Page 32 of Glitches and Kisses (The Havenwood #2)

Evan

Seattle smelled like rain, sea salt from the Puget Sound, and strong coffee that lingered in the air.

Even in June, the city held onto its moody charm, the sky shifting between gray and blue.

The streets hummed with quiet energy, locals with coffee in hand, tourists exploring Pike Place, and the low rumble of a ferry pulling in.

It was the perfect place to get lost for a while. And maybe that was why this trip felt different.

And Noah? Noah was different here.

Not a complete transformation. He was Noah.

Still meticulous, still guarded, still rolling his eyes at my enthusiasm like it physically pained him, but he was lighter.

Looser. The weight of whatever walls he carried with him in Havenwood wasn’t as heavy on his shoulders.

Maybe it was because we were away from everything, away from the knowing glances of our friends, away from the expectations of what we were, or weren’t.

His shoulders weren’t quite so tight, his lips twitched into half-smirks more often than scowls, and when he looked at me, really looked at me, there wasn’t so much hesitation in his eyes.

Not gone. But less.

Whatever it was, I was soaking up every second of it.

Pike Place Market was a dream. A chaotic, vibrant, sprawling mass of people and vendors, neon lights and the shouts of fishmongers tossing fresh salmon across the counters .

We wandered aimlessly, stopping when something caught our interest. I made a beeline for a tiny stand selling handcrafted jewelry, flipping through rings and bracelets while Noah watched with thinly veiled amusement.

“Didn’t realize you were in the market for a statement piece,” he mused, drinking his coffee.

I held up a silver ring etched with intricate wave designs. “What do you think?”

Noah’s gaze went to my hand before back up to my face. “Not bad.” A pause. “You’re actually going to wear it? Or is this just another impulse buy?”

“Oh, I fully intend to wear it, dad.” I slipped it onto my index finger and wiggled my hand. “I’m a man of style, Patel. You should take notes.”

He snorted as he let out a big laugh.

We kept moving, browsing shops and stalls, ducking into a small tea store when Noah was pulled by the hint of spiced oranges wafting from inside.

He sifted through their selection with that same intense concentration he gave his work, eventually picking out a tin of their signature orange cinnamon tea.

“I didn’t peg you for a tea guy,” I said, watching as he handed the cashier his card.

“I like having choices. Especially good ones,” he said, eyes lingering on me as he tucked the tin away.

When we stepped back onto the crowded street, I turned, grinning. “Alright, now it’s my turn.”

“For what?”

I pointed dramatically. “The Original Starbucks.”

Noah groaned, his head tilting back like the very mention of it caused him physical pain. “You would.”

I gasped. “Excuse me?”

“You know it’s just another Starbucks, right?”

I crossed my arms. “Noah. It’s THE Starbucks. I have to buy a mug from the original Starbucks. It’s a rite of passage.”

His expression was flat, unimpressed. “Tourists are exhausting.”

I patted his arm. “And yet, here you are with one. Melancholy and miserable through it all.”

His lips twitched. “Fine. Let’s get this over with.”

I was way too pleased with myself as I dragged him inside. The line was long, unsurprisingly, but I took my time picking out the perfect mug while Noah stood beside me, arms crossed, radiating disinterest .

But the real highlight of the afternoon came when we stumbled upon The Purple Store.

I practically vibrated with excitement.

“Holy shit,” I breathed, eyes wide as I took in the walls and shelves stocked with nothing but purple items. “Noah. This is it. This is my Mecca.”

Noah pinched the bridge of his nose. “Oh my god.”

I was already inside, running my hands over deep plum scarves, royal violet mugs, and eggplant-colored socks. Noah followed, sighing like a man resigned to his fate but watching me with something dangerously close to fond amusement.

I left with a purple newsboy cap and a magnet that read, “Whoever Controls the Purple Controls the World.”

Noah left with a t-shirt that said “Real Men Wear Purple,” which I had absolutely picked out for him.

He looked down at it, brow raised. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“You’re gonna look so fucking hot in this,” I replied, smirking.

He shook his head, but he bought it anyway.

Noah’s eyes lingered at my mouth for half a second before he looked away.

Yeah. The tension between us had been simmering all day.

It was in the way he stood just a little too close as we waited for our “real” coffee from a local cafe, not Starbucks.

The way his hand lingered against mine when I passed him his drink.

