Chapter Six
Juliet
“I’ll follow you,” I say as Noah pulls off his apron.
Because, of course, I don’t know where he lives.
I shouldn’t.
I can’t.
So I follow behind his car, watching him through his rear windshield, calm, waiting.
My fingers drum against the steering wheel, heartbeat steady.
He has no idea.
No idea that his entire life is about to be shattered.
And I’ll be the one to pick up the pieces.
I pull into the parking lot beside him, cutting the engine as he does.
He glances at me, smiling so sweetly, so unsuspecting.
I smile back.
We step out, walking toward the building, his keys jingling in his hand.
I tilt my head just slightly. Time it just right. “You know,” I murmur, careful, soft, easing into it, “If you want, we can go to my place again. I’ll cook.”
I keep my voice light. Like it’s casual. Like I’m not guiding him exactly where I want him.
Noah glances over, lips quirking up. “I can order pizza.”
Sweet boy.
“That sounds good,” I say, because I don’t argue with him. Because I agree, reinforce, let him think he’s making choices.
Poor baby. I bet he orders a lot of pizza. His days of takeout are almost over.
He’s going to have home-cooked meals, a warm bed, someone who adores him.
I’ll take such good care of him.
He reaches the door, unlocking it, and turning back to me.
“It’s not much,” he says, watching me, gauging my reaction.
Like it matters.
Like this is a normal night.
“But this is home,” he adds.
Not anymore, love.
And then, he pushes the door open.
I let my breath catch.
I let my hand fly to my mouth.
I let my eyes go wide with horror.
I play the part.
“Oh my God, Noah,” I say.
His body locks up beside me.
He stares. Eyes flickering, brain struggling to catch up.
Books torn. Furniture gutted.
And that’s the moment it happens.
His entire world shifts.
Noah changes.
Because he stops thinking about his apartment, his things, his loss.
And he starts thinking about me.
He turns, pushes me back slightly, protectively.
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, breath shaky. Then, so soft, so sweet, he adds, “Stay here.”
Oh.
Oh, my sweetheart.
He’s thinking about my safety.
Even now.
Even as everything he owns crumbles around him.
He steps inside slowly.
Like his brain can’t keep up with what he’s seeing.
The overturned couch. The torn books.
He moves deeper.
I follow, watching as he takes in the ruined clothes.
His bed, his fucking bed.
His breathing is sharp, uneven. His hands shake.
“Noah,” I whisper, soft, softer than anything, stepping closer.
“I…” He swallows hard. “Who the fuck would do this?”
I step behind him, lay a careful hand on his back.
And that?
That’s when he caves.
Because he leans into my touch.
Just a little. Just enough.
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing, voice tight with disbelief. “I, I don’t even know where to start.”
I watch him, watch his mind spiral.
Watch him reach for his phone.
He’s going to call someone.
Maybe his sister. Maybe a friend.
No.
I won’t let him. I move in, touch him again. Slide my arms around him from behind, press my cheek to his back. Soothing. Soft. The only thing grounding him. “Don’t worry about it,” I whisper.
He exhales, long and shaking. “Juliet, everything I own.”
I turn him to me, tilt my head, stroke my fingers down his jaw. So much comfort. So much certainty. “Stay with me,” I say, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.
Like it’s the only option.
His lips part. “I, I can’t just…”
I press my hands against his chest, gentle but firm. “Yes, you can.” And then I say the words he needs to hear. “You don’t have to be alone tonight.”
And just like that?
Noah is mine.
He looks at me, so broken.
So devastated.
And oh, my love.
He doesn’t even realize how perfect this is.
I pull out my phone, my fingers moving without hesitation.
I dial, I take control, I take care of him.
“I need to report a break-in,” I say, voice steady, because I am steady.
Because I am the only thing keeping him standing right now.
Noah just blinks, his breath shaky, his hands limp at his sides.
Lost.
I reach for him, threading my fingers through his, holding him like a lifeline.
