Page 11 of They Are Mine
Noah’s hand is warm, steady, perfect. His fingers curl around mine, casual, natural, like he’s done this before, like it isn’t sending me into a spiral of want.
We walk in comfortable silence.
Comfortable for him, at least.
I want words. Details. I want to know everything.
“So, Noah,” I say, voice light, teasing. “Do you always steal girls away on late-night walks?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I wouldn’t say steal.”
“No?” I squeeze his fingers. “You did ask me to come with you.”
“Yeah.” His thumb brushes the inside of my palm. “I guess I did.”
That’s right, baby. You did.
“So,” I press, “Is this a thing you do? Taking pretty girls out after playing them love songs?”
His blush creeps down his neck. “It wasn’t a love song.”
I hum, tilting my head. “Seemed like one to me.”
He glances over at me, eyes flicking down to my lips, then back up. So quick. But I see it.
My stomach tightens.
He clears his throat. “I, uh… I don’t really go out much.”
I drink that in.
Noah doesn’t go out much. He doesn’t do this often.
Good.
“That’s a shame,” I say, keeping my voice soft, drawing him in. “You should. You’re interesting.”
His fingers twitch in mine. “…I don’t think I am.”
“You are,” I say.
He exhales through his nose, a little huff of disbelief, but I see the way his shoulders straighten. The way he holds my hand a little tighter.
He likes hearing that.
Good boys like soft praise. I’ll remember that.
I suck in every other detail he gives me.
He has a younger sister. (He mentions her in passing, says she’s the one who made him learn guitar.)
He’s always lived here. (Which means he’s probably never been truly in love.)
