Afterward, we stay tangled together—my head on his shoulder, his arms wrapped around me, both of us breathing hard. The basement is cool, but his body is warm and solid. Grounding.
I should move. Should say something light and dismissive, establish boundaries, remind us both that this was just physical release.
Instead, I close my eyes and let myself stay right here.
His fingers trace lazy patterns on my back, and I feel the rumble of his voice when he finally speaks. “You okay?”
“Mmm.” It’s not an answer, but it’s all I can manage.
He shifts slightly, and I feel him slip free. The loss makes me want to protest, but he just reaches for the throw blanket draped over the sofa back and wraps it around my shoulders.
The gesture—so careful, so considerate—tightens my throat in a way sex never does.
“Alicia.” He tips my chin up, forcing me to meet his eyes. “That was…”
“Necessary,” I finish, cutting him off. Trying to rebuild walls even though we’re still pressed together, his heart still racing against mine. The response may have been instinctive, but it felt unnecessarily harsh. “I needed... I couldn’t stop thinking about it. About you.”
The admission isn’t shared easily, and I see him register it—see the way his expression shifts from disappointment to something softer.
“So this was you focusing?” His thumb traces my collarbone, and I shiver.
“This was me giving up on trying to focus.” The truth slips out without any editing. “I told myself I could compartmentalize. Apparently I was wrong.”
“Right. Of course.”
Except it doesn’t feel right. It feels like a lie.
But I’m good at lies, at compartmentalizing, at building walls around the things that scare me. And whatever this is with Noah—whatever’s happening between us—unnerves me more than any threat Dorian’s conjured.
“Stella will be home in a couple hours,” I say, standing on unsteady legs and gathering my scattered clothes. “I should shower. Get dinner started.”
“Alicia—”
“Thank you,” I interrupt, not looking at him. If I look at him, I’ll lose my nerve. “For...this. It helped.”
The silence that follows is uncomfortable, weighted with everything I’m not saying.
When I finally glance back, he’s watching me with an expression I can’t quite read—hurt, maybe, or understanding. Possibly both.
“Anytime,” he says quietly, but there’s a slowness to the word, like he doesn’t mean it.
I gather the rest of my things and head for the stairs, acutely aware of his gaze following me. At the bottom step, I pause.
“Noah?”
“Yeah?”
I should say something meaningful. Something honest. Instead, I chicken out. “Put away the condoms. We don’t need Stella finding those.”
His laugh is soft, lacking its usual warmth. “Copy that.”
I climb the stairs, and with each step, the weight of what just happened settles more heavily on my shoulders.
I told myself this would help me focus. That satisfying this craving would sate the unfinished between us and nip this in the bud.
But as I step into my bedroom and catch sight of my reflection—flushed cheeks, swollen lips, eyes too bright—I know the truth.
This didn’t help at all.