He had noticed the patterns, and he was there for you.

He woke up before you, or maybe you were just tossing and turning, and he understood. He settled his body over yours, the duvet tickling your cheek, and pressed his soft, warm face to your forehead, giving you a gentle kiss.

"Noah," you groaned sleepily, burrowing deeper into your cozy cocoon.

"Come on, we can brush our teeth and head out for breakfast," he suggested, but your body ached and your mind couldn't even contemplate following that plan.

"Or we could just have breakfast here," he whispered, sounding more cautious. His small eyes weren't happy to see you like this, but he smiled anyway—a wide smile, complete with crinkles at the corners of his eyes, because he knew you needed it.

Getting up was an effort; getting your legs to move, and smiling because you wanted to be happy to be there. You smiled at him, genuinely grateful, but he knew you weren't fully present yet. Still, you were trying, and that was something.

He silently moistened a toothbrush and handed it to you. You placed it in your mouth, making slow, lazy movements. He laughed, held your wrist, and guided your hand to brush with more firmness. You laughed—a more genuine sound—and your shoulders relaxed.

He then held your chin and did it for you, guiding the brush over every side, every tooth, the back molars, and your tongue. Noah still had that sparkle in his eyes when he looked at you; it was comforting to know he wanted you there, even though you felt like a nuisance.

Your eyes threatened to tear up, and immediately he was pulling you toward him. Your arms went around his waist, the cotton fabric of his oversized T-shirt feeling cozy. The smell of his fresh shower brought you calm; you loved him so much.

"It's all going to be okay, alright?" he murmured, his nose buried against your chest, his arms wrapping tighter around you.

Because it was him speaking, you believed it.

...

The following morning was impossible; it was his fourth time entering the room.

The previous three times he had called your name, mentioning that he was getting ready and was now indeed finished, but you had not moved. He bit his lip, seeing the tips of your hair sticking out and your toes wiggling slowly. He removed his jacket and sneakers and lay down beside you. He ran his hand across your back, silently tracing its entire length: It’s okay to do nothing sometimes.

"You should go for your walk," you mumbled, your body turned away from him. He had initially called you to do exactly that.

"But it only makes sense with you there," he replied.

You curled up tighter, thinking it over, and concluded that getting up was simply impossible. Everything in you felt fragile.

"Come here," he gently pulled you toward him. Your body nestled against his, already feeling at home. He was your anchor and had that distinct scent of a significant other.

"It’s okay to want to stay here, you know? Once in a while, it seems perfectly fine."

You chuckled softly against his chest, sensing that soon you would have a different day, or at least a different end to this one.

...

He wrapped his arms around your stomach, his large hand spread across your waist. His face nestled into your neck, and your fingers curled around the back of his neck as he dragged his nose across your collarbone in a hug.

You held his chin, meeting his calm gaze. There was no pity, as you had feared, only the placidness of someone who was truly present.

"I bet it's harder for you than it is for me," you recalled him mentioning once, explaining how senseless it was to worry about what he thought of the situation—he just wanted to help and was there.

"Will you be back before dinner?" you whispered, his body still heavy on yours. You wanted to hold him tightly in your arms and prevent him from going to the studio to see the guys; and perhaps wanting him close was a sign of progress.

"I will," he murmured, dragging the tip of his nose against your cheek, his face still very close.

He stayed there for a few more moments, his heart beating rhythmically, and you listening. His breathing was calm. You would wait for him, and he only left once you had drifted back to sleep.

...

As your expression was tired, as it often was, Noah held your face and kissed your cheeks, closed eyelids, and playfully nibbled your nose. It worked; it made you smile.

You were clearly happy. "You got a haircut, uh?" You asked, laughing. He was all charming and with those tender eyes. You were in good spirits, even if not at 100%, and you had noticed him, as you always did. The thing was, the sparkle in your eyes gave you a new dimension.

"Yeah," he said as you were raising your hands and touching the shorter strands.

He bent his knees, placing his palms on them, and brought himself down to your height. He closed his eyes, feeling your fingers run through his hair roots, caressing the buzzed side and playing with the rest of his hair.

"You're dead handsome," he observed, meeting your affectionate gaze. "Such a hot stuff."

His hair now formed a small fringe over his forehead, and you smiled openly. "I really liked it," he chuckled, because even though they were just words, there was a sweetness and softness in the way you spoke to him. He held your face and gave you a kiss on the lips.

"I'm glad you liked it," the agreement hung in the air and then filled the space between you.

He had noticed the patterns, and he was there for you.

He woke up before you, or maybe you were just tossing and turning, and he understood. He settled his body over yours, the duvet tickling your cheek, and pressed his soft, warm face to your forehead, giving you a gentle kiss.

"Noah," you groaned sleepily, burrowing deeper into your cozy cocoon.

"Come on, we can brush our teeth and head out for breakfast," he suggested, but your body ached and your mind couldn't even contemplate following that plan.

"Or we could just have breakfast here," he whispered, sounding more cautious. His small eyes weren't happy to see you like this, but he smiled anyway—a wide smile, complete with crinkles at the corners of his eyes, because he knew you needed it.

Getting up was an effort; getting your legs to move, and smiling because you wanted to be happy to be there. You smiled at him, genuinely grateful, but he knew you weren't fully present yet. Still, you were trying, and that was something.

He silently moistened a toothbrush and handed it to you. You placed it in your mouth, making slow, lazy movements. He laughed, held your wrist, and guided your hand to brush with more firmness. You laughed—a more genuine sound—and your shoulders relaxed.

