I stand in front of the designated apartment door, heart in my throat, debating whether I should knock. I hear a muffled voice from inside. Male. Very male. The sound like an arrow to my belly, causing a fleet of winged insects to scatter in every direction, only to regroup in my chest.
Noah.
It's not the voice I remember but somehow, I know it's his. Deep. Resonant. Then I hear another voice. Female.
Higher-pitched but husky, oozing familiarity in a way that makes my skin prickle with discomfort.
Instinctively, I start to leave, deciding to just bite the bullet and go home to my uncle. But just as I turn away, the door abruptly swings open. My startled heart jumps and I jerk backward, losing my balance on my crutches as the plaster cast weighs down my leg. But almost immediately, large hands grip me by my shoulders as my crutches clatter to the floor, strong fingers digging into my skin, steadying me. Saving me from another dangerous tumble. Instinctively, my fingers clutch at the fabric of his shirt, bunching the soft cotton as I cling to his chest, cage between his arms.
Really toned, muscular arms.
Holy shit...
I stare up at him, my heart playing bass drum solos against my ribcage. This can't be the same Noah I knew. The one who used to make my skin vibrate just by walking into a room. Whose very presence was the only antidepressant I ever needed as a lovestruck teenager.
This man before me is like a mythical creature—one I maybe caught glimpses of in the shadowy recesses of my fantasies, but never really believed could be flesh and bone. He's broader, more brawny, with bulging biceps and a chiseled torso that have no business looking so edible through the thin fabric of his shirt. Gone are the wiry muscles and sleek lines I was so well-acquainted with. Now it's all brawny sinew and hard, unforgiving planes that ooze nothing but blatant masculinity.
Seventeen-year-old Noah had a 'body'.
Present-day Noah has a fucking 'bawdy'.
His jawline seems sharper somehow, carved from granite and ringing with authority. Thicker stubble shrouds his mouth, those full lips I used to spend countless hours daydreaming about. Still smooth. Still inviting. There's a ruggedness to them now, hinting at experiences and cravings I never got to explore with the pretty boy version of him. Experiences I tell myself I don't want any part of, even as my body insists otherwise.
His amber eyes flash hot, mirroring my own shock. Seeing him again is...nothing short of overwhelming.
Even his stance is completely foreign—shoulders squared and weight balanced like he's ready to bulldoze through any obstacle. So different from the casually cocky lean of his youth.
But then a voice breaks the spell, shattering the moment. As if snapping out of a trance, he releases me as a woman comes up behind him, clearly a fellow graduate student given her casual attire of leggings and an oversized university hoodie. Her bare feet pad against the hardwood. Lithe and lean, with an edgy, platinum blonde pixie cut and eyes the color of rich honey. She silently acknowledges me with a pretty smile...before pressing it to Noah's lips.
"See you later," she purrs, casting me a sidelong glance laced with subtle curiosity.
There couldn't be a clearer indication.
They're fucking.
Emotion burns through me at the sight, raw and fierce, deciding in that moment that this was a mistake. A big, terrible mistake. And even though I've lost count of how many times I've imagined meeting him again, how many times I wished hopelessly to see his face in person, not a single iteration included me being more than ready to flee the scene. Feeling my veins singe with the very emotion that haunted my uncle when Noah's mother divorced him.
Humiliation.
Noah barely acknowledges her departure, staring at me through the entire exchange with an intensity that raises the hairs on the back of my neck. I feel my stomach plunge, like an anvil just fell through me, ripping my insides. A sharp pain blossoms behind my navel as nausea churns viciously. I feel sick, bracing one hand against the ruddy brick wall to reach for my crutches.
I need to leave. Now.
"Sorry..." I choke out through the constricting space of my throat, the words thick and viscous. "I think I have the wrong address." I reach for my crutches, but Noah stoops to grab my them before I can, scooping up the slip of paper that apparently joined them on the floor.
He hands the crutches back to me but glances at the slip. His expression says I clearly have the right address but he doesn't verbalize the obvious. I open my mouth, intending to tell him I don't mean to intrude; that if he's occupied I can find somewhere else to stay. But he doesn't even give me a chance, easily lifting my bag off my shoulder and pushing the door open wider in an unmistakable invitation to enter.
I grip my crutches like an anchor, the rubber handles growing slick against my palms, knuckles straining as I cross the threshold. And then, strangely, I find myself overcome by the sentiment of being lulled into a shelter by a lion as his eyes travel from my face to my new accessories.
"What happened to your leg?" he asks, his voice decimating my stomach. The most delicious sound. The most brutal sound. Like molten velvet laced with steel. I swallow hard, struggling to find my own voice as visceral memories pummel me from all sides.
"I fell," I finally manage. The moment the admission leave my lips, something knots in my neck, an echo of my mother voicing the lie even though I'm telling the honest truth. I hate how it sounds, the taste of the words vile on my tongue.
"Come sit down," he says, even though it doesn't sound like either an invitation or suggestion. Just a softly-spoken command that brokers no argument. I comply hesitantly, my heart racing as I move further into his physical domain.
