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“Ok, but it's my place so I'm choosing what we watch.”

We end up watching a documentary about crazy conspiracy theories and Doomsday preppers, something I never would have pegged Noah being interested in.

We sit side by side, not touching, but about halfway through he pulls my feet, which are tucked on the sofa, into his lap and turns to look at me. “Your feet are like blocks of ice, Zeston! Are you trying to single handedly combat global warming?”

I have gotten a bit cold since I'm sitting here with wet hair and no top on. Noah gets up and gets a blanket from the bedroom, wraps me like a burrito, and pulls me against his side into a half cuddle with his arm around me. “Better?”

“A little.” It feels amazing, but I'll never admit that. He'll probably stop.

I cheat my way into two episodes of cuddles, and by the time the credits are rolling for a second time, I'm feeling pretty smug. I'm also feeling like it's getting harder and harder not to get feelings for this grumpy sea monster. He's trying so hard to be a fuck boy, but I'm starting to see there's more beneath the surface than he'd like to admit.

I'm still curious about exactly what happened back at Tuross. Whatever it was, he got really intense there for a minute and seems almost shaken since. I keep getting glimpses of this deeper side to him. Like a puppy that’s been left alone too long and won’t allow himself to get excited when he sees someone coming. Only his wagging tail gives him away.

“Hey, Noah?”

“Hm?”

I’m just going to come right out and say it. “What happened today?”

He stiffens, his body going tense next to me. But then he sighs. “I dunno really.” I think he’s not going to say any more, but to my surprise, he continues. “I saw someone I know. Two people. From my past…”

“Your ex?”

He makes a grunt of assent. I twist, lifting my legs over his lap to look at him properly, but he won’t meet my eyes. “Hey.” His eyes flick to mine, only to dart away again when I ask, “Is a hug against the rules?”

His mouth opens and closes, then he shakes his head.

I climb into his lap, wrap my arms and legs around him, and just hold him for a while. I don’t know if this is doing anything for him, but it makes me feel better, and after all, he told me to ask for what I want.

After a little longer, Noah’s arms close around me and we sit like that for a long time.

He lets out another deep sigh into my neck, and it might be my imagination, but a hint of moisture makes me wonder if he is crying. I’m too scared to look and ruin the moment.

Eventually he coughs. “I guess I should drive you home.”

I release him, standing and self-consciously running a hand through my hair to loosen my now-dry curls. “Thanks.”

I’m searching for my shirt when Noah surprises me again by holding out a folded black garment. I stare.

“Take this one. I don’t like it very much anyway.”

I accept his shirt, unfolding it and slipping it over my head. It doesn’t matter what he said, it makes me smile when his familiar scent surrounds me, and when he’s not looking, I lift the collar to my nose to breathe it in.

He’s quiet on the way home and all I get by way of a goodbye is a brisk, “See you.”

But when I’m tucked up in bed still wearing his shirt, just about to switch off the light on the nightstand, a message pops up on my phone.

Noah: thanks for today. I’m sorry I’m such a shit

I hold the phone to my chest for a long moment, running his words over in my head. Why does his gruff apology feel so much more meaningful than a whole sonnet from another guy would?

SIXTEEN

Noah

Sunday lunch with my parents is a Wilson family tradition I’ve been trying to escape for years. Somehow my older brothers always manage to guilt me into it. This year, of course, they have extra ammo in the form of Dad’s cancer treatment.

I’m lying on my bed on Saturday night—technically Sunday morning—with Olivia curled up against my side. I’m scrolling when a notification from the group chat drops down.