Chapter 3 #2
“Don’t leave,” Elijah says too quickly, setting the glasses down with a clink that sounds louder than it should. His expression flickers—something unreadable—and it rubs me the wrong way.
I shove my hands deep into my pockets and stand from the loveseat, tension crawling under my skin.
“I’ll ride down with him,” I say sharply, my voice tighter than I intended. But the edge is there, and I know Elijah hears it.
He looks between us, eyes narrowing slightly. Confused. Or maybe not. Maybe he’s trying to catch up.
“Oh. Okay. Sure,” Elijah stammers, extending a hand to Noah. “It was a pleasure to finally meet you. And congratulations on your outstanding performance tonight. I hope you’ll join us again for drinks.”
I press my fingers into my thighs to keep them still, jaw tightening as Noah accepts his handshake. The contact is brief, professional—then that shy, sweet smile slides back across his face.
“Absolutely,” he says. “I’d be happy to.”
“Wonderful. Well then, Alex will take you back to your floor. Why don’t you leave your number with him, and we’ll give you a call.” Elijah mirrors Noah’s smile perfectly, and I want to kill him.
My fingers twitch with agitation, barely holding back the fire burning under my skin. The elevator doors hush the room’s noise as I step on; the carpet under my shoes feels too soft, like something meant to swallow movement.
The doors close. The dim interior glass throws back our reflections—two figures caught in a sliver of light. Noah looks at me, unguarded for the shortest moment, and something like hope passes over his face.
I want to tell him something.
I want to tell him nothing.
Head down, fists buried deep in my pockets, I follow him down the hallway.
The air here smells faintly of cleaning solution and vanilla.
Neither of us has spoken since stepping onto the elevator.
I’ve chewed the inside of my cheek raw, nerves unraveling with every step, every muted thud of our shoes on the floor.
Thankfully, he’s the one who finally breaks the silence.
“Well… this is it,” he says softly, stopping in front of a tall door. He turns, keycard poised above the slot. “Alex…” His voice is rougher now but still carries that sweetness that slides under my skin. “Would you like to come in?”
“You know I can’t, Noah.”
The words sound steadier than I feel, but inside, everything’s coming apart. I should look away—I need to—but those damn blue eyes hold me, soft and searching. Hopeful.
“I know,” he murmurs, and the sound of it is almost too gentle to bear.
His hand finds mine, fingers brushing over that sensitive spot between my thumb and forefinger, sending a quiet thrill through me.
His lashes dip, then lift again, eyes locking with mine as if clinging to the last thread of hope.
“But… if you could,” he asks quietly. “Would you? Would you at least want to?”
I drag a hand across the back of my neck, squeezing hard—hard enough for my nails to bite into skin. Why does my life have to be so complicated? It was never like this when I was straight.
“Jesus, Noah. I want to.” I breathe, voice low, almost broken. I step closer, fingers flexing at my sides, aching to reach for him, to touch his face—that beautiful, perfect face—and taste those spectacular lips one last time.
“I want to touch you, Noah… so damn much. I think you know that. But I can’t. I can’t. Do you understand?”
My breath catches.
Jesus. Do I even understand?
Apparently not—because my eyes drop to his lips, parted and perfectly pouty; that overpronounced Cupid’s bow, that tiny curve of sin, the culprit behind why they’re so damn irresistible. I already know exactly what he tastes like. I’ve memorized it.
“I really want to kiss you,” I whisper—naturally. Because complication seems to be my specialty.
My fist unclenches, my fingers moving on instinct. They find his face, graze the soft edge of his mouth. His breath hitches—then exhales, soft and warm, feathering across my skin. I can feel the desire in it, feel it in the pause before his voice breaks through the silence.
“Kiss me,” he breathes the words, lips moving against my fingertips—a whisper, a plea, and a dare all at once.
I step into him, backing him against the door, closing the distance until there’s nothing between us but heat and the barest breath of space. Our lips hover—mine trembling, his parted.
“Christ, Noah,” I murmur. “If I taste your lips again, I won’t be able to let you go.”
“Then don’t,” he whispers, his lips shadow dancing across mine like a ghost of a kiss. “Don’t let me go.”
“Fuuck!”
I slam my fist into the wall beside his beautiful face. The sound cracks through the hallway. He flinches, eyes going wide—startled, shimmering now with unshed tears. And somehow, impossibly, he looks even more beautiful like this. Ocean blue and breaking.
The urge to reach out, wipe those tears away, to pull him against my chest until the tremor leaves his body—it hits me so hard it almost knocks the air out of my lungs. But I hold my ground, fingers curling into a fist to keep them from betraying me.
“It’s probably not a good idea,” I mutter, voice rough, splintered, “that you take Elijah up on that drink.”
Each word feels like it’s cutting me on the way out, the jagged edges of my regret scraping against the walls of my chest.
I push off the wall and turn, biting the inside of my cheek as I head back down the hallway, straight for the elevator. My steps are heavy, purposeful. I don’t look back.
I can’t.
Because I already know what I’ll see if I do.
He’ll be standing there.
Still wanting.
Still hoping.
And still looking so goddamn pretty.
If I see that?
I’ll go to him.
I fucking know I will.
My pretty dancer.