Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
Noelle
The counter is cold against my back, but my skin burns anyway.
I can still taste him.
Not in a way that’s soft or sweet, but in the way heat lingers after a spark catches. My lips are swollen, my pulse a fist in my throat, and I swear the air between us still crackles like static.
Cal steps back first.
Not far. Just enough.
And the loss hits harder than it should. The warmth he leaves behind cools too fast, the space between us widening by inches that feel like miles.
For a beat, neither of us moves.
The kitchen hums quietly around us—low buzz of the fridge, faint tick of the heat vent. It should be peaceful, normal.
But it’s not.
It’s charged.
I press my palms against the counter behind me to keep from reaching for him again. My breath still comes shallow, uneven. My heart hasn’t decided whether it’s terrified or alive.
He’s watching me. I can feel it.
That still, assessing gaze that sees too much. The kind that doesn’t chase but waits for me to bolt or come closer.
I hate that I can’t tell which one I want to do.
“Water,” I murmur, more to fill the silence than anything else. My voice sounds strange—rough-edged and thinner than I want it to.
He doesn’t answer, doesn’t move to help. Just watches.
I reach past him, close enough that my sleeve brushes his arm, and grab the glass from the sink. My fingers tremble, but I do my best to ignore it.
The faucet roars to life, the rush of it filling the silence, though it doesn’t cut through the tension.
I take a sip.
Cold water. Hot blood. It doesn’t even out.
His scent lingers in the air—an amber and woodsy smell that settles low in my stomach. It’s in the fabric of the shirt I’m wearing, in the space between us, in the pulse under my skin that won’t quiet down.
I set the glass down too hard. The sound cracks the quiet.
He shifts, barely a movement. Shoulders rolling once, tension visible even in the small motion.
“You okay?” His voice is quiet, low. It skims across my spine.
I nod, though I’m not sure what that even means. “Fine.”
It’s a lie.
Nothing about this is fine. Not the way he’s looking at me. Not the way I’m reacting to it.
Not the way my body still remembers the press of his hands, the scrape of stubble against my chin, the exact way his mouth broke against mine like he’d been holding back too long.
I should say something, set a line. Make it clear that this was a mistake. That I don’t cross professional boundaries or blur lines I can’t redraw.
But the words won’t come.
Because I don’t regret it.
Not one second of it.
He blinks first, breaking eye contact, and that tiny shift feels like gravity releasing. He takes a slow step back, rubbing the back of his neck like the motion might shake something loose.
The air rushes in where he stood, colder now, and I have to steady myself with another long sip of water.
The glass clinks softly against my teeth. My hand shakes.
“Guess I should…finish this,” I say, gesturing vaguely to the glass before setting it in the sink. The excuse is weak, but it gives me somewhere to look that isn’t him.
His reply comes low, even. “Yeah.”
No push. No follow-up. Just that quiet understanding that feels heavier than any touch.
I need to get out of this room that suddenly feels too small for the two of us.
“I think I’ll go take a shower if you don’t mind.”
His eyes hold mine, and I see the flare of something I don’t dare name.
“Of course. Towels are in the closet.”
“Thank you.”
Forcing my legs to move, I turn away from him, every step deliberate.
Each one a lie that says I’m fine. I’m unaffected. I can handle this.
But I feel his eyes follow me anyway.
Every inch of air I walk through feels like him—heat and gravity and something that pulls without permission.
I make it to the doorway before my composure starts to crack. My pulse is still wild. My lips still sting.
I don’t look back.
If I do, I’ll walk right back over to him and climb him like a tree.
And that’s a mistake I’m not ready to stop wanting.
I keep walking.
But I swear I can still feel his breath against my mouth. His hands ghosting my hips. His voice, low and rough, caught somewhere under my skin.
I step into the bathroom, closing the door behind me before looking at my reflection in the mirror.
I know exactly what I should feel right now.
Guilt. Regret. Self-control.
But that’s not what I see in the mirror, nor is that how I feel.
Instead, of all those things, I feel him everywhere.
And God help me, I don’t want it to fade.
When I finally make my way back into the living room, credits roll on another show. The light from the TV flickers across the room, casting shadows I don’t trust, and the air feels thicker now. “I think I’m gonna turn in.”
He doesn’t move or appear to acknowledge me at first. Then he nods once. Slow. “Yeah. I’ll crash on the couch again.”
His voice is low, almost careful. Like we’re both pretending something didn’t happen in the kitchen.
But it did.
And my body hasn’t stopped humming since.
I hesitate, fingers tightening around the hem of the hoodie—his hoodie—I’m wearing. “You don’t have to.”
That gets his attention. His eyes cut to mine, sharp and unreadable.
“You sure?”
I nod, even though the yes barely makes it past my lips. “It’s not like last night wasn’t fine.”
Fine.
As if sharing a bed with him wasn’t the most nerve-sparking, skin-prickling experience I’ve had in years.
As if I didn’t lie awake half the night, acutely aware of his every breath just inches behind me.
He watches me like he’s trying to figure out what kind of game I’m playing.
But there is no game. I’m just tired. Tired of pretending this doesn’t feel like something. Tired of pretending I don’t want to know what would happen if I stopped pretending.
“You sure?” he asks again, voice rough.
I nod. “Same bed. Just sleep. No big deal.”
It’s a big deal.
I stand and start walking toward the bedroom, heart thudding with every step.
I don’t hear him get up, but I feel him behind me. The weight of his presence, the heat of his silence.
The bedroom is dim, the curtains pulled tight against the snow-muted world outside. I climb into bed without turning on a light, muscles tight, breath shallow.
The mattress dips a moment later, and I nearly jump at the reminder that he’s not just a dream.
He’s real. He’s here.
He stays on his side, same as last night.
Only this time, the air between us crackles with what we’re not saying.
I lie on my back, staring up into nothing, the ceiling blurring. My skin still buzzes from his kiss; my mouth still tingles from how hard it was.
How much he gave in that second.
I should feel awkward. Embarrassed.
But I don’t.
I feel warm. And wired. And full of things I don’t have names for.
I shift onto my side, facing away from him.
The heat of his body seeps through the covers, close enough to feel but not quite touching.
Every nerve strains toward him.
My fingers curl in the sheets like they want to reach behind me.
But I don’t.
Neither of us speaks.
He doesn’t offer a goodnight.
I don’t ask for one.
We just breathe in the same space. Still pretending. Still pretending it’s fine.
But the mattress remembers. The sheets remember.
And so do I.
The feel of his hands on my hips.
The way he looked at me like I was the only thing holding him together.
The way I didn’t want him to stop.
I blink into the dark, throat tight.
He’s not touching me, not even close. But I feel less alone than I have in a long time.
He doesn’t say a word.
But I’ve never felt more seen.
My legs shift under the covers. Just a little.
I tell myself it’s to get comfortable, but really—it’s to move closer. A few inches.
Just to feel more of him. Just to steal a little more of that heat.
But I stop.
My fingers flex where they’re curled under my pillow.
My chest pulls tight with restraint I don’t want to have.
If I move now—if I reach for him—I won’t stop at just curling into his side.
And I don’t think he’d stop me.
But this...
This means something. I don’t know how I know it does, but I know it in my gut.
And I’m not ready to touch what it means. Not yet.
So I stay still.
Not because I want to.
But because it’s the only thing that keeps me from falling all the way in.