“Yeah,” I whispered. “You can.”
He took it carefully, setting it aside on the coffee table, thenturned fully toward me. He didn’t touch me right away. He waited, giving me space to decide what came next.
“Talk to me,” he said. “Not because I want to fix anything. Just because I want to understand.”
I stared at my hands, fingers twisting together in my lap. They looked small compared to his, and the thought flickered unhelpfully through my head that maybe I was small in every way that mattered.
“I don’t know who the real me is,” I admitted, the words scraping their way out. “You said people don’t know me, the real me, and all I could think was… I don’t know her either.”
Noah didn’t interrupt. He leaned back slightly, one arm resting along the back of the couch, his posture open but not imposing. The steadiness of him made it harder to retreat.
“I’ve been a version of myself for so long,” I continued, voice barely above a breath. “The capable one. The daughter who keeps the peace, always smooths things over. I’m the one who holds things together. The friend who doesn’t need much. The girl with the hustle and the smile and the jokes. My feelings don’t matter. Making sure everyone else’s are okay is what matters. I don’t know what’s left when I stop doing that.”
“That sounds exhausting,” he said quietly, his eyes intense and staring right at me.
“It is,” I laughed softly, but there was no humor in it. “And terrifying. Because if I stop being useful or agreeable or low-maintenance, I don’t know what happens. I don’t know if people still stay, and my track record isn’t… great.”
Something dark flashed across his face then—anger, maybe, or grief on my behalf. “Can I touch you?” he asked, his voice low and careful. “I need to touch you right now.”
My breath hitched. “Yes.”
He reached out then, fingers brushing my wrist like he was testing the temperature of water before stepping in. His thumbtraced the inside of my wrist once, twice, right over my pulse. “Is this okay?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, just as soft. “More than okay.”
His hand slid to my knee, resting there, solid and warm. Not moving. Not grabbing. His restraint was almost unbearable, my body buzzing with awareness.
“You’re shaking, Em,” he murmured, moving closer to me. “Why?”
“I’m nervous. Terrified. Overwhelmed.” I swallowed the emotion in my throat, pushing my glasses back up my nose. “You’re… you, and I’m not?—”
“Careful how you finish that sentence, Em,” he said, his voice firm but not unkind. His thumb paused against my pulse, pressing enough that I felt how fast my heart was beating. “Don’t shrink yourself in front of me. Not here.Neverwith me.”
I sucked in a shaky breath, my chest rising too fast as my eyes burned. “I mean—you’re confident, and solid, and you know who you are. And I feel like I’m always one bad day away from falling apart.”
He shook his head slowly, eyes never leaving mine. “That’s not what I see.” His hand on my knee tightened slightly, grounding instead of claiming. “I see someone who keeps going even when she’s scared. Someone who shows up even when it costs her something. That’s not fragile. That’s strong.”
The tears I’d been holding back finally slipped free, hot and embarrassing. I didn’t bother wiping them away, because he didn’t look uncomfortable or impatient. He looked like this was exactly where he wanted to be.
He lifted his other hand and brushed his knuckles gently along my cheek, wiping a tear away with a tenderness that made my chest ache. “You’re allowed to be overwhelmed,” he murmured. “You’re allowed to not have it figured out. That doesn’t make you less. It makes you human.”
I leaned into his touch instinctively, my body answering before my brain could catch up. His thumb traced my cheekbone, slow and reverent, like he was memorizing me. Then he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to my temple, lingering there like I mattered to him.
“I need you to hear this,” he said quietly, his forehead resting against the side of my head. “You’re the woman who notices everyone else before herself. You’re the one who makes rooms lighter by being in them. You’re the one who turns chaos into something manageable. And when you forget that—because you will—I’ll remind you.”
My throat tightened so badly I could barely breathe. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I want to,” he said simply.
His hand slid from my knee to my thigh, warm and steady, squeezing once like punctuation. He kissed my cheek again, then my jaw, each touch unhurried, intentional. His lips brushed the sensitive skin beneath my ear, and I shivered, my hands fisting in his shirt without meaning to.
“Touch helps you,” he murmured, like it wasn’t a guess but a fact. “It settles you. Brings you back.”
“Yes,” I whispered. “It does.”
“Then let me,” he said.
He kissed my forehead next, lingering there, his palm cupping the back of my head like he was holding something precious. He moved slowly, deliberately, like he wasn’t afraid of taking time. Each kiss landed somewhere new—my hairline, my cheek again, the corner of my jaw—never rushing, never demanding more.
