Chapter 25 — Same Seat （Nora）
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Melting snow ticked the kitchen window while Beck breathed slowly beside me, his duffel by the door and victory still buzzing through both of us.
“My feet are freezing,” I said, stepping sideways to bump his arm. “Share your warmth, quarterback.” “Come here,” he said, pulling me closer. The radiator hissed. The blinds tapped. Cinnamon tea, wet wool, radiator dust wrapped around us.
“Sit before you fall over,” I said, wrapping my shaky hands around the kettle. “Nora Quinn, hostess of the year. One tired quarterback, fuzzy socks, leftover buzz in my ears.” “I'm good,” he said, swaying in my kitchen. “Better here than anywhere.”
“Ribs check,” I said, pressing the warm mug into his hands before he could ask. “Truth, not tough-guy stuff. How bad?” “Achy,” he said, hair damp, left side held careful. “Tea helps. You help more.” “Sweet, made right,” I said. “No order needed. I know you.”
“You look wrecked, so drink it before you fall over.”
He huffed and wrapped both hands around the mug. “Thanks, tutor.”
“Tea,” I said, lifting mine. “Not a latte. Growth.”
“Big growth,” he said, and sipped, and closed his eyes. “Good. Sweet enough.”
“Drink more,” I said. “You need it.”
“I am,” he said. “Stay right there?”
“Always,” I said. “Right here.”
“Remember September?” I said. “Back when I only knew your coffee order and nothing else.” “You had me solved by week two,” he said. “Now it's tea with honey when I'm hoarse.” “And you know I steal the first sip,” I said. “I plan for it,” he said. “Always.”
“Quiet, huh?” I said.
“Yeah,” he said. “Just hiss and tap.”
“And breathing,” I said. His duffel sagged by the door with his jersey in the top. Gray light cut his tired face.
“Anything urgent?” he asked, nodding at my phone lighting up with stacked texts. “Nope,” I said, turning it face-down unread. “Whispers can wait. Optics can wait. This hour is ours.”
“There,” he said, setting his mug down and pulling three spare pens from his jacket. He lined them square on my counter, edge to edge, then nudged one a hair left. “Better.” “Perfect,” I said. “Very you.”
I smiled into my tea. His hands needed order when his brain ran loud. I loved that about him.
“Loud morning?” I asked as he tapped two fingers once against his left wrist, then stopped and chose the pens instead. “Buzzing,” he said. “Good buzzing, though. The kind that hums.” “I see it in your jaw,” I said. “Come down here with me.”
“I'm buzzing, but I don't wanna leave yet.”
“Good,” I said. “Cause you're not leaving yet.”
“Not—” he started, then grinned. “Not planning on it.”
“Drink,” I said, pointing like a strict nurse. “Sit. Be wrecked here.”
“Bossy,” he said, but he sank onto the wobbly stool and stretched his long legs out until his knees brushed mine. “I like it.”
“Someone's gotta run this place.”
“Stay,” I whispered as he rested his forehead one second against my sweater, his thumb light and steady on my wrist. My pulse jumped under his skin. “Felt that,” he murmured, mouth curving. “Fast.” “It's you,” I said. “Always you.”
“Hey,” I whispered, fingers in his damp hair.
“Hey,” he said back, eyes closed.
Someone knocked twice, and my bedroom door swung open as Priya backed in dragging her backpack. Her hair was wet. Her cheeks were pink. She smelled like mint toothpaste and winter air.
“Okay, lovebirds, I need my charger and then I'm gone—” she started, then saw us and softened. “Oh. Hi.”
“Hi,” Beck said, shy and huge in my tiny kitchen, still holding his mug with both hands.
Priya dropped her bag and hugged me hard around the neck, rocking me once. “You were amazing last night. Screaming. Ferocious. I lost my voice.”
“You cried,” I said.
“I did not — okay, I did a little,” she said. “Shut up. It was cold.”
“Your eyes sobbed,” I said.
She squeezed Beck's arm careful, high up and far from his ribs. “You. Rest. Fluids. No hero stuff today.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Beck said.
“I'll be at the library,” she said, grabbing her charger and backing toward the hall. “All day. Take your time. Seriously.”
“Priya—” I started, face heating.
She winked, hand on the knob. “Lock the door. Or don't. I don't wanna know.”
“Well,” I said as the door clicked shut. “That was subtle.” “She's nice,” he said, ears pink in the quiet. Radiator, blinds, low fridge hum. “Loud nice. But nice.” “She adores you,” I said. “Deal with it.”
“She likes you,” I said.
“She tolerates me,” Beck said.
“She loves you. She won't say it cause—” I shrugged. “Feelings. Gross.”
“More?” I asked as his shoulders dropped with every sip. “You look human again.” “Please,” he said. “You're good at this.” “At tea?” I said. “I'm good at you.”
My phone buzzed, Jessa's face lighting the screen, and my stomach flipped in that sister way, half dread and half delight.
“It's Jessa,” I said. “If I don't answer she'll call back louder. With memes.”
“Answer,” Beck said, shifting closer.
