Page 23 of Glitches and Kisses (The Havenwood #2)
Evan
The walk back to Noah’s place was quiet. Not the kind of silence you melt into. This one hovered, tight and heavy, like it had something to say but didn’t know how. Like something important had been left hanging back at the restaurant, and we were both pretending we didn’t feel the weight of it.
We filled the space between with small talk: weather, flights, a half-hearted comment about the wine list. Each word stretched thin, like we were both too aware of the things we weren’t saying.
Noah was heading out of town again in the morning, some conference or tech summit. He hadn’t said much about it, but I could tell he was dreading it. The way his shoulders tensed when I asked, the short answers.
I didn’t push. I’d already asked the question. ‘Are you ever going to let this be real?’ I probably shouldn’t have.
And he hadn’t answered.
That told me enough. Or maybe it told me too much.
We were just a block from his apartment when he stopped suddenly, one foot on the bottom step of his building, hand gripping the railing like it was the only thing keeping him steady.
“Evan,” he said, quiet, barely audible over the rustle of wind.
I turned toward him. “Yeah?”
He didn’t look at me at first. His jaw was tight; his eyes fixed somewhere near my shoulder .
“I like you. That’s not the problem.”
I waited. Because I knew there was more.
“The problem is I don’t know what I’m ready for. Or when I’ll be ready. It’s not that I don’t want this. I do. I just… I’m scared. And I know that’s not fair. I know it sucks. And I get it if you’re tired of waiting.”
My chest ached, but I didn’t let it show. Not right away. Because what he was doing, this stumbling, messy confession, it mattered.
So I asked, “Are you asking me to leave?”
He looked up then, and there was something raw in his expression. “No. I’m telling you that I might break this. That I don’t know how not to.”
I stepped closer, not quite touching him.
Just enough for him to feel the warmth of me, to know I was still here.
“You don’t have to have everything figured out,” I said.
“I’m not asking for perfection. I’m not even asking for answers tonight.
” I let that hang for a second before I added, “But you do have to show up. Even if it’s messy. Even if it scares the shit out of you.”
Noah’s brows drew together, his voice soft, tentative. “Do you really think I haven’t been showing up?”
I shook my head gently. “I think you try. I think you want to. But sometimes it feels like you’re still holding yourself just out of reach.”
He swallowed hard, eyes shifting away, then back. The crack in the wall he kept so carefully built showed, just for a second.
“Okay,” he said, barely above a whisper.
But before I could say anything else, he looked at me, really looked at me, and added, “I hate the tension between us.” His voice was low, a little ragged.
“I hate walking beside you like I’m pretending I don’t want to touch you.
I hate holding all this shit in my chest like it’s going to explode if I breathe wrong. ”
My heart pounded so hard I was sure he could hear it.
“I just…” He trembled as he spoke. “I just want you.”
The space between us disappeared like it never existed. My hand found his jaw, rough with stubble, and I felt the way his breath hitched under my palm. His eyes darted to my mouth, hungry and unsure, but he didn’t move back.
“I’m yours. If you want me,” I said, voice barely steady.
That was all it took.
His mouth crashed into mine, sudden and hot and all urgency and hesitation tangled together, like he’d been holding back for far too long. There was no finesse. Just teeth, lips, tongues, hands. His fingers curled into the front of my jacket like he was afraid I’d disappear if he let go.
I kissed him back, deeper, pulling him against me until our bodies lined up perfectly. Everything about it was fire and friction and weeks of unspoken want finally snapping loose.
He pulled away just enough to catch his breath and find my eyes.
We stood like that for what felt like an eternity. I finally said, “So… are you inviting me up?”
“Upstairs,” he said. Rough and low, like the word was pulled straight from the center of him.
And for a second, I couldn’t move. Because the look in his eyes… it wasn’t hesitation, it wasn’t fear. It was hunger. Not just want. Need. Like he was done holding back, done pretending this tension between us was something he could outrun.
And that fire?
It lit something in me, too.
“Lead the way,” I said, my voice barely steady, already following him before the words even left my mouth.
As we climbed the stairs to his apartment, we didn’t speak after that. We didn’t need to. Because sometimes it’s not about resolution or clarity or timing.
Sometimes it’s just about giving in. About letting your body say what your mouth can’t.