Page 70 of When The Noise Stops

She shut the laptop and set it on the floor. She stared at me in the way that showed she cared.

"You want me to fix you something?"

I almost said it.

Not I love you. I wasn't that far gone. But something dangerously close to what the fuck are we doing?

Because this wasn't right back where we'd been.

Right back where we'd been was her barging into my house with food and sitting too close on my couch.

This was her having a side of my bed.

"Lila. I think..."

"Mm."

"We should—"

She must have known what I was about to say. She came up on her knees. Kissed the place under my jaw.

"Don't," she said.

"You're in your feelings again. Terrible place to be."

"I'm not," I lied.

"You were. I can hear it in your breathing," she tapped my sternum with two fingers.

"Stop thinking so loud."

I stared at the ceiling.

I got it. She wasn't ready. I understood.

It didn't mean I fucking liked it.

She fell asleep first.

I couldn't sleep.

I watched the streetlight move across her shoulder. Her breathing. The way her hand was curled near her face, open, like she was reaching for something.

I thought about what it would be like to wake up to this every morning. Not just the sex. Not just the food. Her. Here. Always.

I thought about what it would be like to say something. To ask. To push.

She'd run. I knew that. She'd pull back and say something about not being ready, and I'd be the asshole who pushed too hard.

So I didn't say anything.

I watched her sleep until the sun came up.

At six, she was gone.

The sheets were cold. Her side. The pillow still had the dent from her head.

There was a muffin on the counter. Blueberry. Wrapped in foil. The same kind she always left.