The last one breaks something open. A sob sticks in my throat as I find and sink onto the couch, my phone clutched against my chest. I think about typing a response three times, but none feel right.I’m sorryfeels inadequate.I’m scaredfeels too raw. I thinkI’m brokenfeels like the truth I don’t want to be true, and one I don’t want to burden him with if it is.
Instead, I set the phone aside and let the spiral pull me under completely.
Night falls fast. I skip food for dinner, choosing wine instead. The alcohol loosens the tight knot in my chest. But the wine doesn’t stop the memories from flooding in.
Noah in the shower after our run, water streamingdown his back as he knelt and took me into his mouth. The way his breath hitched when I finally grew confident enough to touch him, learning the exact rhythm that made him sweaty and wild. Lazy Sundays where we simply existed together peacefully, his head in my lap while I read, fingers tangled together without mention, natural and calm.
Reality crashes back. Eli’s knowing smile. Their history. Noah’s past stretched out like a tapestry rich with experiences I can never match. How many lovers has he guided the same way he guided me?
Does it matter?
I curl into myself on the couch, knees to chest. Even with all of these thoughts, one is predominant: the silence has become its own presence in the house. Heavy and suffocating. My self-built coffin.
I cancel more office hours via email to the department secretary, claiming a migraine. The lie is getting ridiculous, and I’m sure Noah knows the truth. He’s giving me space, just like he always has—reading my signals with that wonderful perception that makes him such a great professor, partner, and friend.
After a mini-panic attack on the couch, I take a long, scalding shower, water dripping from my hair as I step out in front of the mirror. I look haunted and I feel even worse.
I want to believe it. I want to text him back and let him pull me from this spiral the way he’s done before— with words and touches that revise every lingering question and every small doubt. But the fear is louder today. Thatmy inexperience, my late awakening, my tendency to close off when overwhelmed will eventually drive him back to someone easier.
Someone like Eli.
The thought sends me back to the couch, another glass of wine in hand. Outside, the rain has eased into a misty drizzle. The city lights blur softly beyond the window. I close my eyes and let the exhaustion pull at me.
Five days of spiraling alone in this house that is way too empty without his presence. I thought I was protecting myself but deep down, I know the truth: I’m scared that this time away may prove that I was right. He needs someone more experienced.
I pick up my phone one last time. His last message stares back at me, full of love and patience. My thumb hovers over the keyboard.
I power the phone off instead, sinking deeper into the cushions as thunder rolls again in the distance.
The silence continues. And in it, I remain convinced that closing myself off is the kindest thing I can do—for both of us.
CHAPTER
TWENTY-SEVEN
NOAH
Five daysof silence from Cade feels like five years.
I’ve tried to respect it. I really have.
But enough is enough.
The rain is coming down in grey sheets as I pull up to his house on the quiet street lined with old magnolia trees. His sister and her wife must be gone somewhere—their house next door is dark, the cars gone, everything closed up. My headlights cut through the downpour, illuminating the familiar porch where I stood with an overnight bag not that long ago.
I kill the engine and sit for a moment, my heart seemingly hammering harder than the rain on the roof of my car. In my jacket pocket rests the folded pages of the tenure-track letter of recommendation I wrote—before we were anything, when my crush was a private thing I heldtight to myself. I’d poured more of my adoration of Cade into that letter than I should have, than what was wise. Anyone with half a brain could’ve read this and seen that I was wildly infatuated, obsessed even. But Pratt had no clue. Because I did a good job of hiding my feelings until recently.
But Cade is convinced I need someone with experience. That I long for someone who has been with others or, I don’t even know. What I do know is that he’s wrong. He’s always been wrong, and it’s time he hears it.
I grab my little university umbrella but I don’t open it. The rain feels right. Dramatic, maybe, but fitting for two English professors unraveling in a spool of heated tension and high-rise emotions. We’re a literary masterpiece in the making, maybe. I certainly hope.
Some dog barks once as I climb the steps, shoes squelching, immediately soaked. I knock firmly, three times, then wait. Water streams down my face, soaking my shirt until it clings to my chest. The door cracks open after a long pause that has my breath catching.
Cade stands there in gray sweatpants and an old university tee, hair disheveled, eyes wide with surprise and something guarded. Behind him, in the hall, I catch sight of Ford leaning against the doorframe. Our eyes find each other and he gives me a half-smile along with a quiet, approving nod. Ford doesn’t say a word. He simply watches for a moment before retreating deeper into the house, giving us privacy.
“Cade,” I start, voice low against the dull hum of rain.Against my thunder heart. Against all the mistakes I’ve made rattling around in my mind.
He grips the door and I take a sliver of relief in how terrible he looks. As bad as me. Which means maybe he loves me too. Maybe this has killed him, too. “I said I needed space.”
