I followed him into the living room, suddenly hyperaware of my bare arms, the way my jeans hugged my hips, the fact my hair was doing whatever it wanted after the facial. He’d changed since this morning—button-down replaced with a soft Henley, sleeves pushed up, one sock slightly crooked like he’d been distracted while pulling it on. There was something deeply comforting about the imperfection of it all.
The table was set low, not formal, just intentional. Candles—but not too many. Real plates. A bottle of wine already open, And next to my plate, a mug instead of a glass.
“You don’t drink wine when you’re tired,” he said when he caught me staring. “You’ll sip it twice and then forget about it.”
My mouth fell open. “That is… disturbingly accurate.”
“And you always want tea after eight,” he added, reaching forthe kettle. “Peppermint or chamomile. I went with chamomile because you said peppermint sometimes messes with your stomach.”
I stood there, stunned, heart doing something wild and traitorous inside my rib cage. “You remembered that?”
He shrugged like it was nothing, but his ears went pink. “You used to complain about this during finals week. Said caffeine made you feel like your brain wasvibrating.”
It was such a small thing. A nothing detail. And somehow it landed harder than the facial, harder than the wine, harder than the fact he’d cooked.
We sat on opposite sides of the table at first, and it felt wrong almost immediately. Too formal. Too careful. Noah noticed too, shifting after a few bites like he couldn’t get comfortable.
“You wanna… move?” he asked, gesturing toward the couch. “This feels like a meeting.”
“Yes,” I said immediately. “God, yes.”
We relocated with our plates, sitting side by side on the couch, knees brushing, shoulders touching enough that I could feel the heat of him through the fabric. Every time he moved, my body reacted like it was on a hair trigger, muscles tightening, breath stuttering.
The food was simple and perfect. Pasta, light sauce, garlic bread cut into uneven pieces like he’d been more focused on not burning it than presentation. I noticed there were no onions.
“You cooked around my issues,” I said, smiling. “No onions. Do you know how many times my own family forgets how sick I get? It’s obnoxious.”
“I cooked around yourneeds,” he corrected quietly. “Not your issues. And shame on them. Ensuring you’re safe and feel good eating, Em, is not difficult. The fact I have to say that to you pisses me off.”
I waved a hand in the air. “I’m used to it, honestly.”
“You shouldn’t have to be used to that.” He frowned, leaning back further onto the couch with a huff. “You don’t deserve to have people who don’t know you, the real you.”
His words were meant to comfort, but they hit hard. Who even was therealme?
I nodded and continued to eat the delicious pasta, but my mind went to my deepest worries. Who even was I? And why would Noah want… this?
My fork slowed, then stalled entirely as my thoughts spiraled into places I didn’t want to visit tonight. The warmth I’d felt a minute ago dimmed, replaced by that familiar, quiet panic that crept in whenever someone looked at me too closely.
Noah noticed immediately.
He always did.
“You checked out,” he said gently, not accusing, not loud. “That thing you do with your shoulders—like you’re bracing for impact.”
I blinked, startled. “I don’t?—”
“You do,” he said softly. “You go still. Like you’re deciding how much of room you’re allowed to take up.”
The words landed so close to the truth it felt like he’d reached inside me and pressed a bruise. I swallowed, staring down at my plate like it might have answers I didn’t.
“I didn’t mean to ruin the mood,” I said quietly. “I’m sorry.”
His brow furrowed instantly. “Hey. No. You didn’t ruin anything.”
He hesitated, then lifted his hand slightly, palm open between us. “Can I take your plate?”
The question alone made my chest tighten. Not the action—thepermission.
