Page 22 of Crawl for Me

Sable

I sink deeper into the mattress with a groan, every muscle humming like I got wrecked last night and rebuilt with bent screws and leftover nails. Everything aches in a way that’s both alarming and smugly satisfying.

A heavy arm cinches around my waist, warm and solid, a chest pressed flush to my back. I arch into it, a sigh slipping out when his breath skims over my shoulder.

“Mm… good morning,” Noah mumbles, voice thick with sleep.

A smile tugs at my lips as I stretch, pressing back into him. “Good morning to you too.”

His hand flexes against my stomach, tugging me closer, and then his mouth grazes the back of my neck in the softest kiss.

Wait. Good morning?

My brain kicks on like a fire alarm. My heart stutters. My stomach tightens.

Good morning?

Shit.

This isn’t supposed to happen. We don’t do mornings. We don’t do after. Rules. Secrecy.

A loud, unmistakable bang rattles from the other side of the apartment, followed by the creak of something shifting and a low, mumbly groan that does not belong to the man currently spooning me.

My eyes snap open.

What the hell is going on?

Another thump. This one closer.

“Ugh, Sable. Do you have ibuprofen?” Sam’s voice calls out. “I think my brain’s leaking.”

Oh. Fuck.

The couch. He crashed here last night. Because he’d been wasted, and then I’d been too busy with…

Panic slices through the haze. I twist, limbs tangling in the sheets, shaking Noah’s shoulder hard. “Shit. Get the fuck up.”

He blinks up at me, dazed. “What?—”

“Sam,” I hiss, shoving at his chest. “He’s up. We fell asleep. You need to move. Now .”

His eyes widen, the fog clearing fast, and he scrambles half upright.

My brain races, eyes darting around the room.

Fire escape? No, it’s fucking freezing, he’d die in less than thirty seconds.

Bathroom? No—what if Sam wanders in there and pukes on his shoes.

Under the bed? Christ, no. He’d suffocate under a family of dust bunnies and three lost socks.

“The closet!” I whisper-shriek, grabbing his arm. “Fuck—go. Closet. Now. ”

To his credit, he doesn’t argue. He jumps right out of the bed and stumbles toward the closet with the grace of a man who just had the best night of his life and is now paying the price. I shove him in, toss his shoes in after him, and slam the door, heart jackhammering in my chest.

Shit. Shitshitshit.

I dive back into bed, limbs flailing, yanking the covers up like they might hide the mess I’ve made of literally everything. My pulse roars in my ears. The sheets still smell like him—skin and sleep and sex—and I swear I can hear him breathing behind the door. Or maybe that’s me hyperventilating.

I squeeze my eyes shut, pulse thumping through my teeth, and whisper a silent prayer to every deity willing to offer me plausible deniability.

Be still, Noah. Be silent. Do not sneeze.

“Morning!”

Sam barrels into my room, hair sticking up like a scarecrow, shirt half-undone, with a deranged grin already plastered across his face. He bounds straight onto the bed, nearly kneeing me in the kidney in the process.

“Thanks for saving my ass last night,” he chirps, flopping down beside me like we’re at some weird post-hangover sleepover and not currently sharing air with the ghost of my orgasm and a man I just crammed into the closet.

I pull the sheets tighter around me like a chastity belt and squint at him. “How are you so… alive?”

He shrugs, propping himself up on his elbows and fluffing one of my pillows. “Youth. Resilience. And maybe the leftover Chinese I stole from your fridge.”

I roll my eyes—then freeze.

There, tangled in the mess of sheets and regret, is a sliver of black silk. Knotted deep into the folds.

My stomach drops.

Noah’s tie.

Of course it had to get lost right there . Perfect. Just what I needed—my dignity playing hide-and-seek in a crime scene.

Sam yawns, stretches like a cat, then rolls his head toward me.

His eyes skim the heap of sheets, the mess I’ve cocooned myself in, and land exactly where mine are already pinned.

The thin strip of material peeking out like a fucking flag.

His brows shoot up, and before I can blink, he’s leaning forward with a smirk and plucking it free.

He twirls it between his fingers, brows wiggling. “What’s this then?”

“That’s called a tie, Sam,” I deadpan, sinking deeper into the pillows.

He scoffs, lips quirking. “Oh, I know what it is. I’m just wondering why you’re hiding luxury neckwear in your sheets. You running some kind of side hustle I don’t know about? Silk-for-sugar-daddies?”

I give him a half-hearted kick and yank it from his grip, shoving it under the pillow. “It’s laundry. Shut up.”

“Laundry, huh.” He leans back against the headboard, that shit-eating grin growing wider—until something flickers in his eyes, and his brows shoot up.

“Wait. Didn’t some poor bastard help haul me up here last night?

Tall? Dark hair?” His gaze drops to the pillow, then back to me.

“This wouldn’t happen to belong to our mystery savior, would it? ”

My nerves nosedive. Closet, tie, Noah. Shit.

“Sam,” I warn, voice flat. I’m two seconds from smothering him with a pillow and dragging Noah out of the closet to help bury the evidence.

He holds his palms up, sighing dramatically. “Fine, fine. Just—please tell me it’s not Connor.”

