Chapter 44 NOAH
NOAH
The bed is empty when I wake.
For a second, I think maybe he’s in the kitchen, or the bathroom, or just up earlier than me. But the sheet on his side is cold.
My stomach tightens.
I push myself upright, listening. There’s nothing. No footsteps, no kettle, no faint shuffle of Gabe moving around down in the shop.
“Gabe?”
Nothing.
I get up to check the hall. His sneakers are gone. The cap he always wears on runs, too.
I open the apartment door and call into the dark stairwell.
“Baby?”
Silence.
Normally, he waits for me. We roll out of bed, we lace up, and we go together; it’s our thing now. Him going without me makes no sense.
I sit at the table with a mug of tea, but I don’t bother drinking.
I keep looking at the door, expecting it to open, but the silence stretches.
My knee bounces under the table. I keep thinking of how upset he looked when I came home yesterday, how sorrowful he was when he spoke.
He’s had a few bad days during the time I’ve lived here, and usually, he just asks me to hold him through it.
That’s what I did last night, but now I’m wondering if I should have done more.
Ten minutes pass.
Twenty.
Thirty.
I check my phone. It’s been close to an hour since I woke up. An hour of him out there alone.
I pick up my phone and call him. It rings, and I hear his phone buzzing. He’s left it here. Fuck. A spike of panic shoots through me.
What if something happened to him?
Maybe he just needed to clear his head, it’s happened before…
not for a long while now, though. I can’t sit still.
I stand, sit again, pace the kitchen. Go to the window, stare down at the empty street.
Every sound makes my head jerk up—the rumble of a garbage truck, a car door slamming, the neighbor’s dog.
But it’s not him.
Should I call Aiden? I don’t want to worry him, though. But what if we should be worried?
I think about grabbing my sneakers and going out to find him, but what if he comes back while I’m gone? What if he needs me here? The idea of missing him by minutes makes me feel sick.
So, I stay.
Waiting.
My mind keeps throwing up pictures I don’t want. Gabe tripping on the trail, lying wounded with no one there. Gabe lost in his head, shutting down, alone. Gabe not coming back at all.
The more I try to shove them away, the worse they get.
I rub a hand over my chest, but it doesn’t ease anything.
I think about the mornings we run together.
How he always starts stiff and loosens as we go.
How he pushes himself harder than he should, like pain is the point.
How he glances my way, like he’s checking I’m still there. I know it matters that I am.
The thought of him out there without me, for whatever reason he went alone, feels like I’ve failed him somehow. I keep circling the same fear. What if he doesn’t come back?
I stare at the door until my eyes sting. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the door swings open. I’m already on my feet, the scrape of the latch snapping through me like a whip.
And then he’s there.
He fills the doorway, but doesn’t look like himself. His hoodie is wet, plastered to his chest. Mud streaks his calves, dried in dark smears up his legs. His hair drips, strands stuck to his forehead. Water runs from his sleeves, spotting the floor in uneven drops.
His skin and lips are pale. His hands shaking at his sides.
For a second, I can’t move. The sight of him lodges in my throat, a lump that swells and won’t go down. He looks awful, like he’s gone to hell and back.
His eyes find mine.
When he finally speaks, it’s a croak. Relief, ache, and a plea—all crammed into one small but meaningful word.
“Blue.”
Not my name, yet my name.
Then his knees hit the ground, and I’m moving faster than I ever have in my life. I cross the room, dropping in front of him, sliding my hand under his elbow. His skin is ice cold, clammy under my touch.
“Baby,” I whisper as I take him in. His eyes stay fixed on the ground. I stand, taking him with me. I need to take care of him, make sure he’s not hurt. He doesn’t resist, doesn’t even blink, just lets me support his weight and steer him down the hall.
He feels unsteady, like if I let go, he’ll drop again. I hold tighter, my body doing the work his isn’t able to.
The bathroom light is harsh against the scene of him.
Ashen skin, trembling muscles, dirt clinging in streaks and smudges.
I keep my face calm. If he sees the panic in me, it will only make it worse.
I turn the shower on, steam rising fast. The hiss of water fills the silence between us.
He stands there staring at nothing, arms slack, eyes glassed over.
I want to ask. I want to shake answers out of him, demand to know what happened, why he looks like this. But I keep the words in. I know he can’t give them right now. I think I know where he went. I know where he goes on bad days. And the thought causes my stomach to drop further.
