Chapter 8 Noah
NOAH
I thought I was an early bird; years of gym openings have me waking up before sunrise, but Gabe’s always up first. Sometimes he’s already gone out running, and I get to see him come back, sweat-soaked and flushed. Which I’ll never complain about. Fuck, he looks good all hot and panting.
But sometimes this is what I get.
Pajama pants hanging loose on his hips, cardigan that looks older than him, and hair sticking up in about fifty different directions.
Just… warm. His feet are bare, pale against the wood floor, and he moves slowly, still sleep-heavy.
He looks so soft like this. Like he’s made to be held close and kissed on the forehead.
He stirs his tea with quiet focus, shoulders sloping forward, cardigan slipping down one side.
The morning light coming in through the window softens him even more—edges glowing, skin warm, lips tilted in that almost-frown he makes when he’s thinking.
Then he blows across his tea, and his mouth goes soft, plush and tempting, and I’m done for.
I shouldn’t find that hot. He’s just blowing on his tea. But I do. Way too hot. The kind of hot that makes me want to step in close, pull that cardigan off his shoulder, and see if he’s as warm to the touch as he looks.
Fucking hell.
He walks to the balcony doors and just… stands there, staring. At first, I think he’s zoning out, but then I see the way his face goes blank, like somebody pulled the plug. No expression, nothing. He’s breathing too fast now. Short, sharp pulls of air.
My stomach knots. I don’t know what’s happening, but it feels wrong. Wrong enough that every instinct in me says go to him, put a hand on his shoulder, pull him back. But I don’t. I don’t know if I’m allowed.
“Gabe,” I whisper.
No reaction.
I clear my throat. He jumps like I fired a gun. His hand twitches up toward his scar, then falls before it makes contact.
“Sorry,” I blurt out, holding my hands up. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”
He shakes his head quickly, eyes still fixed anywhere but mine. “It’s okay. I just… didn’t hear you.”
And that worries me. I’m right beside him, but wherever he went, it wasn’t here.
I nod, moving to the cupboard where I’ve already claimed a mug, only to find it’s already on the counter, mint teabag steeping, the fresh aroma wafting into the air. I give him a smile in thanks.
“You’ve been up before me every morning since I moved in,” I say as I remove the teabag. “You ever sleep in?”
“Not if I can help it,” he mumbles, shaking his head. The wording makes me pause, but before I can think too hard about it, he continues, “I like the quiet of the morning. I get my run in and leave the back door of the store open while I’m gone. Get some fresh air in before opening.”
“I didn’t even notice a back door,” I admit, glancing toward the balcony. “Where’s it lead?”
“There’s a tiny, enclosed garden out there,” he says.
“You can see it if you look down through the slats. I always said I’d do it up as a reading space people could enjoy during the summer, an extra space to use during events, but…
” He lets his words fade off and shrugs.
It’s almost like he’s saying it to himself and not me.
Like it’s a dream he had that he’s already given up on.
I feel a pang in my heart looking at his face, sorrow etched into the green of his eyes. I could help him achieve some of them if he let me.
“Sounds like it could be nice,” I reply gently. He hums softly in response, eyes flicking to mine and away as quickly.
The light shifts across the kitchen tile, and Gabe steps right into it.
For a second, I see him so clearly—sleep-ruffled and soft, made for quiet moments like this.
But there’s something underneath it, too.
The way his shoulders slump, the way his mouth presses tight after every pause.
He carries his past like an invisible weight, even here, even now.
There’s a shadow looming over him. And still…
he hasn’t lost that gentleness. It’s right there, shining through.
I catch myself staring, and so does he. Face flushing, his eyes blink fast. “What?” he asks, a little defensive but more self-conscious than anything.
“Nothing. Just… you look all cozy in the mornings.”
And I wish I could wrap my arms around you while we stand in the sun together.
He gives the smallest laugh. It’s almost nothing, but it feels like I achieved something.
The notes start off practical. “Washed the towels.” “Bought oat milk.” “Cleaned the kitchen.”
At first, I didn’t think much of it. But after a few days, it clicks. His eyes flit to me every time he sees me reading a note, and his shoulders tense like he’s expecting a negative reaction.
Like he thinks he has to do everything. And that realization makes me sick. Is this what he was living with before? Did that prick make Gabe do everything for him, and then if he didn’t… What?
I can’t even finish the thought.