The way his eyes darkened whenever I tormented him, that extra interest he showed when I leaned in a little too close under the guise of showing him something on my phone.

It wasn’t just me. He felt it too.

And by the time we got back to the hotel, the air between us was thick enough to choke on.

Noah had meetings. A few hours of presentations, networking, doing whatever it was that kept Apex Interactive running smoothly. I was fine with it, content to wander the city solo, but even then, he still found ways to remind me that this wasn’t just a work trip for him.

A text.

Noah: Hope you didn’t get lost.

Evan: Don’t worry, if I do, I’ll just find a hot Seattle local to rescue me.

He didn’t text back.

The Space Needle was a must. I took the obligatory selfies, flipping off the camera in one, smiling in another. Then, because I had no self-control, I also stopped by the building used for exterior shots of Seattle Grace in Grey’s Anatomy, because… hello! A gay rite of passage.

I sent the pictures to Elliott and Liam.

Evan: Derek Shepherd would’ve loved me.

Elliott: You know he’s dead, right?

Liam: RIP McDreamy.

Evan: Disrespectful.

After walking for a while, I ducked into a small coffee shop tucked into the side of a brick building. It was quiet.

I ordered a latte and, holy shit, it was possibly the best thing I’d ever tasted.

I sent Noah a text.

Evan: I think I just had a religious experience.

Noah: … Concerning.

Evan: The coffee, Noah.

Noah: Right.

I rolled my eyes, smiling to myself.

But when I got back to the hotel that evening, he was already waiting in our room, one hand gripping the remote, the other resting on the arm of the couch like he’d been there for hours.

“You survived,” he said.

“Barely.” I flopped down onto the bed, stretching out. “Had to fend off a roving pack of aggressively friendly street performers.”

Noah laughed, shaking his head. “Tragic.”

“Truly.” I looked at him, my stomach flipping when he didn’t look away.

The tension was back.

Louder now.

I sat up, glancing toward the window. “We should go out.”

Noah raised a brow. “Now? You just got back!”

“Yes,” I said, already pulling on my hoodie. “We need to eat.”

Noah didn’t argue, and that was how we ended up taking an Uber to his favorite restaurant on the waterfront.

It rained off and on the whole ride and of course it was raining when we pulled up to the restaurant.

It was a little tucked-away place that looked unassuming from the outside but had a warmth to it, the kind of place locals knew was good.

The Blue Gull. String lights criss-crossed above the patio, reflecting off the water, their golden glow making everything feel softer, more intimate .

Noah glanced at me as we stepped inside, shaking out his damp curls. “Happy now?”

I smiled, nudging him. “More than.”

I could still feel the rain on my skin, a lingering chill that had nothing to do with the temperature and everything to do with the way Noah had looked at me in the Uber.

We were starving. The aroma of butter and garlic hit us immediately, mingling with the fresh briny air from the open windows facing the harbor. The restaurant was busy but not overwhelming.

We were seated near the window, the view stretching out toward the water, boats swaying gently in the distance. “This view is spectacular. Did you pay extra?”

He picked up the menu, eyes scanning over the options, but I was watching him.

Watching the way his hand rested lightly on the table, the way his lips pursed in concentration, the way his knee brushed against mine beneath the table and stayed there.

“Stop staring,” he said, not looking up.

“Not my fault you’re fun to look at.”

He sighed, exasperated but not really. “Are you ever not flirting?”

I teased. “Not if I can help it.”

I ordered a bottle of crisp white wine, something dry, something light. Our waiter suggested it, and Noah, a red wine guy and ever the skeptic, had raised an eyebrow but went with it anyway. When the first taste hit, he hummed in approval, and I couldn’t help but feel ridiculously smug about it.

“Told you,” I said, swirling the glass.

He rolled his eyes but conceded without words.

Then came the food, and fuck, it was the best seafood I’d ever had.

We shared a Dungeness crab appetizer, the meat sweet and buttery, paired with toasted sourdough.

A light lemon-garlic cream was drizzled over the top, just enough to brighten the flavor and enhance the richness of the crab.

Noah cracked a claw, handing me a perfect bite without thinking.

I let it linger on my tongue, savoring the warmth, the depth of the sauce, the sweetness of the meat.

“This might be the best thing I’ve ever tasted,” I said, eyes fluttering shut.

“Better than your religious experience with that coffee?”

I cracked an eye open, grinning. “Different kind of holy.”

Noah quietly laughed, shaking his head .