16. Noah
Chapter sixteen
Noah
T he hammer’s worn handle digs into my palm; the steady rhythm of nails driving into damp wood should’ve been enough to quiet the noise in my head. But it isn’t. Hasn’t been all morning.
The pain hasn’t eased. Half want, half regret; it’s like a splinter buried too deep to dig out, no matter how many ways I try to work around it.
Every time I closed my eyes, she is there. The way her mouth tasted. The way her body moved under mine, soft and eager and so goddamn real, it scared me.
I tell myself I’m out here because the storm left the fence hanging by a thread. Because there’s work to be done, and the house felt too damn small, too damn empty. Not because I’m hoping—stupidly, selfishly needing—to catch a glimpse of her.
But I’m not fooling myself. Not even a little.
I’d barely slept, and the sheet still smelled of her; warm skin and that subtle of perfume she wears, the one that fades too fast but leaves the room feeling like she's still in it.
My lungs drag in air like I’ve been running in my sleep. It’s not exhaustion. It’s missing her.
That deep, clawing ache that doesn’t ease, no matter how many times I tell myself I should’ve known better.
I shouldn’t have touched her again.
But the second her fingers curled into my shirt last night when she looked at me like I was the only thing standing between her and falling apart—I knew I never stood a chance. I’d burn for her a thousand times over if it meant feeling her like that, even for a second.
And standing here and hammering away, focusing on a spot like a man waiting on a sentence, the worst part is knowing I'd do it all over again.
The faintest thought of her—her mouth, the way her body arched into mine, the sounds she made when I touched her is enough to stir the heat all over again. My body’s a traitor. Always has been where she’s concerned. The ache sharpens, heavier, thicker, and relentless beneath the sheets.
The sun’s just starting to stretch across the yard, burning off the last of the morning chill, when I hear the screen door creak open. The sound of small feet shuffling through gravel draws my attention before the boy even speaks.
“Hey, Coach Noah."
I glance up. Parker’s standing there in dinosaur pajamas, a plastic cereal bowl clutched in both hands, milk sloshing close to the edge every time he takes a step.
His bedhead’s sticking out in every direction, his face still puffy from sleep but bright with that untouchable, unshakable kid-kind of joy.
“Hey, buddy.” My voice comes out rough, like it hasn’t been used in days, and I realize I haven’t had a real one-on-one conversation with him. Not like this—no ball games, no Blaze to fill the space, just him and me.
He looks up, grinning around a mouthful of cereal, his cheeks puffed like a chipmunk. “Mom says I shouldn’t eat too fast, but Blaze eats faster.” He lifts his spoon for emphasis, half proud, half defending himself.
A soft chuckle slips out before I can stop it. “Blaze also eats out of a bowl on the floor, so... I’m not sure he’s the best role model.”
Parker giggles, kicking his bare feet against the grass, then points to the half-fixed fence. “You fixin’ it ‘cause the storm knocked it down?”
I nod, leaning the hammer against my shoulder. “Yeah. Can’t let it stay busted, right? Bad for the yard.”
His nose scrunches in thought. “Mom said storms break stuff ‘cause they’re mad. Like the storm broke Dad, and like when I get mad and break my crayons.”
I glance over at him, eyebrows lifting. Dad ? “You break a lot of crayons?” Maybe I should ask what he means by that, but then, I will be prying.
“Only the yellow ones,” he says, completely serious. “Yellow is dumb.”
That earns a real laugh out of me, and I decide matters like his Dad should be discussed with Kate, if I’m curious. “Yellow’s dumb, huh? I’ll keep that in mind.”
He shovels another spoonful of cereal into his mouth, legs crossed, the fabric of his dinosaur pajamas bunched around his ankles. His world is so simple, so unscarred, and for the first time in a long time, I wish I still lived in a world like that.
Parker tips his head, watching me like he’s figuring out a puzzle. “You look sad today. Are you okay?”
The words catch me off-guard, and I swallow, working my jaw, trying to piece together something honest but safe.
“Yeah,” I say quietly, eyes dropping to the wood in front of me. “Sometimes grown-ups have days like that.”
“Mom, too.” His voice is soft, like he’s sharing a secret. “She doesn’t always say it, but I know.”
It punches low and spreads like a bruise. The kid sees too much.
Before I can answer, Blaze comes tearing across the yard, snuffling at Parker’s cereal bowl like he owns the place. Parker squeals, tipping it away just in time, milk sloshing onto his pajama top.
“Blaze! It’s not for you!” he scolds, batting at the dog’s nose, but his laughter spills out easily, light, and unbothered.