A sharp, ugly laugh bubbles out of me. “Connor?” I wheeze. “In a tie? You’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking. That man thought dressing up is putting on socks.”

Sam laughs, full belly laugh, all teeth and no volume control. “Right? I’m still convinced he owns one pair of boxers and rotates them like a washing machine cycle. Weirdest six weeks you’ve ever given someone, Sable, seriously.”

I give a weak smile, eyes flicking to the closet.

Still shut.

He pauses, squinting down at the bed again. “Wait. Is that?—?”

I follow his gaze.

Oh. No. No no no no no.

The cost of what we’ve been doing—itemized—right there in front of me. A crumpled foil wrapper glints from the mess of covers, wedged between a crease in the sheet.

Why is there so much stuff hiding in my bed?!

I snatch it up and fist it tight in my palm. “That’s a… chocolate. From last night. I think.”

Sam looks at me. “A chocolate.”

“Yep.”

“A square, silver chocolate.”

“They’re doing minimalist packaging now.”

Sam raises a brow, one corner of his mouth already hitching up. “Sure they are. Go on then—tell meee…” He singsongs it, nudging my leg with his foot. “Who is it? Spill. I won’t tell anyone .”

I stare at him.

He grins wider. “Okay, no, I absolutely will, but only to people who matter. Like Eleanor. And maybe my mom. No, definitely my mom. Oooh, maybe Ellen in procurement too, you know what she gets like when?—”

“Jesus, Sam, can you just— not ?” I snap.

His grin falters, and he blinks heavily. “Whoa. Okay. Sorry.”

I press my fingers to my eyes and blow out a heavy breath. “No, I’m sorry. I’m… tired. And sore. And… a little hungover.”

“That’s fair.” He stretches his arms overhead with a groan. “Anyway. I need to shower. I stink of tequila and ass. Want me to make coffee?”

Coffee. In my kitchen. Where he will loiter. And take his sweet time picking a mug. Where Noah will absolutely get caught trying to sneak past him. Also, coffee means time. Which means Sam stays . In my apartment. With his detective brain and his inability to let a single mystery go unsolved.

“No!” I blurt, way too fast.

His brow furrows. “Okay then.”

Shit.

No. On second thoughts—if he’s in the bathroom, door closed, water running—that’s a perfect window for escape. A stealth mission with poor odds, but better than playing hide-the-maybe-secret-lover for another thirty minutes.

I scramble to recover. “I—I mean yes. That would be amazing. Thank you. You’re the best. Go get a shower first. Go do that. Please. Right now. Like immediately.”

He stares at me like I’ve grown a second head, then slowly slides off the bed. “Are you high?”

“Nope. Just… enthusiastic. About hygiene. And you not smelling like tequila.”

He backs toward the door, eyes narrowed. “Right. I’m going. Because I’m afraid if I don’t, you’ll actually explode.”

“Valid fear,” I say, beaming at him like a lunatic. “Enjoy. Rinse the shame off.”

He disappears with a shake of his head, muttering something about weird women and weird mornings.

I don’t breathe.

Not until I hear the bathroom door close and the soft metallic squeak of the lock sliding into place. Then I spin around like a woman possessed and make a beeline for the closet, yanking the door open with all the urgency of someone defusing a bomb.

Noah blinks against the sudden light, crammed between last winter’s coats and a stack of boxes, hair sticking up at all angles. His eyes find mine immediately. We just… stare.

Something twists low in my gut.

I should feel justified—this is exactly why we made the rules. No mess, no HR disasters, no whispers around the office. Just clean lines, no one knowing. That was the deal. But looking at him now—shoulders hunched, his collar crooked, clutching his shoes—what I feel isn’t relief. It’s shame.

It’s that I shoved him in a fucking closet like a dirty secret—like some teenage cliché trying to hide the boy from her parents.

And he let me.

He just… went in.

I lean against the edge of the open door, sheets still clutched to my chest. “You okay?” I whisper.

For a second, he almost smiles, but it dies before it reaches his eyes. The sight makes me flinch. Not visibly. But I feel it. All the way down to the soles of my feet.

“Depends what ‘okay’ means,” he whispers. “I mean, yeah—I’ll live. But…” He trails off, jaw flexing as he looks down at his shoes. Then he glances back up, eyes catching mine.

“You know why we have to do this…” I murmur, stomach twisting in on itself.

“I know.” He nods. “If anyone finds out, it’s over. Meetings. Forms. Goodbyes. I get it.”

The words punch low in my gut. I open my mouth, then shut it again, because what the hell am I supposed to say?

That I want him, but not here? That I liked waking up with his arms around me, but I can’t afford to want it?

That this thing is one long tightrope walk, and one slip means free-fall into unemployment and maybe even a lawsuit if Marla catches the scent.

From the bathroom, Sam starts belting something off-key and absolutely ridiculous.

Noah shifts, shoulders brushing the coats. “I should… I should go,” he mumbles.

I force down a hard swallow and nod. “Yeah. Yeah.”

He steps past, close enough that his arm brushes mine, and before I can brace for it, he bends down and presses the softest kiss to the corner of my mouth.

Barely there. A ghost. By the time my breath hitches, he’s already pulling back, already slipping through the door, gone like he was never here at all.