"Can't what? Be attracted to each other? Because that ship has sailed." He takes a sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving mine. "Look, I know this is complicated. But I can't stop thinking about you."
My heart hammers against my ribs. "We barely know each other."
"Then let's change that." He sets down his mug and reaches across the table, his fingers brushing mine. The contact sends electricity up my arm. "Tell me about you. The real you. Not the professional teacher version you show at school."
I should pull my hand away. Should maintain distance. Instead, I find myself relaxing slightly, my fingers curling around his.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything." His thumb traces circles on my palm. "Start with why you came back to Riverside after all these years."
The question hits harder than I expected. I look down at our joined hands, gathering my thoughts.
"My father is dying," I say quietly. "Stage four pancreatic cancer. The doctors say he has weeks, maybe a few months if we're lucky."
Noah's expression softens with genuine sympathy. "God, Mia. I'm so sorry."
"I haven't seen him in ten years. We haven't spoken since I left." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "I ran away in the middle of the night without saying goodbye. Just left a note that said nothing real."
"Why did you leave?"
I can't tell him the truth. Can't explain that I was pregnant with my father's best friend's babies. That I was terrified and ashamed and convinced I'd destroy everything if I stayed.
"I had my reasons," I say instead. "Complicated ones. But coming back now, facing him while he's dying, it's harder than I imagined."
Noah squeezes my hand gently. "How did he react when he saw you?"
"He was cold. Angry. He said I was nine years too late." My throat tightens with the memory. "He asked what could possiblyjustify abandoning my family. And I couldn't tell him. I still can't."
"Some secrets are too heavy to share," Noah says softly, and something in his voice makes me look up. There's understanding in his eyes, like he knows what it's like to carry weight you can't put down.
"What about you?" I ask, needing to shift the focus. "You mentioned you left your doctoral program. What happened?"
Noah's jaw tightens slightly. He pulls his hand back and wraps both around his coffee mug.
"My younger sister died two years ago in a car accident. She was twenty-three." His voice is steady but I hear the pain underneath. "I was in the middle of my dissertation, completely absorbed in my research and I missed her last three calls because I was too busy with my work." He swallows hard, his Adam's apple sliding down his throat, and presses his lips together. "I'll never forgive myself for that."
"That's not your fault, Noah."
"Isn't it?" He looks at me, and the raw grief in his eyes makes my chest ache. "She wanted to talk about something important. She left voicemails saying she needed her big brother. And I was too focused on dead historical figures to call her back."
I squeeze his hand, feeling the surprising strength in his fingers when he squeezes back. "You couldn't have known."
"That's what everyone says." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "My parents were devastated. Still are. I left the doctoral program and took the teaching position at Riverside to be closerto them. Figured I owed them at least one child they could see and talk to."
The parallel between our stories isn't lost on either of us. We sit in silence for a moment, two people carrying guilt and grief, finding unexpected understanding in each other.
"I've never told anyone that," Noah admits, shaking his head in surprise. "About missing her calls. Not even my parents."
"Why tell me?"
"Because you understand what it's like to run from something. To carry secrets that feel too heavy to share." He turns his hand over, lacing his fingers through mine. "And because I want you to know the real me, not just the history teacher who grades papers and discusses curriculum."
The chemistry from our one-night stand resurfaces with startling intensity. I'm suddenly hyperaware of how close we're sitting, how his thumb is tracing patterns on my wrist, and the way his eyes have darkened with desire behind his glasses.
"This is a bad idea," I whisper, even as I lean slightly closer.
"Probably the worst." His gaze drops to my lips. "But I can't seem to care."
