Chapter 9 Gabe
GABE
Most mornings, I find the kitchen empty. But this morning, there’s a square of yellow stuck to the kettle, Noah’s messy handwriting sprawled across it.
Want a running buddy again? :)
The smiley face makes me laugh. It’s so unexpected but so Noah. Just ink on paper, yet I stand there staring at it. A wave of warmth comes first, quick and dizzying, little bubbles of happiness popping inside me at the fact that he wants to spend time with me.
Then the familiar prickle of unease chases it down. My stomach flips with uncertainty.
The fact that I’m excited by his wanting to join me feels complicated—like if I let myself enjoy it, it might be taken away.
I curl the note between my fingers, feeling that tug-of-war inside me.
Safe. Unsafe. Warm. Wary.
I put the kettle on and lean against the counter, eyes tracing the words again. Noah left me a choice. He thought about that, thought about my feelings.
My mind flicks to the day before, to him looking at my half-finished website like it was something worth being proud of.
I’ve replayed his words too many times since he said them, still unsure how to let them settle.
I want to take him at face value, believe he meant it, but it’s like my ability to do that is out of reach. No matter how hard I grab at it.
And then the run.
Running has always been a way to get away from myself, from the dark edges of my mind. My legs carry me, my lungs burn, and usually the noise in my head dulls enough to survive another day. But the ghosts always find me anyway.
Except yesterday. With Noah there, those ghosts never came.
The pounding of his steps beside mine, the way he cursed under his breath at every hill, the moment he laughed at one of my dry comments—just like that, the usual grip of bad memories loosened.
The sound of his laugh was so bright and intense, it made me feel lighter.
Proud, even, at being the one to make him laugh.
That sound stayed with me the rest of the day, stubborn and unexpected.
I slip the note into the drawer where I keep the others. I’m not sure why I’ve saved them, but I can’t throw them out either.
They’re mine.
My phone buzzes on the counter with a text from my brother. He must be up early with Rose.
Aiden: How’s it going living with Noah? Is he annoying you and that’s why you made him go running yesterday?
My lips tick up at that.
Me: It’s been good, he’s not annoying. And I didn’t make him run, he wanted the cardio.
It’s been more than good, really. I like having him here; he’s easy to be around. He’s kind, thoughtful, and… sweet. He radiates a positive energy that I want to take in and hold on to.
Aiden: How many eighties movies has he made you watch?
I shake my head, laughing.
Me: Only two
Aiden: So far!
I can’t argue with that. I’m sure we’ll be watching more. I hope we will, anyway.
When I step into the hallway, Noah’s door opens at the same time.
He’s dressed—joggers, worn-in sneakers, a long-sleeve fitted shirt pushed up to his elbows, hair like he rolled straight out of bed.
It’s been like that since we were kids. I wonder if he even owns a hairbrush.
That thought makes me want to laugh because I bet he doesn’t.
He tips his chin toward my shoes, lifting his brow in silent question. It’s not pushy or expectant—just an open invitation. One hand rests loosely on the doorknob, like he’s ready to close the door if I shake my head.
But I see the hope under the gesture. The way his mouth pulls into the faintest smile, like he wants me to say yes but won’t hold it against me if I don’t.
My stomach knots with nerves, but I do want him to come, so I nod. “Yeah.”
He grins at me as we leave the building. We fall into step without talking. I hear his breathing shift within minutes—strong, steady, but not the kind of runner’s breath that matches each stride.
Noah huffs beside me. “So, do you consider this… fun?”
I let out a small laugh. “Define fun.”
He groans but keeps going.
I know he doesn’t love running, so he’s just doing it to spend time with me. He wants to be my friend, and I want to give him something, too.
“I run to… it makes me feel more settled. It helps with…” I trail off, unable to find the words. Instead, I bring my finger to my scar and trace it.
Understanding crosses his face. “That makes sense. Lifting helps calm my mind, gives me clarity and the time to process thoughts. I get it.”
His response is so unexpected, so mature and accepting. He doesn’t ask for more as we continue on.
At the incline near the post office, he mutters something about writing his will. I snort. “You’ll survive,” I say dryly.
“It doesn’t feel like it,” he shoots back, and the words dissolve into laughter.
“Why am I struggling so much? When will it get better?” His laugh startles me—not because it’s loud, but because I want to keep hearing it.
It sinks into my chest and stays there, warming a place that usually stays cold.
I feel it again, that ridiculous pride. That he’s laughing with me. I give him a small smile and say, “It might take more than two runs.”
