He answered without hesitation, gripping the front of my shirt and drawing me closer. The kiss deepened quickly, his mouth warm and eager, carrying the faint sweetness of the pear yogurt Maeve had left on the coffee table.
I let him set the pace.
His hand slid to my neck. Mine settled at his waist, careful of the healing hip. The heat between us built until the open drawer and the bottle beside our knees began to feel like a promise neither of us had agreed to keep today.
I ended the kiss.
Noah leaned his forehead against mine, breathing hard.
“You always stop.”
“When we haven’t decided to continue.”
“It’s infuriating.”
“It’s safe.”
He considered that.
“Both things can be true.”
Together, we restored order to the drawer. Neither of us could remember where the flashlight belonged, so we left it on top.
Noah came downstairs for the final hours of the workday.
He did not overreach. He relabeled bins at the clean bench, entered inventory from the afternoon delivery, and swept metal filings from the far bay with slow, methodical strokes.
Work returned something to him.
His shoulders settled. His expression cleared. He moved through the yard not as a patient being entertained but as a man whose judgment mattered.
The change steadied me too.
Near closing, I sat in the office adjusting the following week’s schedule when Noah appeared in the doorway.
“Dinner,” he said.
“Is that a question or a declaration?”
“A question disguised as confidence.”
“What are my choices?”
“We possess ground beef.”
“Encouraging.”
“And the weather is cold.”
“Still true.”
“Meatloaf?”
“Yes.”
“Mashed potatoes?”
“Obviously.”
