Chapter 5 Gabe #2
The tea is hot, smelling faintly of mint. I give him a small smile in thanks.
We don’t talk much. Just wander to the balcony and sit like we do this every morning—me in the corner seat, Noah in the one beside it. The morning light is soft, filtering through the trees that border the edge of the property.
I wrap my hands around the mug, letting the warmth envelop me.
This would be a good moment to make some excuse and leave. Pull back before the moment can feel too overwhelming. Avoid situations I find difficult or uncomfortable. But I don’t.
I stay. Because Noah isn’t some random visitor passing through, he’s been in my life for almost twenty years.
And now he’s living here. In my space. And if I can’t learn to deal with that, every day will feel like this—tight, unsettled, impossible.
I don’t want that. I want to be able to sit across from him without feeling nervous.
I want to be brave enough to find myself again, the me who isn’t always terrified.
Noah shifts slightly, one foot brushing against mine under the table. The touch startles me, small as it is. My instinct is to move. Before I can, he catches my eye and gives a quick, apologetic smile.
“Sorry.” The word is simple, almost automatic, but it lands heavier on me than it should. He’s noticed. He cares enough to notice. I let out a slow breath and try to give him a reassuring smile in return.
“You run every day?” he asks after a while.
I nod. “Mostly. It helps.”
For a beat, he seems ready to push further, ask what exactly it helps with, then lets it go. I can’t decide if I’m glad or disappointed he didn’t ask. He leans back, sunlight catching in his hair as he tilts his face toward it, easy in a way I don’t know how to be.
I watch him—the slope of his neck, the line of his jaw, the way the mug looks too small in his big hands.
Strong cheekbones, a defined jaw, there’s nothing sharp in his features.
His eyes are slightly almond-shaped and they narrow when he smiles, little lines appearing at the corners.
He has one of those mouths made for smiling—wide, effortless, like it’s his natural setting.
Full brows. Straight nose. He’s always looked warm.
Approachable. I hope he’s still those things.
Then I look away before I get caught staring.
It’s strange seeing him here again. Hard to equate this Noah with the boy who used to spend half his time in our house, loud and full of restless energy, trailing after Aiden or asking me a million questions.
As the years went on, I saw him grow into the man he is, but even still, he’s different than he was a year ago.
There’s a calmness in him now, something quieter in the way he carries himself that I didn’t expect. I’m grateful for it.
I wonder what he thinks of me—if he looks across the table and still sees who I was, or if it’s obvious how much I’ve come apart since. How I’ve let myself become this withdrawn, lonely thing.
I take a deep breath and remind myself of the words Ciarán said to me when I left Kyle: Just because that man bruised you, it doesn’t mean he broke you.
But I think he did.
“I need to go to the store later,” I say absentmindedly.
My fridge is usually empty or full of food my friends bring over, there’s no in-between.
Most days, I try to eat well, but my appetite comes and goes.
And the thought of going to the store… I clear my throat.
“For groceries. I haven’t really stocked up in a bit. Is there anything you need?”
“I can come,” Noah says easily. “After work, if you want. I won’t be staying too late, just have to stick around for the plumbers to check everything over.”
I freeze, thrown by the offer. He can’t actually want to spend his time like that—standing in a grocery aisle with me.
It doesn’t make sense. Why would he want to do that?
Shouldn’t he be out, catching up with old friends, settling back into town?
Not trailing along on errands with someone who can barely make conversation.
“Yeah,” I mumble, trying not to overthink it. “Okay.”
We go back to our tea, and I wait for the noise I’ve prepared myself for—the chatter, the energy, the presence that will make the apartment feel too small. But it doesn’t come. What settles between us is quiet. Calm. Noah doesn’t expect me to talk, doesn’t push at the silence. He just lets it be.
I nearly back out three times before Noah even shows up.
It’s just grocery shopping. Normal people do it every day without wanting to cry at the thought. But my brain isn’t normal, and every part of me feels like it’s wired too tight from the second I think about leaving the safety of my store.
Small talk in fluorescent lighting. Trying to remember how to exist next to someone who knew me before, someone I’m afraid to see me too closely now. I feel sick.
By the time I close the store, I’m one anxious thought away from pretending I have a headache. Or maybe something infectious, something that will scare Noah away. But then he’s there—easy grin, hoodie sleeves pushed up. “Hey. You ready?”
I take in his familiar face, that smile I’ve known for so long, and for some unknown reason, I say “yeah” instead of “no.”