He gives me a playful roll of his eyes.
I keep my pace slower for him, but still, by the time we loop back toward the apartment, his shirt clings to his muscles with sweat, and his hair is matted to his temples.
He bends over, hands on his knees, muttering, “Never again,” but then smirks at me through his lashes, adding, “well, until tomorrow.”
Tomorrow. Like we’re going to do this every day. I’m smiling, too.
Back in the apartment, I lean against the island while Noah moves easily around the kitchen.
What strikes me most is how quietly he moves.
He’s not as tall as me, maybe four inches shorter than my six-foot-three, but he’s all muscle, much broader than I am.
So I can tell he’s putting effort into moving quietly.
And I know why. He doesn’t want to startle me. I wish he didn’t have to think about that. I watch him make us both tea. He doesn’t look like he minds moving carefully, but I mind. He shouldn’t have to shrink himself because my body is wired to fear sudden noises.
He catches me looking and tilts his head. “What’s up?”
“Nothing,” I say, not knowing how to explain my thoughts right now.
He doesn’t press, just leans against the counter beside me, closer than usual. I don’t move away.
The apartment is too quiet.
Noah is at Aiden’s tonight, and though it’s only been a couple of weeks of him living here, I already notice the difference when he’s not around.
He’s folded himself into the space without me realizing it.
I’ve started to look forward to seeing him in the evening, just sitting on the sofa quietly watching a movie.
I try reading, but the words slip past me.
I try writing in my journal, but nothing comes.
My thoughts circle, instead. Around the way Noah looked at my website like it mattered.
Around the way his laugh sounds. Around the careful quiet he carries in my space.
He seems so different, like the last year changed him, matured him. But somehow, he’s still entirely Noah.
A knock at the door startles me hard enough that my tea sloshes over my knuckles. It’s cold. How long have I been sitting here?
I’m not expecting anyone, but when I open the door, Abbie and Ciarán are standing there. Abbie has a paper bag that smells like Thai, and Ciarán has a bottle of wine he waves like a victory flag.
“Evening,” Ciarán announces, kicking off his boots with a dramatic sigh. “We come bearing food and the reminder that isolation is not chic.”
I blink. “You could have called.”
“We did,” Abbie says, brushing past him to set the food on the counter. “You didn’t answer. So we came anyway.”
Seriously, how long was I spaced out on the sofa? I didn’t even hear my phone ring. I shake my head, but a reluctant smile tugs at my mouth. They’ve always been like this—intrusive in the best way, not giving me the option to fade away completely.
We settle in the living room. Ciarán sprawls across the couch like a cat, Abbie curls into the armchair, and I tuck myself into the corner with a plate of noodles balanced on my knee.
“So,” Abbie begins, eyeing me over her fork. “How’s cohabitation with Mr. Gym Bro going?”
I roll my eyes. “He’s not a bro.”
“Fine, you’re right,” she amends. “Mr. Handsome Gym Owner, then.”
Ciarán fans himself. “Oh, he is handsome, isn’t he? All those muscles, that dark golden mane. Does he grunt when he lifts heavy things? Please god, tell me he does. Maybe he could give a demonstration?”
“Ciarán, don’t talk about him like that,” I mutter, heat rising in my cheeks. Noah is more than his looks and the gym, he’s sweet and kind.
Abbie smirks, narrowing her eyes playfully at him. “Yeah, Ciarán, don’t do that.”
He looks affronted. “Excuse me, Miss Abbie Dawson, you are the one who said, and I quote, ‘I’d like that man to crush me between his thighs like I’m a pumpkin.’”
My chin hits my chest as I let out a groan of frustration, which only makes them laugh harder.
But the teasing simmers when Abbie leans forward. “Seriously, Gabe. How’s it going?”
I hesitate. My instinct is to deflect, to say fine and move on. But their faces are expectant.
“It’s… better than I thought it would be,” I admit slowly. “It’s been weirdly easy. I think if it had been anyone else, an actual stranger, I’d be struggling. But Noah seems to—I dunno—fit, I guess. I like living with him.”
Abbie’s expression warms, and Ciarán nods.
“That’s great, Gabe. You look good,” Abbie says. “Last time we saw you, you looked like you hadn’t slept in a week. Tonight, you look…” She tilts her head. “Brighter.”
I shrug, uncomfortable with the compliment.
Ciarán tilts his head. “And yet, you still have that little wrinkle between your eyebrows. The one that says you’re overthinking everything.”
He’s not wrong.