Page 122 of Almost Ravaged

His chest heaves once. Twice. Then, with a sigh, he deflates. With a thick swallow, he looks me in the eye. “No. Not if you’re with her.”

Jesus H.

Conflict floods my system. If there was ever a time to live up to my legacy as an unfeeling, shrewd son of a bitch, this would be it.

But despite the armor I don when I have to deal with the rest of the world, I’ve never had to play that part around Noah. He’s the only person in my life who sees me for me. He’s the only person I’ve never felt the need to conform or twist myself into knots for.

Swallowing my pride, I straighten and offer him the honest truth.

“We’re new, she and I. There’s a connection there for sure, but nothing has taken root.”

I don’t want to give her up. But dammit, Noah deserves good in his life.

If this woman is what finally pulls him out of his funk and reminds him of what it feels like to live, he should be with her.

It’ll ache like a motherfucker.

But I would give her up for him.

Head down again, he drags the toe of his boot along the floor.

He’s shutting down. Refusing to reply. But I can’t handle existing in this gray area.

“Say something, dammit.”

He takes wide, slow strides to the back wall and snatches his discarded cap off the floor. Then he turns, leans against the weathered side panel, and crosses both arms over his broad chest.

“Noah,” I plead, my heart thudding heavily with anticipation and dread.

I need him to talk to me. To lean into this or to shut it down completely.

When he meets my gaze and gives an imperceptible shake of his head, my frustration boils over.

He’s so fucking stubborn. So dogged in his belief that he’s damaged beyond repair. He loved, and yeah, he lost. But he’s still alive. He needs to fucking act like it.

But the depth of his despair sometimes seems insurmountable. His grief lives right under his skin. It’s part of him. Some days, I think it’s all of him.

The jealousy that flared hot and overtook me on the porch flickers back to life. But then an idea nudges at my consciousness.

At first, I push it out. Try to file it as a fleeting thought.

But the idea doesn’t like that. Instead of passing, it nudges harder.

And harder.

And harder still.

Until it shoves me with a force that matches Noah’s outburst. It suffocates me until the only way to get relief is to let it in and really, truly consider it.

Tightness tugs at my chest as I deliberate. It might not work. Hell, even mentioning it could lead to a catastrophic fallout.

Normally, I would dismiss this line of thinking outright. Especially when it comes to my very straight best friend.

Yet here I am, gearing up to make things worse.

Fuck it.

It’s worth a shot.