The small living area is dominated by an overstuffed charcoal grey sectional, plush area rugs in warm earth tones, and an antique record player turntable positioned as the centerpiece. Built-in shelves flank the vintage turntable, lined with well-worn hardcovers and an array of framed photographs, each one surely holding memories he cherished. But it's the collection of paintings hung along one wall, canvases of various sizes exploding with vibrant colors and bold brushstrokes, that draws my gaze. I recognize his unique style instantly, awash with both fierce energy and profound vulnerability.
I sit gingerly on the edge of one of the oversized cushions, my heart meeting my tongue when Noah comes to stoop in front of me. He eyes the cast for a long moment before looking up, the thunderous stare of the boy I once knew pinning me in place, now edged with something I've never seen before.
"All I need is a name," he says, the words cloaked in quiet menace that causes my brow to furrow. I'm dumbfounded, offering him a confused look as he holds my gaze, deadly serious, until realization dawns. I shake my head, huffing with equal parts humor and nerves. No, mostly nerves. There's nothing funny about the look in his eyes.
"No one did this to me," I say, my breathlessness making it sound less convincing than it should. "Unless you want to go after the stage steps. But be warned, they're ready for a take down." I joke weakly, attempting to ease the tension, to loosen the tightening knot in my neck, but he continues to stare at me with that same serious, indecipherable expression. I tense all over again, his proximity and intense focus doing things to my body that I don't want to think about. Especially after watching a woman he more than likely dicked down walk out of here just moments ago.
"I genuinely fell. On stage," I say, needing to solidify the truth. "At least two hundred people can vouch for that." His eyes flit back to my cast, his hand coming up to palm the rigid plaster, fingers tracing over the raised lines with unconscious tenderness. I suck in a sharp breath that I can't seem to release, like he's touching my actual skin, the intimate caress igniting sparks that race along my nerves with wanton disregard for my resolve.
"When did it happen?" he asks, voice rough and low, the rumbling baritone doing absolutely nothing to calm the haywire beat of my heart.
"Two days ago," I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Sprain or fracture?"
"Bit of both," I answer, praying he can't hear the frantic pounding in my chest that mirrors the cadence of my pulse between my legs.
Suddenly, he seems exasperated. "How bad does it hurt?"
His expression makes my throat struggle around that damn knot, immediately downplaying it. "It's not that bad."
"Bad enough to be on crutches," he frowns, clearly seeing through my unconvincing lie. "What did they give you for the pain?"
"Something that ends in 'phin'". I try again to bring levity to his intensity, but he doesn't budge. "I only have to take it for two more days," I add quickly. "Then I can go with some OTC stuff for another week if I need it."
He stares at me for a long moment. Then nods. "I'll get some for you in the morning."
Even though it's a simple offer, a logical gesture even, my heart spasms at his immediate show of concern, reminding me of how he was when we were teenagers. And yet, the considerate gesture twists my stomach with the knowledge that he's doing it because he sees me as a little sister; someone he needs to protect. The way he did his mother. He stands abruptly, erasing the charged proximity between us and creating a distance that feels like a physical, tangible thing. Like you could actually hold hands with it.
I realize then that neither of us have acknowledged each other by name, or even shared a customary greeting—as if six years and countless emotions haven't yawned between our last meeting and this decidedly unorthodox reunion. I force my suddenly dry mouth to work, but he says something at the same time.
"I had no idea you went to school here—" I start.
"You can take my room—"
We both stop. I lick at my lips nervously as understanding dawns on me. He has no interest in making small talk.
I should go.
I should really just go.
"I'll take the couch," he finishes with finality, rolling his broad shoulders in a tight shrug. "Your leg needs the space."
Something sharp explodes in my lower belly, the thought of sleeping in his bed silently choking me right in front of him with him none the wiser. I nod woodenly, too afraid of what might come out if I open my mouth again...until I remember the woman from earlier. She had likely been in his bed, too. I blink against heated sting in my throat, swallowing it down with difficulty.
"Actually, I don't mind the couch," I say, hating the tremble in my voice even though I'm being honest. It's comfortable and a recliner so, while positioning might not be as straightforward as a bed, it offers enough surface area and cushioning that I can make do just fine. Noah grabs my bag and takes it to his room, effectively ending that debate.
"I'll put some new sheets on when I get back," he says when he returns. "Thai okay for tonight?"
As if in response, my stomach grumbles loudly, startling us both. Passing amusement flashes in his eyes, almost wistful, but then it's gone. "I'll take that as a 'yes'."
He snatches his keys off the counter, back tensing beneath his shirt. "Be back in a bit," he says without looking at me. The door shuts behind him with a dull thump that seems to echo endlessly, invoking my heart to join it. Then the jangle of keys turning decisively in the lock, sealing me in alone with the remnants of our fractured past.
Suddenly, I'm overcome by contradicting sensations. A strange duality of feeling both safe and trapped.
***
A/N: Question, have you ever watched your crush kiss or be kissed by someone else? 😫😭