I’ve never been the type to get attached to places fast. Or people. I’ve always prided myself on my independence, my ability to be fine on my own.
But in the span of three days, Noah Caldwell has carved out a space inside me that I don’t know how to fill if he’s not there.
I should shower. Pack. Do something productive with this time.
But all I can do is sit there, listening for footsteps on the path outside, wondering if Noah is going to come back to me tonight.
And if he does, whether he’ll still be mine to hold for one last time.
***
I wake with a start, jerking upright in bed.
For a second, I don’t know what woke me. Then I hear it—the soft click of the door closing downstairs.
My heart slams against my ribs as I fumble for my phone.
4:57 AM.
Jesus Christ.
Noah.
I’ve been in and out of a restless half-sleep for hours, checking my phone every twenty minutes like some kind of obsessive teenager, listening for footsteps that never came.
Until now.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, suddenly wide awake despite barely sleeping. My shirt is twisted around my torso, damp with sweat, but I don’t bother fixing it.
A floorboard creaks on the stairs.
I hold my breath, trying to force my heart to slow down.
Four and a half hours.
Noah’s been gone for four and a half fucking hours.
After the first hour, I texted him. After the second, I called, but he didn’t pick up. A minute later, he sent back a briefI’m fine, go to sleep, and my stomach twisted into a knot that still hasn’t loosened.
Go to sleep.As if I could possibly sleep while he was out there with Rick, doing God knows what. I almost went looking for them. I even put my shoes on and got as far as the door before talking myself out of it.
Because what if I found them together?
What if they were—
The door to our room opens slowly, and there he is.
Noah stands in the doorway, his shoulders slumped, his face turned down. Even in the dim light filtering through the curtains, I can see his eyes are red, his face blotchy from crying.
My heart drops so fast I feel physically ill.
“Noah,” I say, my voice cracking on his name.
He looks up at me, and the pain in his eyes knocks the air from my lungs.
Before I can think, I’m crossing the room in three quick strides.
Noah makes a broken sound when I reach him, and then we’re both moving at once—my arms closing around him as his come around me. I pull him tight to my chest, feeling his body tremble against mine.
