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“For the millionth time, I don’t need anyone watching out for me,” I say, exasperated.

Noble squares his stance in front of me. “You sure about that?”

I press my lips together because suddenly all I can think about is kissing him. “Yes,” I say, unconvincingly.

“It’s not a bad thing, you know,” he says. “Sure beats not having anybody looking out for you.”

“It is when they embarrass me.” I’m protesting more than I should, and my face is on fire for it.

“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he says. “It’s just me.”

Right. Exactly. It’s just him. Nothing more embarrassing than that.

“It’s still humiliating. I mean, saying there’s a vibe. Giving you the third degree. It’s so ridiculous.” I huff out a breath because playing it cool is not a thing I do. No, I like to draw attention to things that humiliate me.

I shake my head and turn to go, but he grabs onto my arm, gently stopping me.

“What if it’s not ridiculous?” he says.

I cock my head and look at him. “What do you mean?”

A soft shrug. “What if there is a vibe?”

Oh.

A low thrum of electricity pulses through my body. “You and me? You said it before—we’re friends.”

“Right, yeah.” He nods, relenting. “And you’re still trying not to hate me.”

“I don’t hate you, Noble,” I say, going still. “I mean . . . I thought I did. I tried to—really hard, actually, but . . .”

“But you don’t?” There’s hopefulness in his eyes.

I shake my head. “I don’t.”

He hesitates for a second, then moves closer, facing me.

My brain does donuts like a teenager without a driver’s license because he’s not looking at me like I’m just a friend.

And because I like it.

I search his eyes, waiting to feel off-kilter, but I don’t. I feel grounded. Strong. “I was mad when you left. I didn’t understand. I thought you would’ve . . .” I shake the thought away because I’m not sure how much to say.

“I let you down.” He reaches over and rests his hand on the back of my neck, his thumb gently grazing my cheek, and I turn into it, a knot forming at the back of my throat.

I don’t know how to revisit those days without the emotion coming along with the memories. So much darkness tied up in the same moment in time.

He watches me, eyes dancing around my face like he’s memorizing it. “I missed a lot of things about this place, but . . .” He takes a breath. “I missed you most of all.”

The line reminds me of the end of The Wizard of Oz, and I let out a nervous laugh, thinking of the day we introduced him to the movie. And maybe because I’m awkward and anxious and don’t know how to handle him touching my face, I blurt out, “I’m your Scarecrow.”

He pulls his hand back, brow furrowed, because he probably doesn’t have the movie memorized.

“From The Wizard of Oz?” I say. “The ending? When she tells the Scarecrow ‘I think I’ll miss you most of all’?” I flick a hand in the air. “Oh, never mind.”

“I remember,” he says, smiling. “Your mom threw that Wizard of Oz party because I said I’d never seen the movie⁠—”

“Yeah but also so she could dress up like the witch and walk around cackling, ‘I’ll get you, my pretty!’” I do the voice, which is a bad impression of my mom doing a bad impression of the witch in the movie.