20. Noah/Macey
NOAH/MACEY
Noah
The morning sun filtered through the blinds and reflected off my kitchen counter. I had woken up early after hardly sleeping all night. Not like me, considering I usually slept like a rock. But it was difficult to escape reality when I wanted to stay awake just a little bit longer.
Macey, on the other hand, passed right out. She was still asleep in the bedroom.
Determined to surprise her, I decided to try my hand at making breakfast. Thankfully, I had groceries delivered yesterday and a full fridge. The issue was that I couldn’t cook many breakfast dishes well. Not unless I had a chef like Luca in front of me giving specific instructions.
I was pretty sure I had an old cookbook in here somewhere. That would have to be a substitute.
Filtering through the contents of the pantry while being as quiet as I could, I searched for the book.
It had to be on one of these shelves. So far, I had found old receipts, dusty Tupperware, and a half-empty bag of flour.
My hands gripped the edge of the book at the back of the shelf and I pulled it out .
One dust off later and I had in my hands 50+ Simple Comfort Recipes for Beginners . Perfect.
Leaning against the counter, I flipped through the pages in search of something easy. And something that wouldn’t take a million years, because I was starving. After a minute, I had a plan.
A frittata for both of us.
French toast for Macey. Plus a bite for me.
Soon enough the kitchen smelled of cinnamon, and eggshells cluttered the counter. I glanced frequently at the cookbook as I stirred vegetables into the skillet. Not professional-looking by any means, but it was better than grilled cheese for breakfast.
The bedroom door opened with a soft creak, and moments later, a soft hand pressed against my back. Macey stood next to me, her hair down and tousled from sleep, a smile on her face. She wore one of my old T-shirts, and the sight of it made me want to drag her back to the bedroom.
Breakfast first.
“Good morning, Scribbles.” I inserted the skillet into the oven. “Breakfast will be ready soon.”
She gasped when she saw the bread and cinnamon sugar on the counter. “Are you making French toast?”
“Yes.”
“You’re willingly touching carbs. Who are you and what have you done to Noah Hansley?”
I grinned. “I’m evolving.”
Her eyes raked down my body—okay, I “forgot” to put on a shirt—and went back to the stove, where I was starting to cook the French toast. “I like it. Is there anything I can do?”
Using one hand, I pointed to the coffeepot on the edge of the counter. “Want to get coffee going?”
Macey coughed into her elbow then nodded. “Easy. ”
“How did you sleep?” That was the kind of question boyfriends asked, right?
She measured out the ground coffee and added it to the filter. “Good. I don’t usually knock out like that.”
Our eyes met. She blushed and looked back down.
I didn’t know why nerves were starting to overcome me now, especially when last night I was so confident, brazen.
It was easy, acting with my body, doing anything to find Macey’s pleasure.
Sure, I might have spent the night replaying the moment when she put her hand around my cock and squeezed perfectly like she had been studying it for years, but well.
She was always the bold one between us anyways.
“Macey, last night?—”
“Noah.” My name on her lips didn’t sound right. It was more of a croak or a gasp.
Macey pressed both palms against the counter, leaning forward. Something shifted in her expression as her breathing became shallow.
“Macey?” I moved the frying pan off the burner and put a hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“Something…in the air.” She tried to take in a deep breath, but her shoulders shook with difficulty. “Like smoke or fire or…”
Dust.
Like I had just dusted off an insanely old cookbook, plus whatever else lingered in the back of the pantry. Fuck .
“Where’s your inhaler?” I pressed one hand to her cheek. Her breathing grew more labored. “Sweetheart, where is it?”
She flopped a hand in the direction of the bedroom and croaked out, “Purse.”
Without thinking, I darted across the kitchen, knocking over one of the barstools. My hands trembled as I rifled through her purse, finally pulling out the inhaler.
Macey sat on the floor, back against the island. Exhausted. Sweat dripped down her brow, like the action of breathing tired out her body.
“Here,” I urged, handing her the inhaler.
I squatted in front of her. My own breath caught in my throat as I watched her struggle to use it. For a few agonizing minutes, I could do nothing but listen to my heart pound in my chest and hold her free hand.
She took a few puffs in between deep breaths.
It terrified me, how much something like asthma could impact not just your quality of life but your life in general.
I made a vow in this moment to be more cognizant of our environments and Macey’s response.
Maybe I could keep an inhaler stored in my apartment, too.
