Chapter 12 Noah
NOAH
The other night is stuck on repeat in my mind. All week, the words kept coming back to me.
“Thanks, Noah. You’re a good friend.”
And just like that, my heart sank. I kept my smile in place, but it felt tight. Gabe’s right, I am his friend. But it’s getting harder and harder to pretend that’s all I want to be.
As I lay in bed, I could still feel the ghost of his skin against mine. Such a tiny thing, but it felt like the start of something. The first time we touched, and he didn’t move away.
Didn’t he feel it too?
I huff, annoyed with myself for letting my mind go there again.
Get a fucking grip, Richards.
Gabe hasn’t shown any signs of attraction toward me—we’re just friends, and I need to remember that. I just thought that simple touch had meant… something.
It’s barely past ten on Thursday, and I already have splinters in my palms.
“Pretty sure this thing is just staying together out of spite,” I grunt, yanking another rusted nail free from the bookcase frame.
The store speakers are playing a Duran Duran playlist Gabe found. The volume is low, the familiar songs filling the space. I was surprised when he chose it, but he just shrugged, smiling at me.
Gabe gives a quiet laugh from where he kneels across from me, steadying the wooden panel. He takes his cardigan off and throws it toward the nook, hair falling forward as he leans in to hold the panel again. “Considering it’s probably older than I am, I’m kind of impressed with it.”
We’re disassembling one of the old shelves near the front of the store, trying to open up space near the windows. The author event is next week—even if he hasn’t said it out loud, I know he’s stressing—I feel it thrumming in the space between us.
“This’ll open things up a lot,” I say, prying another shelf loose.
Gabe nods, biting his lip as he glances around the room. “Yeah. I want it to be… inviting. Like somewhere people actually want to be.” His fingers tap against his thighs. His hand keeps moving toward his cheek, never making contact, then it drops. He’s been doing it all morning.
“You’re nervous,” I point out gently.
He looks like he might deny it, then deflates. “Yeah. It’s been a long time since I’ve done anything like this. I really want to do it, but I keep thinking something’s going to go wrong.”
He said something similar about going to brunch; it’s like he’s constantly on high alert, waiting for the worst to happen.
“It won’t.”
“You don’t know that.” That hand finally moves up to his face, and he runs his fingers absentmindedly over his scar. My chest aches for him.
“No,” I admit, “but I know you. You care too much to let it fall apart. And I’m here to help.”
That earns me the smallest, reluctant smile before he shakes his head. “Stop being nice. I’m trying to spiral here.” He throws me a mock glare, and it’s so fucking cute, I laugh.
I never realized how much of his personality he kept hidden over the years. Now I’m finally seeing it, and I really like what I see. I’m hoping it’s a sign he feels more comfortable around me. I’ve been living with him for almost a month now, and it feels like home in a way nowhere else has.
“Too bad. I’m not letting you.”
He laughs under his breath, and we go back to work.
He’s wearing faded denim jeans and a Virginia Woolf T-shirt that’s seen better days, the collar stretched from years of wear. He looks beautiful—he would in anything.
It doesn’t hurt that without the cardigan, I can see his biceps as he moves things around, the lean muscle of his arms covered in a dusting of dark hair. He’s so soft, yet so masculine.
His hair keeps flopping into his face as he leans forward, and yet again, I have the stupid, near-painful urge to brush it back for him just to see his eyes.
“So,” I say, mostly to distract myself, “is there anything else you want to do in here?”
“So many things,” he mutters.
“Then we’ll make a plan and get them done.”
He gives me a look—half skeptical, half amused. “It’s that easy, huh?”
“Yep. You want it done, we’ll get it done.”
We grin at each other—his soft and warm—and the moment stretches, comfortable and unhurried. I like that about Gabe. I don’t have to fill every silence.
Who the fuck am I kidding? I like everything about him. I just wish he’d feel the same about me.
The door opens.
A teenage boy stands just inside the threshold—slight frame, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands. He looks ready to bolt.
“Hi,” Gabe says gently, standing and dusting off his hands. “Take your time. Let me know if you’re looking for anything specific.”
The kid hesitates, eyeing the end of a bookshelf covered in colorful queer romance paperbacks, then walks up to the counter.
His voice is small; practically whispering the words, maybe because he doesn’t want me to hear, or maybe he’s nervous saying them.
“Um… I’m looking for a book. On… I guess, being okay with who you are? ”
“Absolutely. I’ve got a few stories I think you’d like.”
He walks around the counter, doesn’t crowd the kid, but speaks so warmly I can’t help but close my eyes and listen.