It doesn’t sit right that he feels he needs to act like this with me. A part of me is hurt that he doesn’t trust me when we’ve known each other so long. Yeah, we haven’t spoken this last year, but he’s still Gabe, and I’m still me.
But I guess he doesn’t know that, does he? And he’s been treated badly in the past, that much is clear. I don’t know exactly what he’s been through, but he’s clearly trying to protect himself in some way.
I’ll do whatever it takes to prove I’m still the silly idiot who grew up with his family. I can be over the top and loud at times, but I’d never harm anyone. Especially not him.
So, I start leaving replies.
On the oat milk: “You’re oat of this world!”
Yeah, I know how terrible it is—it’s possibly the worst thing I’ve ever written in my life — but the next morning, when he sees it, there’s the smallest smile tugging at his mouth as he shakes his head at me. I can’t find it in me to be embarrassed.
I keep going. And they only get worse… better?
On a grocery list: “Don’t leaf me without spinach.”
Stuck to a mug of tea I make him: “You’re tea-rrific.”
My Google search history is a sad state of affairs.
Beside a package of Oreos I left for him, on a bright blue square: “I’d share my last Oreo with you.”
That one felt a little close to a proposal. Oh well.
Every time I see him reading one, he presses his lips together like he’s trying not to laugh, and that makes me unreasonably happy.
I stick one to a stack of books on the store counter on my way out that day: “I’m bound to annoy you with these.”
What I don’t expect, when I’m grabbing a coffee before meeting Aiden, is a text from Gabe. Seeing his name light up my phone makes my stomach flutter.
Gabe: Where do you even find these, they’re so awful… but I kinda love them.
Excitement and nervous energy shift under my skin. He hasn’t texted me since before I moved in. This feels monumental.
Me: I might spend an unreasonable amount of time searching the internet for them…
He doesn’t respond, but that’s okay. My whole day seems brighter now.
The morning after, he leaves out a perfectly steeped cup of tea and half an Oreo before disappearing into the shop. Half. I laugh out loud, staring at it. He didn’t even leave me the side with the icing.
Then I see the note:
“Oreo judging me for this?”
I chuckle through a groan. I’ve created a monster.
The apartment smells incredible the second I walk in, warm and herby, garlic hanging in the air. I kick off my shoes by the door, tidy them the way Gabe leaves his, and roll my shoulders, sore from a full day at the gym.
Opening day is approaching, which means it’s been nothing but hauling boxes, double-checking equipment, and triple-checking every detail.
Zeke and Jules were a huge help today, but I’m still running on fumes.
My hoodie’s damp from the rain, my hair sticking to my forehead, and all I want is a shower and my bed.
Instead, I follow the sound of something sizzling in the kitchen.
Gabe’s at the counter, sleeves pushed up, hair falling forward as he stirs. There’s a cutting board out, carrots half-chopped, bread waiting to be sliced. He glances over his shoulder when he hears me, and for half a second, I see the flicker—the instinct to retreat—before he stops himself.
“Hi,” he says shyly. It’s like every time I leave and come back, he slips into that unsure state of mind about me. Like I might come back a different person.
“Hi,” I reply with a smile, coming to stand beside him. He doesn’t move away.
“Do you want to help?” he asks tentatively.
The words are casual, but I know this is him letting me in a little bit.
“Definitely,” I reply, “Put me to work.”
That gets me the faintest ghost of a smile. He slides the knife toward me and nods at the celery. “If you don’t mind chopping that.”
I wash my hands, grab the board, and start cutting.
My shoulders start to loosen immediately.
Beside me, Gabe adds more stock and stirs the pot, adding pinches of salt and pepper.
We don’t talk much, but it doesn’t feel weird.
It’s all very domestic, like this is our normal routine.
It’s lovely, actually, just sharing this moment in time.
When I push the celery toward him, our fingers almost brush. He goes still for a beat—not flinching, just pausing—then keeps stirring. The tips of his ears go faintly pink, though.
We sit at the table with steaming bowls a little while later. I don’t realize how hungry I am until I’m already halfway through mine. The soup is hot and rich, exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
He’s only taken a few mouthfuls of his.
“This is amazing,” I tell him honestly.
He dips his head like he’s not sure what to do with the compliment. “Thanks.”
I make sure to finish every last bite, even sopping up the broth with bread. “Seriously. Delicious. Haven’t had anything that good in ages. I can cook for us, too, you don’t need to do it every day.”