Page 2 of Crawl for Me

Noah

T he clink of the key fob against the wine bottle follows me across the glass-and-marble lobby, the takeout bag swinging in my other hand like I’ve been doing this for months instead of only three forgettable days.

I didn’t move here chasing some big reinvention or a fresh start or whatever glossy bullshit people write about in self-help books.

I’m not that na?ve. The transfer is just a different set of walls with a new zip code and skyline.

The rest is the same—same inbox, same meetings where I nod at the right times, same workload.

I haven’t even started yet, but the apartment, this whole building, it feels like a layover—bare walls, unopened boxes, a place I’m passing through rather than living in.

Overhead, the soft mechanical whir of the elevator starts, filling the quiet midnight lobby with motion as I jab the button on the wall with my elbow.

I sigh into the stillness and tip my head back, glancing up at the descending numbers.

Tonight, I just need to eat, sleep, and preferably not spiral.

Tomorrow I’ll handle the rest—hang the clothes, fix the coffee machine, maybe even take the bubble wrap off the mirror I’ve been avoiding since I unpacked it. Maybe I’ll even?—

Cold air snakes over my back as the lobby doors creak open behind me, and I glance over my shoulder.

I don’t know her—never seen her before—but my shoulders go rigid, breath snagging tight in my lungs.

She steps inside, head tipped slightly down, pace unhurried. One hand hooks through the strap of a crossbody bag, the other buried in the front pocket of her jeans. Her sneakers whisper over the polished tile, each step pulling my attention like a thread I can’t stop following.

She walks right up beside me, close enough for the faintest drift of vanilla to slip past my guard, and presses the call button herself—even though it’s already lit.

My eyes betray me before I can reel them back—dragging down the slope of her nose, the sweep of her lashes, the few freckles scattered soft across her skin.

Fuck. She’s so pretty it’s painful. Then I look lower, lower…

Down the length of her legs, the snug denim hinting at the shape underneath, the strap of her bag hooking against her hip, the curve it presses into…

Jesus, get a grip.

“Can I help you?”

Her voice snaps my attention like a rubber band, and my head jerks up, heat flooding my face so fast it makes me lightheaded.

Fuck. Say something. Anything. Move before it gets weird.

I clear my throat, shifting the takeout bag in my grip. “No, sorry. I just…” My tongue fails, words trailing off into nothing before I settle for a useless shrug.

The corner of her mouth twitches up into a smile. Oh, she’s definitely already filing me under ‘ another idiot in the building.’

I fix my sight on the crawl of glowing red numbers above the doors. Anything to stop myself from watching her watch me. But each one’s taking its sweet time, stubborn as wet cement, and I can feel my pulse kicking harder.

Jesus, is it always this slow?

The warmth in my face spills down into my chest in a slow, suffocating flush that makes my shirt feel two sizes too small.

If those doors don’t open soon, I’m going to combust.

I catch her tipping her head in my periphery, eyes narrowing slightly like she’s studying me. “You new here?” she asks, voice smooth enough to run right down my spine.

“Yeah.” My grip on the bag tightens. “Uh… moved in on Thursday.”

The elevator dings, doors sliding open with a hiss of brushed steel. I step in first, reaching for the panel, but she’s right there beside me, her knuckle knocking against mine, pressing the exact same button.

“Sorry—sorry,” I mutter, hand jerking back like I’ve touched a live wire. My heart thumps hard as I back into the corner too fast, shoulder clipping the rail with a dull clang.

Great. Subtle.

The purr of the elevator hums through the space as it begins to climb. I fix my vision on the panel to distract myself—but I can feel her studying me, and when I glance over, I see it too.

She’s leaning against the opposite rail, eyes burning into me as she toys with the strap of her bag. “So… are you always this nervous, or is it just me?” she says.

I shift my weight enough to break the eye contact.

Nervous? No, don’t admit that. Anything but that.

I force my mouth to move, fumbling out a half-swallowed answer that won’t make me seem so pathetic. “Not nervous, no. I’m… quiet, and better at keeping to myself.”

The mechanical chime rings through the space, and the doors slide open to the hush of the hallway.

I step back, palm up in an ‘ after-you ’ gesture.