I swiped onto speaker. “Hey. You're on speaker. Be nice.”
“Nora Quinn,” Jessa said, sharp and warm. “You've got that voice, so don't lie to me.”
“What voice? I don't have a voice.”
“You totally have a voice. Glowy and gross. Is he there?”
Beck leaned toward the phone. “Hi, Jessa.”
“Oh, he's there,” Jessa said, delighted. “Hi, quarterback. You did good. I screamed so loud my neighbor banged on the wall.”
“Sorry,” Beck said, smiling.
“Don't be sorry. Be proud. Are you being proud? Nora, is he being proud? Are you feeding him?”
“I'm working on him,” I said. “Tea. Blanket. Bossiness.”
“Good. Keep him. He looks at you like—” Jessa paused. “Well. Like that. Like you're the best thing he ever diagrammed.”
My laugh came out wrong, with that snort I hate tucked in the middle, loud on speaker. I clapped a hand over my mouth.
Beck grinned at me, wide and unguarded, and said nothing about it. He just looked pleased, like that sound was his favorite part.
Jessa went quiet one beat. “Oh. Oh, wow. Okay.”
“What?” I said.
“Nothing. You're just — you're happy. I can hear it.”
My throat got tight. I looked at Beck, his tired eyes and squared-up pens and big hands around the mug I gave him, and I quit playing it cool.
“I'm happy, and I'm not apologizing for it.”
“Damn right,” Jessa said softly. “Don't you dare. Stay there. Stay happy. Call me tomorrow when you're less glowy.”
“Love you,” I said, blinking fast.
“Love you more. Tell him I said take care of my sister — actually, tell him I said hands off my sister till the ribs heal. Doctor's orders. Mine.”
“I will,” he said quietly. “Promise.” He leaned closer to the phone. “Your sister's safe with me, Jessa. My girl. My call. Anybody asks, that's the answer.”
I ended the call and set the phone face-down. My cheeks burned. My eyes stung. I blamed the radiator dust.
Beck tucked a loose strand behind my ear. His fingers were warm from the mug and lingered at my jaw.
“Glowy,” he teased.
“Shut up,” I said, fond. “Drink your tea, quarterback.”
“Hear that ticking?” I said, pressing my palm to the cold window. “Snowmelt off the roof.”
“I hear it,” he said. “Cold?”
“A little,” I said, wrapping both hands back around my mug. “Better with tea.”
I had turned this moment over in my head through the long fall. Not the win. Not the field and cameras and chant still ringing when I blinked. This. The kitchen. The morning after. Us, ordinary.
On the counter by the fruit bowl sat the spare key I tied last night with blue thread, a simple loop so it would be easy to find in a pocket. My hands went sweaty looking at it.
I picked it up and held it till the metal warmed. My heart thumped loud enough I swore he heard it over the radiator.
“Beck,” I said.
He looked up, alert in that instant way, feeling the shift before the words. He set his mug down careful and gave me everything, both feet on the floor.
“I want—” I stopped. Blew out a breath. “Okay. This'll come out clumsy, so just — let me say it. Don't help me.”
He nodded once. “Okay. Say it.”
I held out the key on its blue thread. My fingers shook and I hated that, but I did not pull back. The thread swung once and stilled.
“It's yours if you'll take it and use it.”
He stared at it. Not me. The key. His breath caught, audible, and his hand hovered halfway like he needed permission from the universe.
“Nora—” he said, low and rough.
“I mean it. Not emergency-only. Not in a drawer. Come in when it's raining. Let yourself in when I'm late from tutoring. Make tea wrong and leave your pens everywhere. Steal my blanket.” My voice cracked. “I want ordinary with you. All of it.”
His eyes lifted, gray-green and bright and a little wet. He took the key slow, like it weighed more than metal, and closed his fist around it.
“Nora Quinn,” he said. “Are you sure? Really sure?”
“I've never been more sure of anything. Except that you wipe the film-room board clean every single night.”
That startled a wet laugh out of him. “You noticed that.”
“I notice everything about you,” I said. “Tutor thing.”
He stood, careful with his ribs, braced on the counter, and slipped the key into his front pocket and patted it twice. Then he reached for my hand and laced our fingers, thumb pressing once to my wrist.
“I'll always leave you the door seat, 'cause you're safest there.”
My breath hitched. It landed deep, in the safe place behind my ribs where I keep the truest things.
“What?” I whispered, though I heard him perfectly.
“In Whitmore Hall Room 214.” He swallowed.
“You always sat where you could see the door.
Mondays and Wednesdays and Thursdays at four o'clock.
You'd get there first and take that chair, and your shoulders would drop. So I took the other one. Even when the light was bad. Even when the radiator — when it hissed too loud.”
“I know,” I said softly. “You never said a word.”
“I want it to be ours. Everywhere. The diner. The library. Here.” He squeezed my hand. “You sit where you see. I sit where I can watch you and handle the rest.”
Tears blurred me fast and hot. I blinked and one slipped, and I wiped it hard with my hand.
“Okay,” I said. “Yeah. I want that too.”