“What’s your address, sweetheart?” I murmur, soft, gentle.
Like I don’t know it by heart.
He rattles it off, voice hollow, and I repeat it back to the officer on the phone.
I answer their questions.
I give them the information.
And when I hang up?
I reach for him.
I frame his face between my hands, tilting it toward me, grounding him.
I make sure I’m the only thing he can focus on.
“I’m here for you,” I whisper. So certain. So soft. So real. I smooth my thumbs over his jaw. “You can stay with me.”
His breath catches.
His hands come up, hesitating like he wants to hold onto me too.
But then, his gaze sweeps over the wreckage again.
“My things,” he breathes, voice cracked, raw.
Oh, baby.
I pull him closer, pressing against him, pressing my words into him.
“It’s just things,” I murmur, soft, firm, soothing. “We can replace things.”
His chest rises and falls too fast, his heartbeat hammering against mine.
“I’m just glad you were at work,” I say, shaking my head. “God knows what would’ve happened if you’d been home.”
His whole body tenses.
He exhales, long and slow.
Then, his hand finds the small of my back.
Not an accident.
Not a meaningless touch.
It’s protective. It’s deliberate.
Even now, even as he stands in the ruins of his life, he’s guiding me away.
Keeping me safe.
Oh, I love him.
I love him so much.
And I’m so glad he’s finally realized he loves me too.
The police take forever.
They move slowly, ask pointless questions, scribble notes like they actually plan to do something. They don’t realize how exhausted Noah is. They don’t see how much he’s already lost tonight. They don’t care like I do.
No one ever does.
I hold his hand, fingers laced through his, thumb stroking his skin in slow, soothing circles. He doesn’t even seem to notice, too distracted, too stunned by the destruction around him.
Poor thing. He’s overwhelmed, trying to keep up, trying to understand.
He just needs rest. He needs comfort. He needs me.
And these idiots are keeping him from all of it.
I swallow down my frustration, keep my expression soft, keep my touch gentle. Be patient. He’s already slipping into my arms. I just have to let him fall.
Then, just when I think we’re finally done here, he does something unforgivable.
He calls his sister.
My jaw tightens, but I don’t let it show. I just tilt my head, watching, listening, taking in every little detail.
I can’t hear what she says, but I know what she must be asking.
She must have suggested something ridiculous, something that makes my stomach twist, because I hear him murmur, “I have a place to go tonight.”
Tonight. And every other night.
Still, my fingers stay light against his. My body remains close to his side. I let him feel my warmth, my presence, the safety I offer. I don’t react.
But inside, I burn.
I hope she isn’t going to be a problem. I hope she knows her place. I hope she understands that, from now on, Noah belongs to me.
Because if she doesn’t?
That could get… messy.
It’s one thing to help him replace his things. Clothes, furniture, food, those are easy. Those don’t matter.
But a sister? A sister is complicated. A sister screws with emotions, makes him feel obligated, makes him feel like there’s someone else he should turn to. I don’t need that kind of headache. Not this soon in our relationship.
He needs to be ready for the next step.
I wanted to take my time with him, really savor this, let it build, let him fall.
But he’s just too perfect.
And that’s too risky.
Too many women notice him. Too many look at him the way they shouldn’t. They laugh too much at his jokes, hold eye contact a little too long, like they actually have a chance. Like I would ever allow that.
They don’t understand.
They don’t know what I do for him.
They don’t love him like I do.
Women are sneaky. Manipulative. They know how to slide their way into a man’s life, how to plant themselves like parasites and steal what isn’t theirs.
And Noah?
Noah is too good, too kind, too trusting.
He needs to be protected from that.
He needs to be protected from them.
He needs me.
When the police finally finish, he grabs a small bag, just a few things he managed to salvage. He looks tired. Worn. Ready to be taken care of.
I slide my arm through his, press my body to his side, guiding him toward the door.
Finally.
Finally, I can take him home.
Where he belongs.