She doesn’t move at first, just raises a brow and smirks, dragging her gaze down my chest and back up before finally stepping out, leaving the faint scent of vanilla in her wake.

I follow a little too quickly, the toe of my boot catching the metal lip at the threshold. She glances over at the sound as I right myself, the corner of her mouth twitching up as we fall into step together.

She looks up at me as we round the corner. “Quiet’s not so bad. Usually means you’re paying attention to things most don’t. Kind of makes me wonder what’s running through your head right now.”

The handle of the takeout bag twists in my grip, the bottle of wine knocking lightly against my thigh.

Does she really want to know? Because what’s actually in my head right now is borderline embarrassing— ‘ there are three freckles on your collarbone, your eyeliner is slightly smudged under your left eye, and the shampoo you use is clouding my head and making my mouth water.’

“Nothing special,” I lie, swallowing hard. “Just thinking about getting back and eating my takeout.”

Her eyes flick down to the bag in my hand. “Ah. Looks like we’ve got something in common.”

“We have?” My brow lifts, curiosity edging out my caution.

“I’m heading back to Pad Thai and half a bottle of red I didn’t finish last night,” she says, her grin tugging wider as she looks back up at me. “Be a shame to drink it alone—unless you really are attached to the whole ‘keeping to yourself’ thing.”

I blink at her, and the words are tumbling out before I can think. “I mean, I don’t always keep to myself. It… it might be nice to share.”

The second they hit the air, I want to shove them back down my throat.

Fix. It. Now.

“If you do… want company. I mean—not like that, just—uh, bad Saturdays, you know? I’ve got glasses. For the wine. If you… y’know—” I snap my mouth shut, blood rushing to my ears.

Christ, why can’t I shut up?

Her grin widens as she rakes her gaze over me again. “Hmm… not so quiet after all.”

A half-laugh, half-breath snags awkwardly in my throat. But relief floods through my veins the second I spot my door—a small mercy, an escape hatch from standing here drowning in my awkwardness. If I can just get the key in the lock without dropping it, I’ll be safe. Alone.

My fingers fumble against the ridges, clumsy, slippery with nerves. Don’t say anything else. Unlock the door. Go inside. Eat the damn pasta.

She doesn’t break stride as I slow at my door, just keeps going, shoes muffled against the carpet.

Panic stirs in my chest, and I scrape for something—anything—to claw back a shred of composure.

I can’t let her keep walking. I can’t let it end with me looking like some tongue-tied idiot who can’t even string two sentences together.

“My name’s Noah,” I blurt out after her.

Three doors down, she finally pauses, slipping her key into the lock, her shoulder angling just enough for me to catch the curve of her smirk. “Sable,” she says, before she looks up to meet my eyes. “And I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

The latch clicks shut behind her, leaving me stranded in the hall with my mouth dry and my pulse still trying to climb out of my throat.

Smooth, Noah. Real smooth.

I shove my own door open and step into the chaos of half-opened boxes and bare walls. The takeout bag lands on the kitchen counter with a dull thud, the wine bottle rolling far enough to knock against the backsplash.

A shaky laugh escapes my throat as I tug open a cabinet, only to find it empty. Right . Haven’t actually unpacked the glasses yet. Of course. With a muttered curse, I push aside a box until I dig out two glasses wrapped in newsprint.

One for me, and one in case Sable decides— oh, stop it. What the hell makes you think she’d ever actually knock on your door?

I plate up the takeout, lean against the counter, and fork in a bite of pasta that tastes like cardboard.

I chew past the too-strong garlic and the stodgy sauce, trying to focus on the meal that definitely shouldn’t have cost twenty-four dollars.

But all I can taste is the mortification singeing the back of my throat.

The words I’d blurted out are circling round my mind at a hundred miles an hour.

And fuck —the curve of her mouth, the way her eyes burned when she looked me over.

That vanilla on her skin—soft, sweet, clinging to my nose.

And those jeans… the way they caught at her hips, the dip of that top…

The fork clatters against the plate as I set it down, appetite gone. I drag the wine bottle closer, tip a heavy pour into my glass, and take a heavy gulp before scraping my palm down my face.

“You’ve known her five minutes, you fucking idiot,” I mutter to the empty kitchen. “Stop acting like a damn kid.”