Something shifts between us. His gaze flicks to my mouth, then back to my eyes, as if checking whether I’m aware of what’s happening. I am. God help me, I am.
“I was going to make tea,” I say, stepping past him toward the kitchen. “You want some?”
“Sure.” His voice is low, a little rougher.
In the kitchen, I busy myself with the kettle, pretending my pulse isn’t thundering—that his presence has no effect and everything is normal. When I turn, he’s leaning against the doorframe, watching me again—not protectively this time, but intently.
“You don’t always have to be strong, you know,” he says.
I swallow hard. “Why do you say that?”
He takes a slow step closer. “Because I sense your daughter isn’t the only thespian in the house.”
Steam curls from the kettle. I ignore it, because his nearness rattles my thought processes.
“I’m not fine,” I admit, defensively. “Not all the time.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “Then you’re human after all. And putting on a show.”
His hand lifts toward my face and pauses—just for a second—before he brushes the damp strand from my cheek.
I don’t stop him. Although, I should. His touch is careful, reverent. My lips part on an unsteady breath. “This is a terrible idea.”
He whispers back, “Maybe. But it feels like a good one.”
And then he kisses me—unhurried at first, like he's giving me every chance to pull away. I don’t. The past week, the exhaustion, the loneliness—all of it blurs into warmth and want. My hands find his shoulders, his chest, the solid reality of him.
He pulls me closer, the kiss deepening, hungry now, as if we’ve been slowly approaching an edge and now the restrictions are lifted and we’ve hit a full run.
He breaks the kiss, but we’re still close, no space between us.
His forehead rests against mine, and I can feel his breath—unsteady, matching my own. My hands are still on his chest, and beneath my palms, his heart is racing.
I should step back. I should laugh this off, blame the champagne, blame the stress of the week. But his thumb is tracing small circles on my jaw, and the tenderness of it undoes every careful wall I’ve built.
“Alicia.” Just my name, but the way he says it sends a shiver straight through me.
This is reckless. I don’t do reckless. I plan. I strategize. I maintain control. But standing here in Noah’s arms, I realize control is the last thing I want. I want to stop thinking. Stop managing. Stop being the woman who has to hold everything together.
His hands frame my face. They’re warm, slightly rough from calluses. When his thumb brushes my lower lip, it becomes harder to breathe. The simple gesture feels impossibly intimate.
For a long, suspended moment, we just look at each other. There’s the faint tap of rain against the windows, the hush that always follows a violent storm, and the pulse in my throat that feels louder than both.
Christine’s teasing still echoes in my head—Who says you can’t play?—and I realize I’ve been so careful for so long that I’ve forgotten what it feels like not to be.
We’re not discussing a commitment. This is play. Adult play.
I move first. My fingers graze his hand, testing, and when he doesn’t pull away, I link my fingers through his. His eyes darken—just barely—and that’s all the encouragement I need.
“Come upstairs,” I whisper.
I pull back just enough to meet his eyes and remind him. “Stella won’t be home until tomorrow.”
He knows what I’m offering. What I’m suggesting.
“Are you sure?” His voice is low. Rough. Strained.
I’m not sure. I’m terrified. But I nod anyway. “I’m sure.”