Chapter 22 #2
“You know,” he says during one such moment, setting his papers aside, “I’ve wanted this for so long. Just… existing with you.”
I set my own work down and run my hand along his calf. “I’m sorry it took me so long to catch up.”
“Hey.” He sits up, cupping my face. “None of that. You got here. That’s what matters.”
His kiss is sweet at first, then deepens. Papers get pushed aside and we make out for a long time, hands roaming, unhurried, exploratory. When we finally move to the bedroom, it’s slow and pious, like always.
Noah stretches out beneath me, guiding my hands, my mouth. He guides me down his length, and I suck him hard, fast, needing to please him and hear his pleased noises so bad. As bad as I need to breathe. “That’s it… God, Cade, you’re so good for me.”
A few minutes of sucking and slurping and Noah is tapping on my shoulders, warning me, but I double down, my lips to his groin holding tight.
He comes, forcefully and somewhat violently, and my eyes water as I accept it, swallowing and gagging.
Noah wipes my eyes with the end of his shirt and replaces my glasses, tugging me to the head of the bed with him.
“I love watching you like this,” he confesses breathlessly.
“And I love making you feel good.”
We lie tangled together, his head on my chest as I stroke his back.
The doubt still creeps in sometimes—the old voice that whispers I’m broken, that the asexual label I once clung to will return and ruin everything.
But here, with Noah’s warm weight against me and his fingers tracing lazy patterns on my skin, the fear feels distant. Manageable.
The following weekend brings one of my favorite new traditions: Noah cooking for me.
He lets himself into my house with the key I gave him last week, arms full of grocery bags. I try to help but he shoos me toward the couch with a glass of wine.
“Tonight, you relax. Professor’s orders.”
I watch him move around my kitchen like he belongs there—which he does.
I told Kat and Zennie I was making him a key and I’m pretty sure they were more surprised than Noah was when I gave it to him.
“You’re sure?” He asked while the key stayed trapped between our hands, mid-exchange.
I kissed him and told him the truth. “Very sure.”
He chops vegetables with grace, humming along to the indie playlist streaming from his phone, and glances over at me every few minutes with soft smiles.
The smell of garlic and herbs soon fill the place as he prepares his famous pasta.
I try not to think of who else he’s made this dish for, because it’s us now and the past is just that—the past.
We eat at the small table by the window, the candles I lit sit in iron holders, flickering between us. The pasta is perfect—al dente with a silky white sauce, lots of fresh vegetables and fresh basil. But it’s the company and conversation that nourishes me most.
We talk about everything.
Childhood dreams. I wanted to be a pilot for one summer after seeing Top Gun, and he always wanted to do this—teach about reading and writing.
Books that changed us—he tells me The Boxcar Children, and I tell him The Shining.
The fear of being seen too clearly by another person.
Noah tells me about his wilder years, the casual hookups that never quite filled the emptiness, where he hooked up with women and men, sometimes at once.
How he’d watched me for years, wanting but unsure of where I stood, always trying to respect my boundaries.
“I thought maybe I’d never get this,” he admits quietly, twirling pasta on his fork. “You, letting me in. Letting me love you the way I’ve wanted to.”
My throat tightens. “I’m still figuring out how to let myself be loved. But I want it, Noah. I want you. All of it.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand, thumb stroking my knuckles. The touch grounds me. He grounds me. Even with his past, and mine lacking, I feel like I can actually do this. Because he’s here to guide me.
Later, after the dishes are cleared and another bottle of wine is opened, we end up on the couch again.
The conversation turns intimate. I tell him about the years I spent questioning myself, the relief and anxiety of finally understanding my pansexuality.
How being with him has been like waking up to color after living in grayscale—that feels like an expressive metaphor but it’s the truth.
Noah listens with his whole being, the way he always does. Then he pulls me close and kisses me until I’m dizzy. The sun has set hours ago, and with just one lamp on, the room is shadowed, the perfect setting for hard to speak truths.
“I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop,” I confess into the darkness, voice barely above a whisper.
“For this feeling of… I don't know, being normal, being capable of being in a relationship and knowing what to do… I guess I’m just worried I’m going to wake up and realize I can’t do this after all. ”
His arm tightens around me. “It won’t. Because this isn’t a phase or an experiment for either of us. This is real, Cade. And I’m not going anywhere.”
I turn in his arms to face him, searching his eyes in the low light. The sincerity there chases away the last shadows of doubt. At least for tonight.
“I believe you,” I whisper.
And for the first time in weeks, I truly do. I can do this.