Chapter 19 GABE #2
I face him as we talk—or rather, he talks, telling me about his day, and I offer short answers. I feel him noticing the gaps, the way the air between us is strained. He doesn’t push, which is somehow worse. He should be angry with me. I’m angry with me.
Then he reaches up, pulls his cap from his head, and runs a hand through his hair.
It’s an ordinary action. But my body doesn’t care. I’ve been on high alert all day, waiting for something to set me off. My chest seizes, and I flinch—a small jerk, barely a breath, but enough. Enough for him to see.
I glance up and catch the hurt flicker across his face. It twists in my stomach. But before I can stammer out an apology, the hurt shifts. His brow furrows in something else entirely.
Understanding.
It’s worse than the hurt, knowing he knows what that reflex means. All the shame I live with rising to the surface, making my skin crawl.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly, eyes searching my face. “You okay?”
I shake my head, my throat too tight for words. I’m not okay, I feel so small, weak, worthless. Nothing even happened today to make me feel like this.
It's not fair. On him. On me.
There’s a stinging in the bridge of my nose; he shouldn’t be apologizing. My jittery fingers tighten around the mug, trying to ground myself in its warmth. Hot tea sloshes over my knuckles. I don’t even notice it until he reaches for a towel and sets it beside my hand, not touching me.
I hate that he didn’t touch me, I love that he didn’t touch me.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble after clearing my throat, annoyed with myself for constantly saying those words but needing to. He did nothing wrong. I’m the one who’s all wrong. I’m nothing but broken parts that won’t fit anymore.
“I know you wouldn’t hurt me. I just—” I swallow hard, and tears fill my eyes, but I sniff them back.
“It’s been a bad day. Sometimes I can’t control my reactions.
Old memories get stuck in my mind. And I can’t…
stop them. I’m sorry, Noah.” I take a trembling breath.
“I’m sorry.” Saying those words over and over feels like reopening an old wound.
“Hey, you don’t have to apologize for that,” he says in a hushed voice. “Ever. You don’t need to apologize for your feelings. If you’re having a bad day”—he swallows roughly and looks directly at me—“I’ll still be here for you, for as long as you want me.”
He shifts on his feet, thinking over his next words. “I want to be here,” he says more firmly. His fingers twitch, like he’s holding back from reaching for me. “For you. If you want to talk about it, we can. Or we can just sit together, not talking at all. And if you need to be alone, I can leave.”
I can’t hold his gaze for more than a second. But when I do, there’s no judgment there. No frustration. Just a quiet sort of promise. I want to sob. To cling to him and make him promise he won’t leave. Beg him to hold me while I shatter into a million pieces.
I shake my head. “Don’t go.”
I don’t know if I’m ready to talk about everything, but I know I don’t want him to leave.
“Dinner?” he asks after a stretch of silence, as if the question can build a bridge between us.
“Yeah,” I manage to grit out through another sniffle. “Let me see what we have.”
He gives me a gentle smile and shakes his head. “I’m cooking. You sit down and relax. Let me take care of you.”
He nods once, like he’s settled it, then moves around the kitchen.
I stay standing and watch him.
The ordinary domesticity of it makes something ache beneath my breastbone. He’s not angry with me, not disappointed. He’s staying, taking care of me.
And for the first time since waking, the shadow pulls back. It’s not gone, not even close. But it’s thinned by something, a light that feels like it’s coming directly from him. From the way Noah moves around me with care, from the way he treats me like every part of me is worth patience.
We stand there a moment, close but not touching, sharing the same breath of air. The space between us feels frail, like you could blow on it and it could break, or you could cup your hands around it, keep it safe, and it might hold. I want so badly for it to hold.
“Thank you,” I say. I don’t just mean for dinner.
The words aren’t enough. My chest feels too tight, too full, and before my nerves can rise up and strangle the impulse, I step forward. One breath, then another, and I’m close enough to see the flecks of darker blue in his eyes. My shaking hand finds his jaw, and I lean in.
My lips brush his softly; it’s not tentative but not forceful, either.
His lips meet mine like he’s been waiting for it, deepening just slightly, enough to send a slow ache spiraling through me.
The light scrape of his stubble, the steady weight of his breath, the faint taste of something sweet on his tongue—it’s all I can hold onto.
His hands come up my back, thumbs brushing back and forth in a comforting motion.
I press closer, my fingers threading into the soft hair at the back of his neck, pouring everything I’m feeling—gratitude, safety, the start of something I’m afraid to want as badly as I already do—into the shape of our mouths meeting.
It’s over too soon, and when I pull back, I inhale sharply.
He’s looking at me like nobody ever has, like I’ve handed him something rare, eyes warm, mouth parted, as if he can't find words.
“Just… thank you,” I murmur, and it feels heavier than the words themselves.