it. He never did.
Daniel waited until the door closed behind Noah before he leaned over and stage-whispered, “I would like to formally apologize for ever teasing you about being in love with him.”
I snorted, turning back to the machine. “You absolutely will not stop teasing me.”
“Correct,” he said easily. “But now it’s affectionate.”
The apartment fell back into motion after that, the rhythm settling again. I worked in focused bursts, hands moving faster now that the nerves had burned off, muscle memory taking over where my thoughts tried to interfere. The machine hummed under my fingers, steady and familiar, and I let myself sink into it instead of fighting the noise in my head.
Daniel bounced between tasks like he’d been built for this. He packed finished pieces with care, double-checking labels and addresses, then hopped back to the laptop to answer emails with a tone that was professional but warm. He flagged messages for me when they actually needed my input and handled the rest without drama. Something loosened in my chest.
I wasn’t alone in this. Not anymore.
My phone buzzed on the table, and for half a second I worried it would be my dad again. Instead, it was an email notification from the Windy Lakes—the women’s soccer team. I wiped my hands, steadied my breathing, and opened it carefully like it might explode.
They wanted a call tomorrow morning to discuss a potential partnership. I’d emailed them that morning at four a.m. when I couldn’t sleep—and they responded that fast. They’d seen my stuff and wanted in.
