Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Noelle
The bed’s too still, too warm, too…not mine.
I’ve fluffed the pillow, shifted the blanket, closed my eyes more times than I can count.
None of it helps.
Not with the way the couch keeps creaking on the other side of the wall.
Not with the guilt crawling up the back of my neck like static.
Creak.
Rustle.
A muffled curse.
The sound goes straight through me. I clench the blanket tighter around my shoulders, my legs tangled and hot under the covers.
My skin prickles with awareness—not from the cold, but from knowing he’s out there, pretending like he’s comfortable when I know damn well he’s not.
I roll to my side, spine tight, and try to ignore the pressure blooming low in my belly.
Not lust. Not exactly.
Something more uncomfortable. More complicated. Something I don’t know how to name.
Another creak.
Then silence.
Then a voice, low and rough like gravel dragged across memory foam.
“I’m fine.”
It’s like he knows I want to ask him if he’s okay.
Or maybe he knows I’m awake, wrapped in guilt and a blanket and trying not to feel too much in a stranger’s bed that suddenly doesn’t feel so strange.
I sit up slowly, the mattress dipping beneath me, blanket sliding down to my hips. My skin cools instantly, a sharp contrast to the heat in my chest.
I move on instinct, bare feet brushing the wood floor, one hand finding the doorknob before I can talk myself out of it.
The second I crack the door open, I see him.
Sprawled across the couch, limbs too long for the frame, one arm flung over his head like he’s surrendering to the inevitability of bad decisions.
The blanket only makes it to his knees. His feet hang off the edge, socked toes flexing like they’re trying to anchor him to a space that won’t quite hold him.
He shifts again, jaw clenched, and mutters something too low to catch.
My chest twists. That stupid kind of tight that comes when you feel something you’re not ready to admit.
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, hard enough to taste copper, just to ground myself.
I shouldn’t care this much.
He shouldn’t look so good in such an awkward position. But he does.
I huff out a low breath. I barely know the man.
This was supposed to be a pit stop—not a slow-burn unraveling.
But there’s something about the way his shoulders are hunched, the way he’s clearly trying to shrink himself down to fit this space, that makes the back of my throat sting.
I press my forehead to the doorframe and close my eyes.
The wood is cool against my skin. Grounding. Necessary.
I want to say something.
Offer to switch.
Or admit this is ridiculous and that we should both stop pretending we’re not adults capable of sharing a bed without catching fire.
But I don’t.
Because some reckless part of me already wants that bed to feel like more than just a bed.
Like a beginning instead of a compromise.
And that is dangerous.
So I do what I’ve always done when I get too close to something I want—I retreat.
I shut the door.
Slide back under the covers.
And lie there, staring at the ceiling, while the storm outside keeps falling and the storm inside me keeps building.
I close my eyes, and the next thing I hear is music.
Not loud. Not structured. Just…sound. Gentle, low, a hum beneath the quiet that wraps around the apartment like a second skin.
For a moment, I think I’m dreaming, the notes so soft they might be coming from inside my head.
But then the strings bend ever so slightly—hesitating on a note like someone choosing between honesty and silence—and I know it’s real.
My legs are tangled in the sheets, too warm now, and the air beyond the bedroom is cool enough to raise goosebumps across my arms when I sit up.
The scent of coffee from earlier lingers, faint but grounding, clinging to his shirt still draped across my body like borrowed comfort.
I pad barefoot toward the door, drawn by the pull of it.
The music guides me like the flicker of a match in the dark. Not loud enough to fill the space. Just enough to lead me through it.
The living room glows with soft light from the kitchen, not quite dark, not quite morning. Cal sits on the edge of the couch, hunched slightly, the body of a worn acoustic guitar resting across his lap.
He doesn’t see me.
He’s shirtless now—just loose sweats, his back lit in amber shadows. The curve of his spine, the strength in his arms, the delicate way his fingers move along the neck of the guitar—it all feels like a contradiction.
