Chapter 6 Noah
NOAH
Gabe pauses on Back to the Future while flicking through streaming options, brow raised. I have to stop myself from bouncing on the sofa like a little kid.
Out of everything available, he picks that. My go-to Shaw rainy day weekend special. I must’ve watched this movie a hundred times in their house growing up—me, Aiden, Gabe half-reading a book beside us, his mom and dad moving around us, probably thrilled that we were sitting still for a change.
When I asked if he wanted to watch a movie tonight, I expected him to say no. He hasn’t exactly been avoiding me, but he’s kept his distance the last few evenings. He goes to his room early enough each night that I wondered if he felt like I was invading his space.
I sit up a bit. “Wow. Haven’t seen that in years.”
“You always loved it,” he says softly. “When we were kids.”
The look on his face and the way he says it does something weird to my chest. It’s like he’s remembering those days as fondly as I do.
“Yeah.” I can’t help smiling. “Your mom used to be able to quote half of it. Your dad pretended he hated it and then laughed the loudest.”
There’s a sadness in his voice when he speaks and I feel it, too. “They did do that.”
He’s still hovering by the TV with the remote in hand, looking between the sofa and armchair like he can’t decide.
I scoot to the corner of the sofa and nod my head toward the opposite end. I keep my smile easy, and after a second, he comes over and takes the opposite end, one leg tucked under him.
He glances at me, then hits play.
The opening music comes on louder than expected. Gabe jolts, shoulders jumping up, dropping the remote.
Shit, I was listening to music on the TV earlier while he was in the store and forgot to turn it down. It’s not overly loud, but clearly louder than Gabe keeps it.
I pick up the remote and turn the volume down. “Sorry,” I say, tapping the button a few more times. “Didn’t realize I left it that high.”
My heart sinks, I can’t believe I did that. He pulls in a breath. “It’s okay.”
“No. It’s too loud, I’m sorry,” I say, shaking my head. “We can keep it low. Want subtitles on? I watch stuff like that sometimes anyway.”
It’s not a lie, my apartment in the city had paper-thin walls and a neighbor who loved to complain.
He gives me a quick, searching look, like he’s checking if I’m saying that for his benefit.
“You do?” he asks curiously.
“Yeah, sometimes.” I shrug. “Then I don’t miss any of the good lines.”
He nods once. “Okay. Subtitles are good.”
We watch in relative quiet for a while, the volume low enough to hear my stomach growling. I give him a sheepish grin.
Gabe chuckles lightly, and it’s a lovely sound. “Hungry? I could make you something.”
He always says that, make me something. Not us, not him. It’s like he thinks I expect that.
“Nah, I’ll grab something.” I hop up and head to the kitchen. “Want a sandwich?”
I start pulling ingredients out to make one and look over my shoulder at him. He shakes his head. He definitely doesn’t eat enough, but I’m not sure how to encourage him without sounding like a dick. When I have my sandwich made, I grab a sleeve of Oreos and bring them over to the sofa.
He eyes them, bottom lip trapped between his teeth. When he finally releases it, I can’t stop staring at how it glistens in the low light.
I clear my throat and force my gaze away.
“I love this movie, but it’s not the same without your mom’s roast.” I settle back into the sofa, remembering all those days that felt like family and home. “Nothing I eat will ever live up to it. I’m ruined.”
That gets me a fond smile. “She’d like that.”
I chuckle. “Me being ruined by her cooking?”
“You remembering,” he says.
My chest squeezes. I shrug, suddenly feeling a bit awkward. “Hard to forget. I basically lived at your house.”
He’s quiet for a second, his face relaxed in a way I haven’t really seen yet. “Mom and Dad loved having everyone there. You included.”
I know they did, I remember the look in their eyes when they’d see us all on the sofa. Like having us together was everything they ever wanted.
I swallow against a lump in my throat, the regret for not visiting them more washing over me.
His eyes are still on the TV when he asks, “Why do you love eighties movies and music so much?”
Because it reminds me of warmth, home, being welcomed into a family that actually wanted me around. That all feels too heavy to say, though, so I settle on, “I dunno… I guess it’s familiar. We started watching them at your house growing up, and it always reminds me of that.”
He hums in acknowledgement, and I see his lips curve.
“Why do you love them?” I ask, wanting to know everything about him. “Whenever it was your day to pick, you’d choose an eighties classic, too.”
He peeks at me from the corner of his eye. “I picked them because I knew you liked them”—he laughs lightly—“and I always hated the movies Aiden picked.”
