“You don’t have to say yes right now,” I say. “Just…think about it. We can look at places together. Take it step by step.”
Noah is still looking at me with that stunned expression, like he can’t quite believe what he’s hearing. “You’re doing this for my parents, aren’t you?” he says, huffing out a laugh. “You’re just embarrassed that you lied to them.”
I can’t help but laugh at that. “Maybe a little,” I joke, reaching up to brush a strand of hair from his forehead. “But mostly, I’m doing it for me. For us.”
“For Pumpkin too,” Noah adds with a small smile.
“Especially for Pumpkin,” I agree solemnly. “She needs us, Noah. Think of the dog.”
Noah laughs again, the sound lighter now, less shocked. “You’re completely insane,” he says, but there’s so much affection in his voice that I can’t even be offended.
“I know,” I admit. “But I’m serious about this. About you.”
Noah studies my face for a long moment, like he’s looking for the catch. “We barely know each other,” he points out, but there’s a note of uncertainty in his voice, like he’s trying to convince himself as much as me.
“We know the important things,” I counter. “I know you’re smart. And kind. I know you care about animals. I know you overthink everything, order sushi at ungodly hours, and have a ridiculous collection of graphic T-shirts with puns on them.” I take a breath. “And I know I’ve never felt about anyone the way I feel about you.”
Noah’s eyes soften. “Not even about Quinn?”
I smile and shake my head. “Not even about Quinn.”
Noah stares at me, his eyes wide with that familiar mix of doubt and hope I’ve come to recognize over the weekend. The dawn light catches on his tear-stained cheeks as he shakes his head. “But what if we move in together and you realize you hate my habits?” he asks, his voice small. “What if you can’t stand the way I…I don’t know, hang the towels to dry instead of leaving them on the floor, or something?”
I can’t help but smile at the specificity of his worry. “For the record, I hang my towels to dry too. Very neatly.”
“Okay, bad example,” he concedes, shifting slightly on my lap, his weight pleasant and very distracting. “But you know what I mean. What if I drive you crazy? What if you can’t stand living with me? What if—”
I press a finger gently to his lips, stopping him before he can spiral any further.
“Noah,” I say softly, “it doesn’t matter how long we date. We’d still have to figure out the boring everyday stuff together. That’s inevitable. And yes, we’ll probably hate some of each other’s habits. That’s fine. Plus, I already know most of yours. I can hear you through our walls, remember? I know you sing in the shower. And when you cook.” That earns me a small, embarrassed laugh. “And I know you watch reruns of The Golden Girls at five in the morning when you can’t sleep.”
Noah’s eyes widen. “You can hear all that?”
“Yup,” I say. “And it’s really cute.”
Noah’s lips twitch upward, but uncertainty still lingers in his eyes. “You say that now, but—”
“I’m happy with you,” I interrupt, because I need him to understand this. “That’s why I’m being so greedy. I want more of you. More time together, more sex, more…everything.”
Something shifts in Noah’s expression—his eyes soften, his lips part, and my heart stutters in my chest.
“Greedy, huh?” he says, and there’s something new in his voice. Playful.
“Very,” I admit, my thumbs brushing over his cheekbones. “But we can take it as slow as you want. We don’t have to decide everything right now.”
Noah nods, his hands settling on my shoulders, fingers absently tracing patterns that send shivers down my spine. “What about Pumpkin?” he asks after a moment.
I smile, relieved to move to slightly safer ground. “We can wait on adopting her for a couple of weeks,” I say, though it pains me a little after seeing those photos. “Make sure you don’t hatemyhabits before we commit to co-parenting.”
Noah laughs. “And what habits would those be?”
I consider this for a moment. “Well, you already know I play video games at night.”
“With the clicking keyboard and the yelling, yes,” Noah says, rolling his eyes. “I’m very familiar with your trash talk at three in the morning.”
“Sorry about that,” I say, genuinely contrite. “I’ll get a quieter keyboard.”
“What else?” Noah prompts, seeming genuinely curious now rather than anxious.
