Chapter 21
Chapter Twenty-One
The rest of the poetry reading passes in a blur.
I hear words, yes, snap judgments and metaphors about bees and moonlight and someone’s extremely complicated feelings about their stepfather’s saxophone, but none of them land. Not really.
All I can feel is the weight of Noah’s hand on my shoulder. The press of his knee against mine. The echo of that poem ringing in my chest like it found something hollow and struck it just right.
When the last poet takes a bow and the crowd disperses toward the door, I stay in my seat for a beat longer.
“Ready?” Noah’s hand is still on my shoulder, sending fire down my spine.
I nod, but I’m not. Not really. Not for whatever’s buzzing under the surface.
We walk out into the night, cool air brushing against skin still flushed with leftover emotion. The streetlights hum. Someone down the block is playing jazz from a second-story window—a saxophone, weirdly enough.
Noah opens the car door for me, and I give him a look but slide in anyway.
The ride home is quiet, but not awkward. It’s charged. Like something alive is pacing between us. He drums his fingers on the steering wheel at red lights, and I watch his profile, how his jaw tightens, how his throat bobs when he swallows hard.
I wonder if he’s going to say something.
When we pull into my driveway, neither of us moves.
He kills the engine, but the truck still ticks faintly, cooling off between us.
“You okay?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat, acutely aware of the warmth pooling between my legs and the guilt pooling in my chest. “It’s just—”
“I know.”
A pause. A breath.
“Noah.”
He turns to me.
“Do you want to come in?”
Something flickers in his expression. Hunger, maybe. Or relief.
But he still doesn’t move.
So I do.
I lean in, slow. Measured. Until our faces are inches apart. I can smell the faint trace of his cologne, clean, warm, familiar. He closes the distance with a quiet sound, not quite a groan, not quite a sigh. Just need, barely contained.
The kiss starts soft. Like the one on my front step all those weeks ago, tentative, reverent.
But then it changes.
Then he cups my face with both hands and deepens it, like he’s been holding this in for years and now got permission to want out loud.
And I let him.
Because I want it too.
God, I want it too.
We barely make it to the front door. My keys fumble in the lock. He’s behind me, hands at my waist, lips at my neck. I gasp, the sound catching somewhere between a moan and a laugh.
By the time the door swings open, we’re already tangled up in each other.
He kicks it shut behind us, and I stumble backward, pulling him with me, both of us breathless with something half-wild.
That’s when I see it.
A note on the counter written in Viv’s aggressive cursive:
We’re staying at Harper’s friend’s house tonight (in case things escalate).
Marin’s neat, tidy block letters follow in smaller letters:
(Viv means we’re getting a younger generation’s perspective on party details. And can’t wait to hear how your date went and share details about mine. Hint: he’s dreamy.)
There’s a drawing of a condom wearing a glitter hat in the corner of the note.
Of course there is.
Noah picks it up, reads silently, and lets out a low chuckle that sends goosebumps dancing up my spine. He sets his keys beside it with a little clink. “Well. That’s not subtle.”
I shrug, trying to look unbothered. “I have very supportive friends.” Then I lean in toward him, rising slightly on my tiptoes, practically begging for his lips to send fire through my veins again.
But he doesn’t kiss me right away.
Instead, he steps back, his eyes lingering on my face.
A shadow flickers across his features—hesitation, guilt, something heavier than just nerves. Like he’s weighing what this means not just for us, but for the memory of someone else.
“How are you?” His voice is low, sincere. “After the poem.”
I blink, thrown for a second by the tenderness.
“It felt like someone opened a window in my chest.” I try not to elaborate, because I’m not sure what to say, and I don’t want this newfound feeling of desire to end with a long talk over chamomile tea, grief, and poetry. “And everything flew out.”
He nods, like he knows exactly what I mean. “It was beautiful. Hard. Honest.” His jaw tenses. “He was my best friend.” His voice is soft, like the words are slipping out without permission.
“Me too.”
I squirm a little in the silence, under the weight of his stare.
Then, finally, he says it.
“I’ve wanted this for longer than I should,” he murmurs, his voice thick with conflict. “But I never wanted to be the reason you moved on. Or the thing you regretted.”
My heart stumbles over itself. “I don’t know what I’m ready for,” I whisper. “But I want this. I want tonight.”
“Are you sure?” His eyes bore into me, intense and searching.
“Yes.”
That’s all it takes.
He’s kissing me again, like he means it now. Like he’s been starving for this.
His hands slide down my back, anchoring me to him. My fingers dig into his hair, pulling him closer, needing something I can’t name. We fumble toward the couch, bumping into furniture, laughing breathlessly between kisses that grow deeper, more desperate.
He leans over me, weight balanced on his forearms, and brushes my hair back from my face with a gentleness that steals my breath.