Quiet strength. Rough gentleness.
My body tingles from head to toe, and my nipples grow taut against the fabric of his T-shirt.
He strums again. The notes are barely there. A lullaby no one asked for, meant for no one at all. Old chords. Muscle memory.
Maybe something his mom used to sing, or something he picked up alone in a bedroom no one ever knocked on.
And I get it.
This is how he talks.
Not with words. Not with questions or confessions.
With chords and silence. With fingers that speak better than his mouth ever will.
My heart does something strange in my chest—lurches, then stutters like it’s remembering how to ache.
I lean against the doorframe and watch him. Not intruding. Not yet. Just…listening.
The music shifts slightly, like he’s improvising or chasing a feeling he doesn’t want to name. I don’t realize I’m holding my breath until the silence comes, abrupt and raw.
His head turns, just enough to see me in the corner of his eye.
I don’t flinch. Don’t back away.
Just say his name, soft as a secret.
“Cal.”
He doesn’t startle. Doesn’t cover the guitar or shut down.
He just looks at me.
Really looks.
Something passes between us then.
Not lust.
Just knowing.
Like the sound of his fingers on strings has opened a door neither of us meant to find.
I step closer, each bare foot against the cold wood grounding me more than it should. The snow outside still falls in a silent cascade behind the window, but in here, everything hums with quiet life.
Warm air from the vent brushes my legs. His guitar rests against his chest like a shield he’s finally set down beside him.
“You play a lot?” I ask, voice barely above a whisper.
“Not for anyone. Not usually.”
A pause. A glance.
I nod like I understand. Because I do.
Some things aren’t meant to be shared. But he did anyway.
And now I’m the only person in the world who’s heard it.
He stands and places the guitar back on its stand, but the soft buzz of its final note still lives somewhere in my chest, like it carved out space it wasn’t supposed to have.
I watch as he lays back down on the couch, his long legs stretched out on the cushions, one arm crooked under his head, the other resting across his chest. The blanket barely covers his legs, and the angle of his neck makes my own ache in sympathy.
Crossing the room to the sofa, I sit on the arm and look down at him. “Cal,” I say, too softly to be scolding.
He shifts his eyes toward me without moving the rest of his body. “I’m good.”
“You’re gonna destroy your spine.”
He huffs out a quiet laugh, but doesn’t argue. Just lies there like the physical embodiment of stubborn.
I cross my arms. “You’re six-three on a five-foot couch. That’s not chivalry. That’s masochism.”
One brow lifts. “You estimating my height now?”
“I Googled you months ago.” I shrug. “Team website had the stats.”
That gets a half-smile. “That explains the sudden interest in my lumbar health.”
I don’t smile back. Not really. The humor is soft, but the moment is weightier now. The kind that settles into silence without turning awkward.
The kind you have to choose your way through.
He closes his eyes like he’s putting the conversation to bed with himself. But I’m not done.
“It’s just sleep,” I say, quieter now.
His lids flicker. Open again. This time, his gaze meets mine and doesn’t let go.
I see the war behind his eyes. The flick of want. The press of restraint. The need to be decent colliding with the craving to be near.
And still—he doesn’t move.
“You sure?” he asks, voice low and unguarded. “Because I don’t want—”
“I’m sure,” I say, cutting him off. Not harsh, just honest. “I’m not asking for anything else.”
He studies me like he’s trying to find the edges of what I mean. Maybe trying to protect both of us from what we don’t.
And then—finally—he nods.
“Just sleep,” he echoes.
I don’t wait for more.
I stand and walk back down the hall barefoot. When I get to the bed, I take off the pants and slide beneath the covers, leaving enough space between the pillows to spell safety.
A long beat passes.
Then the soft shuffle of his steps.
The mattress dips behind me, careful and slow, like he’s still not sure he’s allowed to exhale.
He doesn’t reach for me. Doesn’t touch my hand. Doesn’t even brush the blankets against my side.
And somehow…that makes me feel more than if he had.