Logically, I knew this wasn’t my fault, but I couldn’t stop the feeling that I could have stopped it somehow. Order in fancy breakfast. Take her out.
How long had it been? A few minutes. Felt like hours.
Slowly, Macey’s breathing began to steady, the color returning to her cheeks. I let out a breath of my own.
She leaned her head forward onto my shoulder, and I rubbed her back.
“Are you okay?”
I felt more than saw her nod.
“Yeah. Just want to rest a little while.”
“Of course.” Her hair was silky soft under my touch. “Let’s get you back to bed.”
I helped her to her feet and back to the bedroom. Even though her breathing was stable, I could tell it had taken a toll on her. Physically, yes. But emotionally too. Like it was something she didn’t want me to see. I didn’t like that. I wanted to be there for her, asthma attack or not.
As I pulled the covers over her body, Macey curled in on herself and held tightly to my pillow. I sat on the edge of the bed, gently stroking her hair as she drifted back to sleep.
Remnants of fear still lingered in the back of my mind.
This was normal for her but terrifying for me.
I hated that it was part of life for her.
But that was the thing about chronic illnesses—no matter how much you hate them, they won’t go away.
All a loved one like me could do was educate myself on the best way to help and be supportive when they needed it.
I planned to stay here, watching like a guard, until she woke up again.
I texted Daphne while I waited.
Noah: How do I help someone who’s had an asthma attack?
Daphne: ask google, not me
Daphne: wait, what happened??
Noah: Long story. Macey had one.
Noah: She’s okay now, just sleeping.
Daphne: let her sleep. Then give her food.
Noah: You think that’ll help?
Daphne: sleep and food are the tickets to any woman’s heart
Daphne: …unless you have a spare pair of lungs
A deep stench thwarted my plans to stay here until Macey woke up. It couldn’t be dust. There wasn’t that much in the pantry .
Already on my feet, my body recognized the source before my brain caught up. It was burning. The fucking frittata was burning.
I ran back to the kitchen and threw open the oven. Thank God something like this wouldn’t catch fire or else my entire apartment would be up in flames right now. I pulled the skillet out of the oven, mentally scolding myself. The entire thing was black, almost ashy on the ends.
First the dust. Then the burnt frittata.
Macey probably thought I was trying to kill her.
Macey
I knew Noah wasn’t trying to kill me. It wasn’t his fault my lungs didn’t work fully. Don’t get me wrong. They worked hard. It was just that their best wasn’t always good enough.
I sat on the edge of Noah’s couch, hands still trembling as I held the glass of water he brought me.
The remnants of the wheezing echoed in my chest, a ghost of the attack that had taken me by surprise.
My nap only lasted twenty minutes, enough to ease my frantic heartbeat.
I took a sip of water, letting the coolness soothe my throat, but my mind was far from calm.
Why now? Why here? Besides the obvious—dust and who knows what else in the air. Last night was perfect in every sense, but now I had to go and ruin the moment.
It was bizarre, feeling the sting of both frustration and a strange sense of pride. Maybe I should just be proud, though. My lungs had fought back. They’d kept me here, in Noah’s apartment, instead of the nearest walk-in clinic.
I hadn’t felt that way in a while. The tightness, the desperate clawing for air, the panic that gripped me until I had my inhaler in hand .
This wasn’t something to be embarrassed over.
It wasn’t like I chose for this to happen at the worst time possible, and Noah, well, he didn’t seem to mind.
He’d been nothing but concerned. He stroked my hair during my earliest parts of slumber, whispering something like, “You’re okay, sweetheart,” on repeat.
Chanting it like it was a reminder for him as much as it was for me.
Still, I couldn’t help the flush creeping up my neck at the thought of him seeing me like that. Vulnerable.
Noah busied himself in the kitchen, giving me space but close enough to be there if I needed him. Would he worry every time I coughed or took a deep breath? The last thing I needed was for him to be concerned if I went on a mind-clearing run.
A small part of me was relieved. Relieved that he hadn’t run away, that he was still here, making coffee as if this morning hadn’t shaken me to the core.
One more sip of water, and I let myself breathe a little easier.
The room was quiet except for low-fi music playing from Noah’s phone in the kitchen. He wasn’t a fan of silence, I’d noticed. The dishes clinked in the kitchen, and I found myself oddly comforted by the normalcy of it all.
Noah leaned against the entryway of the living room, catching my eye. “How are you feeling?”