I can’t help the loud snort. Aiden always picked something terrible.
We fall back into an easy silence as I eat. I keep thinking about the fact that Gabe picked movies he thought I’d like. That he’d make a choice even when we were teens to do something that would brighten my day. Does he even realize how important those moments were to me?
It’s familiar and strange at the same time. Same music, same stupid clock shots, same skateboard stunt. But instead of Aiden yelling about how he could totally do that, it’s just the sound of Gabe’s careful breathing next to me.
I sneak glances at him when it feels like I can get away with it.
He’s watching the screen, but his eyes flick down to the subtitles a lot.
His mouth moves with certain lines, like he knows them by heart.
His socked foot taps now and then against the cushion.
Every time I know something loud is coming—the car, the big crash—I turn the volume down before it hits.
“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers, sounding embarrassed.
“I know,” I reply gently. “But the quiet is nice.”
His quiet is nice. It’s comforting.
He studies my face for a second, then looks back at the movie, fingers tracing patterns in the blanket he draped over his lap. “Thanks,” he says, almost under his breath.
The air between us feels… easy. Easier than yesterday. Easier than the day I dragged my bag in and tried not to stare at the scar on his cheek.
“Hey,” I say. “Just so you know, if I’m ever too… much? Too loud, too in your space, whatever. You can tell me. I’ll dial it back. Or vanish into my room.”
He doesn’t answer right away. He rubs his hands over his thighs.
“You’re not too much, Noah,” he says eventually. “You’re very… calm, actually.”
The way he says my name makes heat creep up the back of my neck. The deep, hushed tone of his voice wrapping around each syllable sounds unexpectedly sensual. I swallow.
I aim for a joke. “Never been called that before.”
He glances at me, a tiny smile on his face.
“You’re just a lot quieter than I remember.
Or, settled is probably a better description.
” He looks out the balcony doors. “It’s…
different, having someone here. I thought it would be harder to get used to it, I’ve been living alone for over a year now. But you’re… easy to be around.”
“Okay,” I say, trying to tamp down the excitement I feel knowing Gabe doesn’t mind me in his space. “Good.”
We watch the rest in a comfortable sprawl, sharing Oreos and old memories. When the credits roll, I stretch until my joints pop.
“Still a ten out of ten,” I say. “No notes. Perfect cinema.”
Gabe stands, gathering the empty cookie packet. “Thank you,” he says, not meeting my eyes.
“For what?”
“For… watching it with me. For talking about my parents.”
Something squeezes behind my ribs. “Anytime. We can work our way through the whole Shaw rainy-weekend catalog.”
He hesitates, then nods. “I’d like that.” I don’t know how the little smile he gives can make me feel so dizzy, but it does.
He brings the trash to the kitchen before peeking back at me. “I’m going to head to bed now.”
“Goodnight, Gabe.”
“Goodnight, Noah.”
I watch him go. It’s not the same as those old Saturdays. It’ll never be. But it feels like the start of new memories.
I wake earlier than I want, staring at the ceiling for a few minutes before I give up on sleep altogether.
I’m not heading to the gym today, we can’t do any more until the space passes inspection.
The apartment is quiet except for the occasional creak of a floorboard somewhere down the hall. Gabe must be up already.
I roll out of bed and walk to the bathroom, stripping off my underwear before I hit the shower.
It kicks on with a groan, pipes rattling, steam filling the space.
I forgot to bring shampoo, so I’ve been using Gabe’s. He hasn’t said anything, but I should probably pick up my own. Still, I pop the cap again, because fuck—that scent is addictive.
Amberwood.
It’s warm and earthy, with this soft, clean undertone that somehow fits him perfectly.
I close my eyes as I work it into my hair, letting the smell linger in the steam, soaking into my skin.
For a second, I stand there, breathing it in, like it might tell me something about him if I stay still long enough.
And then I feel it—the slow, heavy pulse of my cock.
My mind goes there before I can stop it. Gabe in the kitchen yesterday, cardigan sleeves shoved up, jaw shadowed with stubble, tongue peeking out to lick the icing from the center of his Oreo. The mental image knocks the air out of me.
“Fuck,” I mutter, bracing a hand against the tile. My other hand drops, wrapping around my cock. One stroke. Then another. My hips twitch forward helplessly.
Gabe that morning after being out running, sweat-soaked, flushed, and breathing heavy. How his arm flexed when he rubbed the back of his neck.
There’s no chance of stopping the sound that escapes me.