The walk to the grocery store is short, but I spend the whole time replaying every awkward thing I’ve done since he moved in.
The way my voice went weird when he first came into the store.
How I flinched when his hand brushed mine.
How I couldn’t look at him for too long without my pulse spiking like I’m waiting for impact.
It’s not him. It’s not his fault. My mind and body are at odds. Remembering sharp words, tense silence, every sigh I received like I was exhausting just by existing.
So now, every time I’m near someone new, my body braces for that sigh. For that flicker of irritation. I keep reminding myself Noah isn’t new, I know him. He knows me.
Or we did, before.
Inside the market, I focus on the task ahead. If I move quickly, maybe Noah won’t notice how tense I am, how hard I’m working to seem normal.
We go through a few aisles without talking.
Noah holds up the odd item with a raised brow, and I nod every time.
He’ll eat more of the food than I will, anyway.
We’re halfway through produce when I see a mom juggling a squirming toddler, purse slipping, basket tipping like it’s seconds from falling.
I move toward her. I hesitate at the last second—close enough to feel the edge of her space, the brush of possibility where her arm might graze mine.
My chest gives a warning flutter, but I make myself stay put.
I think of Aiden with Rose, and I’d hope someone would help him if he needed it.
“Do you need help?” I ask, smiling at the little boy. She looks surprised for half a second, then her shoulders drop in relief as she passes me the basket.
“Thank you,” she breathes, shifting the toddler to her other hip. He’s smiling and babbling, a line of drool running down his chin. Adorable.
“Of course,” I murmur, waiting until she has her bag secure before passing the basket back.
I’m smiling when I turn back and realize Noah’s watching me, head tilted. He’s not laughing or anything, just looking, in a way I can’t decipher.
“That was sweet of you,” he says after a moment.
Heat crawls up my neck instantly. “It was nothing. Anyone would have helped.”
“Felt like something,” he says gently, a crooked smile rising. “And most people don’t help strangers.”
I don’t know what to do with that—with him looking at me like I’ve done something worth mentioning. Compliments are tricky, they can be used against you. So, I nod once and walk a little faster, letting it fall behind us.
The snack aisle should be easy, I never get anything here.
But then I see them. Oreos. My favorite.
I haven’t bought them in years, not since Kyle made that cutting remark— “You don’t need crap like that, Gabe.
What are you, a child? Put them back.” I know now it wasn’t about the cookies. It was about control.
Even now, so much time has passed, and I just stare at the shelf, hand twitching but not moving. I want them, so why is this so hard?
Then Noah’s voice cuts in, warm and teasing. “You like Oreos?”
I still, embarrassed at being caught staring at them. “I… yeah.”
He grins and tosses a pack into the basket. Then another. “Me too! They’re my favorite. One each. Nonnegotiable.”
My brain stutters. “That’s… a lot of cookies.”
“No such thing as too many Oreos,” he says, like it’s a fact of life. Like there’s nothing wrong with wanting them. And there isn’t. I know there isn’t. But I’ve struggled to put a pack in my basket for so long, and now I’m apparently buying two.
Something small and tight in my chest loosens. I hadn’t realized how much carrying every little rule impacted even the smallest parts of my day. But here’s Noah, unbothered, laughing about cookies, encouraging me to buy even more.
I mutter, “Too many,” and look away before he can see the smile and flush on my face. The Oreos stay in the basket.
Every week I’ve passed them. Wanting them. And now that I have them, I won’t put them back. I can already picture opening them, the taste rich and sweet after telling myself no for so long. I feel a sense of giddy anticipation… over cookies.
On the walk back to the apartment, the conversation stays light. I don’t say much, just enough to keep up, but Noah doesn’t seem to mind my quietness. He never sighs, never makes me feel like there’s something wrong with me for being quiet. He just walks beside me.
Back at the apartment, we unpack everything. Noah bobs his head, humming some eighties tune I recognize but can’t name under his breath as he lines things up in the cupboard like he’s always lived here. I find myself watching him, how naturally he fits in the space.
He opens the Oreos and slides the pack toward me, looking up from beneath his lashes before winking. “Quality control,” he says before popping a whole one into his mouth.
My lips curve as I keep my head dipped. I take one, waiting for the expected sting of guilt. It doesn’t come. Just the familiar sweetness and Noah’s grin when I reach for a second.
I go to my room with a smile on my face and the taste of Oreos in my mouth.