I lean against the fence, watching them—the boy and the dog, two simple pieces of a life I never thought I’d want.
If things had been different.
If Josie hadn’t...
I shake the thought away hard, gripping the hammer until my knuckles turn white.
And then the screen door creaks.
My head lifts before I even mean to.
Kate.
She steps out, a mug clasped between both hands, her hair still tangled from sleep. She’s barefoot, robe knotted lazily at the waist, her nightshirt barely peeking out beneath.
I look at her, and even from the distance, I can make out the bruised fullness of her lips, still swollen from where I kissed her senseless. The faint mark at the hollow of her throat where my teeth had sunk in, claiming more than I ever had a right to.
The thin robe knotted loosely at her waist tells me she hadn’t bothered with a bra, the fabric molding over places it shouldn’t, the morning light catching on bare skin I already know the texture of, and suddenly the ache I’ve been trying to hammer out of my system all morning flares hot and sharp like an ember fanned back to life.
She stops short the moment her eyes find me. It’s quick, and I would have missed it if I wasn’t looking, just the smallest hitch in her step, but I see it the way I see everything that’s related to her. I feel it. The unspoken words hang between us like storm clouds that haven’t cleared.
But just as quickly, she recovers. Lifts her chin, brushing loose strands of hair from her face.
“Thanks for making sure Parker got home last night,” she says, voice even, like she’s testing out how steady it can sound.
I swallow, throat dry. “Yeah. Of course.”
Her gaze drifts toward the fence, and she lifts the mug, a faint smile tugging at her mouth, though her eyes don’t quite reach it. “And for the fence, too.”
“Figured it needed doing.” I clear my throat, shifting the hammer to my other hand. “Storm gave it hell.”
Silence stretches out, heavy but not cold. She lingers there on the steps, blowing lightly over the rim of her mug, fingers wrapped tight around it like it’s the only thing anchoring her.
“You want coffee?” she asks casually, and I can tell she’s avoiding my gaze. “I can make you some.”
The offer hits me sideways. It’s simple, but it knocks the breath from my lungs. I figure she will be angry, ignoring me, or even drag Parker away from where I am. But she’s still here, looking perfectly normal. And for some dumb reason, I didn’t expect that.
“Yeah,” I say, softer than I meant to. “I’d like that.”
We both blink like the words surprise us. Her, because she probably didn’t think I’d say yes. Me, because I didn’t think I’d get the chance.
She nods once, turning back toward the house, and I watch her go, the loose sway of her robe doing things to me my hands still remember too well. I continue to watch the space she had occupied, hammer still hanging from my hand, fighting the urge to follow.
Her pretty bare feet, the way that worn robe hugs her like a second skin, and the way her hair’s still a tangled mess from sleep shouldn’t knock the air out of me like this, but it does. It hits me low, right in the ribs—a pressure that doesn’t let up, no matter how I try to breathe through it.
I run a hand down my face, trying to shake it off, when a smaller voice pipes up beside me.
“So,” Parker starts, standing now, brushing grass off his pajama pants like he’s about to head into a board meeting. “Do you like my mom?”
I blink down at him, caught so off guard I forget how to hold the hammer. It slips a little in my grip, and I fumble to catch it before it drops. “What?”
He squints at me as if he’s got all the time in the world for this interrogation. “Do you like my mom?”
My throat goes dry. Five years old, and the kid’s got sharper instincts than most grown men. “I—” I rub the back of my neck, searching for neutral ground. “Your mom’s great. She’s... she’s a good person.”
Parker isn’t buying it for a second. He crosses his arms, head tilted, one brow arched high like he learned it straight from her. “That’s not what I asked.”
A slow laugh escapes before I can stop it, low and rough. “You always are this nosy, or am I just lucky today?”
He shrugs, grinning wide enough to flash milk teeth. “Mom says I ask good questions.”
“Yeah,” I mutter, dragging my hand over my jaw. “She’s not wrong about that.”
Before Parker can fire off his next round of questions, I can see it brewing behind those bright eyes; the screen door creaks open again.
Kate steps out, cup in hand, her gaze sliding toward us like she’s been listening the whole damn time. “Parker,” she calls, voice light but edged with that mom's tone. “Stop bothering Mr. Bennett.”
Parker lets out a dramatic sigh as if he’s been cut off in the middle of a big scoop. “I wasn’t bothering,” he mumbles, kicking at a stray pebble.
Kate’s eyes meet mine, soft but unreadable, and she motions toward the porch with a tilt of her head. “Come on. Coffee’s ready.”