There was a soft laugh under the words, familiar and wonderful. I loved that deep chuckle, the one where his eyes lit up and he often slapped his knee.
“I’m sitting in my car, and I smell like a locker room, so you’re welcome for sparing you a FaceTime.”
I smiled into my sleeve despite myself.
“I realized I never told you what actually makes me feel safe with someone.”
A pause, quieter now.
“It’s not big gestures or constant reassurance. It’s consistency. It’s knowing I don’t have to perform or explain myself every day. It’s when someone notices the small stuff and doesn’t keep score about it.”
My chest warmed in a way that surprised me.
“You do that. You always have.”
Then, lighter—almost conspiratorial:
“Also—important and unrelated—I remembered you hate black olives and will absolutely eat around them instead of picking them off, which is unhinged behavior, but I respect it.”
I laughed out loud, the sound startling in the quiet apartment, then immediately pressed my lips together when my eyes filled. The olive thing was stupid. It was nothing. It was also proof that he’d been paying attention to me for years without expecting anything back, and that realization landed harder than any grand romantic gesture ever could have.
“Anyway, I love olives, so it’s a great reason why we’ll work. You give them to me. I’ll pick up everything you don’t like, Em. I want to be that for you. Also, if Quinn mentions your name one more time I might kill him.”He paused, then, his voice deepened.“Please delete this audio so there is no evidence. Okay, bye. Sorry I turned these into a podcast.”
I couldn’t stop the blush or the grin overtaking my face. There was zero reason for Noah to feel anything close to jealousy, but it was there and flagrant and did something to my stomach. I wasn’t into games, but no other guy ever acted like that around me. Not my ex or the few, and I meantfew, guys I dated more than a handful of times. I wasn’t so confident in our relationship that jealousy didn’t matter, but it was more… I wasn’t worth enough for them to feel jealous. Like I was so replaceable that I didn’t matter.
I ignored the texts from my dad asking me to come home for dinner and Daniel’s with a list of questions about Noah and hit record back to Noah.“If you ever did make a podcast, I’d listen to it every morning for the record. I love your voice. I always have. It’s been a place of comfort and is… like, coming home after being away for a long time. I’m glad you like olives and will eat them for me. And Quinn is a doofus. He’s harmless, so don’t kill him. Despite how much he annoys you, he is a great quarterback.”I chuckled and played with the ends of my hair, then rolled my eyes at myself.“I don’t have concrete answers to those questions, and I’m sorry for that. I’ll think on them. I want to give them to you, but it’s hard. And terrifying.”My voice broke at the end.“Okay, I’m pathetic. I need to finish my work and get Miles. See you later.”
I put my phone face down and focused for a solid two hours, managing my online business as well as the Rampage. Orders had been slowly increasing over the past week, roughly ten more a day. The growth wasn’t massive, but the extra demand meant I could work around the clock if I chose.
Noah: Never insult yourself around me.
Noah: You feel like home too, Em.
Well shit. Any hope I had at protecting my heart shattered.
20
NOAH
Practice ended the way Thursdays always did—heavy, loud, and unforgiving—but today my body felt it in a different way.
Not just the burn in my legs or the tight pull across my shoulders where pads rubbed raw skin. This was deeper. Quieter. Like everything I’d been holding back for weeks had finally decided to take up space all at once. I jogged off the field with the rest of the line, helmet tucked under my arm, sweat cooling fast against my spine, and tried to convince myself the ache in my chest was just adrenaline wearing off.
It wasn’t.
It was Em. It was last night. It was the sound of her voice in my car this morning, cracked and honest and trying so hard not to apologize for existing. It was the way she listened—really listened—when I spoke, like my words didn’t need translation or proof to be believed.
“Abbott.”
Coach Booth’s voice cut through the noise, sharp but not angry. I stopped short and turned back, muscles protesting as I did. He stood there with his clipboard tucked under his arm,eyes scanning me the way they always did—checking alignment, effort, focus.
“You were late on your second step in combo during inside run,” he said. “Not by much. But late.”
“Yes, sir,” I replied automatically.
He held my gaze for a beat longer than necessary, then nodded once. “Everything else was solid. Don’t overthink it. If you are, talk to Mercer.”
That landed harder than the correction. Overthinking was my specialty lately.