Then he says it, barely audible, his lips ghosting my cheek:
“I can’t believe this is actually happening. After all this time.”
I freeze. Just for a second.
“What did you—?”
But I don’t get the whole question out.
Because he’s kissing me again—slow, open-mouthed, full of fire and something heavier, and whatever part of me registered his words can’t seem to process them anymore. Not when his hands are on my waist, moving up toward my aching breasts. Not when his mouth trails down my neck like a prayer.
My skin is hot. My pulse, a drumbeat in my ears. All my thoughts scatter like feathers in a storm.
I don’t know what this is yet. Or what it means. Or how we get from here to whatever might come next.
But I know this:
I’m not alone.
I’m not numb.
And for the first time in a very long time, I don’t want to stop feeling.
Not with him.
Not tonight.
We stumble down the hallway like we’re drunk on each other.
My back hits the wall with a soft thud, and his mouth is on mine again before I can gasp. His hands are everywhere, my waist, the small of my back, the curve of my hip. I arch into him, hungry and half-unraveled.
We make it to the bedroom, leaving Noah’s jeans somewhere lost on the stairs. The bedroom door barely closes behind us before I’m yanking at the buttons on his shirt, cursing softly when I fumble the middle one. He covers my hands with his, stilling them.
“Hey.” His voice is thick with need, rough and gasping. “We’ve got time.”
Something in my chest pinches, like he reminded me I deserve to be unrushed.
So I slow down.
We undress each other the way people do when it means something. When the fabric is less an obstacle and more a ceremony. When every layer removed feels like revealing a story.
I hesitate as he peels the green wrap dress from around my body, every muscle tight with the instinct to cover up. The light feels too honest, too unforgiving. I’ve spent years learning how to dress around my body, how to flatter, distract, conceal. I never learned how to simply be in it.
But then he looks at me.
Really looks.
When he sees me, there’s no flinch, no pause.
Just reverence. His mouth trails kisses over my stretch marks like they’re constellations, his hands mapping all the soft parts I’ve spent years trying to fix with pilates or hide beneath PTA-appropriate blouses.
He kisses my stomach like it’s sacred. He touches the hollow beneath my ribs like it’s a secret only he’s allowed to know.
My breath hitches.
“You’re killing me,” I whisper.
He looks up and murmurs, “Good.”
When he peels off my bra, he stares before taking a breath, like the sight of me undoes him in some fundamental way.
“God, you’re beautiful, B.”
His voice is husky, low, and under his gaze, I feel seen. And not the kind of seen where someone says you're pretty to be polite, but the kind where their voice catches and their eyes darken and you feel worshipped, a little.
We fall into bed in a tangle of limbs and laughter, our kisses growing deeper, hungrier, until there’s nothing left between us but skin and heat. His hands move over me, memorizing me, knowing every inch of me before he claims it.
Then he slides one hand between my thighs, his touch slow and deliberate, coaxing my body open with gentle strokes that make my breath catch. He watches me the whole time, his gaze dark, focused, reverent. My pleasure is a prayer he’s committed to answering.
Each movement builds on the last, and soon I’m arching into him, my thighs trembling, my fingers curled into the sheets. My voice breaks on a plea, low, desperate, honest.
“Please. I need you.”
He doesn’t tease. Doesn’t make me wait.
Instead, he leans in close, brushing his mouth against my jaw as he murmurs, “You have me.”
And then he pushes inside, slow and steady, filling me completely.
As he enters me, he exhales my name like it’s been lodged in his throat for years.
And when I finally let go, of the fear, of the past, of everything that’s kept me frozen, his name is the first thing I say too. Not because I’m thinking. But because it’s true.
My hands are on his back, tracing the shape of him, relishing in the rise and fall of muscle. His mouth finds my neck, my collarbone, the soft dip of skin between my ribs and hip.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
I nod, throat too thick for words. “More than okay.”
He moves slow. Anchored. Like he wants me to feel every second of this.
And I do.
It’s not fireworks and moans and drama. It’s breath and sweat and skin and knowing. It’s me whispering his name like a secret I’ve remembered. It’s him telling me I’m beautiful with his mouth on my jaw and his hands on my hips until I’m tightening around him and he’s pulsing inside me.
Later, when the air is thick with sleep and we’re a mess of limbs and tangled sheets, he runs his hand lazily over my side, his fingers whispering along the curve of me.
“Was this weird?” I murmur into his chest.
He presses a kiss to the top of my head, his lips soft against my hair. “I hope not.”
I let out a quiet laugh, one that catches in my throat.
Somewhere in the back of my mind, I know I’m supposed to feel guilty. Like I’ve crossed some line I promised not to.
But all I feel is warm. Anchored. Alive.
And this time, I don’t apologize for it.
Not to him.
Not even to myself.