“What’s your name?”
“Connor.”
“I’m Gabe. You’re always welcome here, Connor. Even if you just want to hang out. This is a safe space, okay?”
I crack my eyes open to see Connor nod, wide eyes looking a little glassy. “Okay.”
I stand still, watching as the exchange unfolds with a tug in my chest. He leads the kid to a display, gesturing to each book, explaining what makes each one special and why he loves them.
When Connor leaves with two books tucked under his arm, he promises to come back.
I turn to Gabe. “That was amazing. How you were with him.”
Gabe blinks at me like he doesn’t understand why I’m saying it. “I just… did my job.”
I shake my head. “You did more than that. You made him feel like he could open up and be honest with you. You made him feel safe. Not everyone can make people feel that way.”
His cheeks flush, and he looks down to hide his smile, fiddling with the hem of his T-shirt. I tuck that reaction away for later. Gabe responds to praise like sunlight through fog—tentative, but quietly blooming.
“It’s easier for me. In here.” He peers up at me through his dark, full lashes. “To talk to people.”
I knew that, but the fact that he says it aloud means something. I nod and give him a small smile that I hope shows I understand.
He doesn’t say anything else, and we go back to the shelf. It protests our work, groaning and splintering with every board we pull loose.
“So, you still read? I mean, I know you like The Wayfarer’s Star, but what else do you read?” he asks suddenly, glancing at me.
“Yeah. Mostly still fantasy. Big sprawling worlds, magic, slow burns. What about you?”
“Anything, really. As long as there’s a happy ending. Me, Ciarán, and Abbie have our own book club.”
“Oh yeah?”
He nods.
“I’d love to come sometime.”
Gabe goes very still, then blushes again, a deep rosy shade coloring his face. “Oh… Well. You might not like what we pick.”
My curiosity is piqued at that. “Why’s that?”
“They’re… not exactly high fantasy. More like high… romance.”
I grin, delighted by his omission. “You have a smutty book club!”
“I didn’t say that.” His face is so red now, I can’t stop grinning at him.
“You didn’t have to. That blush gave you away.”
He laughs, flustered and adorable. “Oh my god, I never should have opened my mouth.” He pushes his hands into his cheeks, trying to hide the stain. I can’t help the laugh that escapes me, seeing this lighter side of Gabe.
“How about a reading sometime?” I ask jokingly. Although… I wouldn’t say no.
He rolls his eyes playfully, muttering something through a laugh about changing the locks and turns back to the shelf, but his smile remains. The morning sun slants across the wooden floorboards, the light that makes the whole shop look warm and peaceful. Gabe’s so relaxed. Freer than usual.
And then—
The next crack is loud.
A violent snap—the final panel gives out beneath his hand, and the entire shelf teeters, then collapses sideways with a deafening crash, splintered wood slamming against the floorboards.
It echoes off the walls.
And Gabe—
Gabe freezes. Eyes wide. Then he flinches so forcefully it makes my stomach jerk. His arms fly up to cover his head as if he’s been struck, body curling in on itself like it’s instinct—survival. He stumbles back, shoulders tight, crashing into the wall with a soft thud.
His breathing is instantly ragged. Fast. Panicked.
“No, no, I’m sorry—” he chokes out, voice laced with terror as he slides down the wall, legs giving out beneath him.
My heart drops.
His hands cover his face, fingers trembling, shoulders quaking with each frantic gasp of air. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t—please, I’m sorry—”
It’s like someone has ripped the air out of the room. Just seconds ago, the sound of his beautiful laugh filled the space. Now? The sobs he’s trying so desperately to stifle shred the silence.
I don’t move closer. Don’t touch him, no matter how much I want to pull him into my arms and hold him.
I feel like my chest is being torn open.
I drop to my knees in front of him, heart pounding.
I keep my voice composed, gentle. “Gabe,” I say softly.
“It’s okay. You’re safe. It was just the shelf. That’s all. It’s over.”
But he isn’t hearing me.
He’s somewhere else entirely.
He rocks himself, curled so tight it looks painful.
His knees are drawn up, his arms wrapped around his head like they might keep the world out.
His face is hidden, but I hear the whispered apologies, over and over and over, falling from his lips like a reflex.
His hands drag through his hair, and he tugs roughly.
“I’m sorry,” he keeps saying. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, please…”
Each one lands like a blow.
The fear emanating from him is palpable.
“You’re not in trouble,” I murmur. “You didn’t do anything wrong. I promise, Gabe. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m right here.”