All I need is to get him warm. Get him clean. Get him breathing like he’s supposed to. Then we can focus on the rest.
I step in front of him and work at his hoodie. It’s heavy with water, fabric clinging to his skin. I peel it over his head carefully. He doesn’t lift his arms until I guide them, and even then, it’s sluggish, like his body is exhausted beyond everything.
The shirt underneath is plastered to his body. I have to work each sleeve inch by inch, sliding the fabric off. His skin is so cold everywhere I touch it. My stomach twists, but I keep my face neutral. I don’t want him to see the fear I’m feeling, not when he’s barely holding himself together.
His shorts sag with weight. I kneel to ease them down with his briefs, fabric squelching as it peels from his thighs. His socks come last, dripping wet against my palms. I strip them away and set them aside.
Then he’s bare, goosebumps rising on his arms and chest. His teeth chatter so loudly, I can hear it above the water running. His lips tremble. I cup his shoulder gently and steer him toward the shower, lowering the temperature so it doesn’t shock him.
The water is just warm, pouring over his hair, his face, down his chest. He flinches at first, but then he sags forward, letting it take him. His shoulders drop.
I take the washcloth, work up a lather, and begin to wash him. I’m still dressed, water soaking into my clothes, but I don’t care.
I start with his arms first. Soap slides over his skin, bubbles cutting through grime. His muscles twitch under my touch, tiny shudders he can’t control. I rinse the soap away, lift his wrist, and press a kiss there, light as air.
I’m glad you’re here.
Shoulders next. I smooth soap over the curve of muscle, into the line of his collarbone. My thumbs brush faint knots where he’s tense. I rinse, lean in, kiss the slope of his shoulder as he exhales.
I’m glad you came back.
His chest. I work carefully, creating a lather across ribs that still rise and fall erratically. My hand lingers over his heart. I rinse the soap away, bend down, and press a kiss just above his sternum.
My heart. My love.
His back. I sweep the washcloth down the length of it, suds turning brown where dirt runs off. I trace the dip of his spine, following the path of water down. A kiss between his shoulder blades.
I’ve got you.
His legs. Mud covers his calves, crusted behind his knees. I kneel behind him, scrub gently, and rinse the water clean. Press a kiss to the inside of his knee. He trembles.
Mine. Mine. Mine.
Last, his hands. His fingers are stiff, knuckles caked with mud and covered in small cuts.
I wash each one slowly, letting him feel the reverence in my touch.
Soap under his nails, between each finger.
His hands shake in mine, but he doesn’t pull away.
I rinse them clean and press a kiss to each knuckle.
Please don’t leave me. Please.
Not once does he meet my eyes. Not once does he speak again. But he lets me care for him. Every kiss is the same—meaningful, loving, wordless. A language only I’m speaking and—hopefully—he’s hearing.
When the water finally runs clear, I shut it off. The silence that follows is thick, only the drip, drip, drip of water from his hair.
I wrap him in a large towel, soft and thick, cocooning him. The cotton swallows him whole. I pat him dry gently. His hair sticks to his face in damp tufts. I smooth them back and press a kiss to his temple. He lets out a trembling breath.
Still here.
Through it all, my own body burns with things I don’t say. Fear that consumes me. Relief so intense it hurts. Want that goes deeper than heat. I want him whole. I want him safe. If all I can do is wash him clean, kiss life back into him piece by piece, then that’s what I’ll do.
Always.
He lets me guide him to the bedroom, bare feet shuffling against the floorboards. I keep my hand on the small of his back, steading him.
In his bedroom, I sit him down on the edge of the bed and crouch to tug the sweats over his ankles, easing the fabric up his legs. He doesn’t lift his feet until I touch them. Then my hoodie, sliding over his head. I smooth the fabric down his arms.
The level of trust he’s giving me transcends anything I’ve ever known.
He curls sideways onto the mattress as soon as he’s dressed. His knees tuck in, hands folded close to his body. He doesn’t open his eyes, but his lashes flutter like he’s holding back tears.
I quickly strip from my damp clothes and throw on joggers and a T-shirt.
I sit on the edge beside him, close enough to feel the heat of his body. His breathing hitches, then slowly evens out as the minutes stretch.
Fear and relief battle inside me.
I swallow hard and press my palm against my thigh to stop it shaking. I can’t fix it for him. I can’t fight what I don’t understand. But I can be here. I can show up. I can love him in the ways he lets me.