He then held your chin and did it for you, guiding the brush over every side, every tooth, the back molars, and your tongue. Noah still had that sparkle in his eyes when he looked at you; it was comforting to know he wanted you there, even though you felt like a nuisance.

Your eyes threatened to tear up, and immediately he was pulling you toward him. Your arms went around his waist, the cotton fabric of his oversized T-shirt feeling cozy. The smell of his fresh shower brought you calm; you loved him so much.

"It's all going to be okay, alright?" he murmured, his nose buried against your chest, his arms wrapping tighter around you.

Because it was him speaking, you believed it.

...

The following morning was impossible; it was his fourth time entering the room.

The previous three times he had called your name, mentioning that he was getting ready and was now indeed finished, but you had not moved. He bit his lip, seeing the tips of your hair sticking out and your toes wiggling slowly. He removed his jacket and sneakers and lay down beside you. He ran his hand across your back, silently tracing its entire length: It’s okay to do nothing sometimes.

"You should go for your walk," you mumbled, your body turned away from him. He had initially called you to do exactly that.

"But it only makes sense with you there," he replied.

You curled up tighter, thinking it over, and concluded that getting up was simply impossible. Everything in you felt fragile.

"Come here," he gently pulled you toward him. Your body nestled against his, already feeling at home. He was your anchor and had that distinct scent of a significant other.

"It’s okay to want to stay here, you know? Once in a while, it seems perfectly fine."

You chuckled softly against his chest, sensing that soon you would have a different day, or at least a different end to this one.

...

He wrapped his arms around your stomach, his large hand spread across your waist. His face nestled into your neck, and your fingers curled around the back of his neck as he dragged his nose across your collarbone in a hug.

You held his chin, meeting his calm gaze. There was no pity, as you had feared, only the placidness of someone who was truly present.

"I bet it's harder for you than it is for me," you recalled him mentioning once, explaining how senseless it was to worry about what he thought of the situation—he just wanted to help and was there.

"Will you be back before dinner?" you whispered, his body still heavy on yours. You wanted to hold him tightly in your arms and prevent him from going to the studio to see the guys; and perhaps wanting him close was a sign of progress.

"I will," he murmured, dragging the tip of his nose against your cheek, his face still very close.

He stayed there for a few more moments, his heart beating rhythmically, and you listening. His breathing was calm. You would wait for him, and he only left once you had drifted back to sleep.

...

As your expression was tired, as it often was, Noah held your face and kissed your cheeks, closed eyelids, and playfully nibbled your nose. It worked; it made you smile.

You were clearly happy. "You got a haircut, uh?" You asked, laughing. He was all charming and with those tender eyes. You were in good spirits, even if not at 100%, and you had noticed him, as you always did. The thing was, the sparkle in your eyes gave you a new dimension.

"Yeah," he said as you were raising your hands and touching the shorter strands.

He bent his knees, placing his palms on them, and brought himself down to your height. He closed his eyes, feeling your fingers run through his hair roots, caressing the buzzed side and playing with the rest of his hair.

"You're dead handsome," he observed, meeting your affectionate gaze. "Such a hot stuff."

His hair now formed a small fringe over his forehead, and you smiled openly. "I really liked it," he chuckled, because even though they were just words, there was a sweetness and softness in the way you spoke to him. He held your face and gave you a kiss on the lips.

"I'm glad you liked it," the agreement hung in the air and then filled the space between you.

Noah noticed you quickly.

His room was across the hallway, and over the past few weeks, he had assumed you were alone in the city. Every time he made noise with his guitar or tried to work through something, you would either crack your door open or casually stand in the corridor. You didn’t seem to be hiding, but you also didn’t make yourself too easy to see.

One night, he considered stepping out to talk to you, but the moment he opened his door, you had already disappeared into the elevator.

You exchanged polite smiles in the lobby. It wasn’t flirting—it was more of a silent acknowledgment that you both saw each other. You both knew you listened to his singing and enjoyed it. Still, you may not have felt quite aligned enough to join in.

"Is everything all right over there?" Noah asked, forcing a smile—one that, unbeknownst to him, wasn’t exactly natural. You were pleasing to his eyes, and although he was shy, he wanted to make a good impression.

He had noticed the ring on your finger before, but now, up close, as you hugged a box of macarons, it seemed to hold more weight. It reminded him of when he was carefree about how famous, listened to, and talked about he had become. Though he had no regrets and had managed to keep things amicable, he appreciated how, over the years, it had become just another detail in the long stretch of his life.

"I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to stay here—I really am sorry."

Your rushed apology made him laugh, this time far more genuinely than before. You were wrapped in a large sweater and loose-fitting pants, looking completely at ease. Your face carried a hint of exhaustion, the darkness beneath your eyes more pronounced. Standing there in front of him, studying him with quiet curiosity, you looked undeniably endearing. He couldn’t deny he had thought that from the very first time he saw you.

"Did y’come t’listen t’me?"

Scratching the back of his neck, he realized how odd that sounded. His cheeks were certainly tinged with color, but you only gave him a shy smile and nodded.

There was something about the moment that was hard to put into words, yet it all felt so natural. The way you stepped into the spacious room, took a seat at one end of the couch and made it easy for him to grab one of the macarons and take a bite. You stuffed your hands into your pockets to keep them warm. You were fun to watch.

He didn’t play for you, but you ended up listening to random albums together, discovering a shared taste in music. The conversation stayed light, shifting from the weather to how the city felt during tourist season, to how the newspaper vendor beside the hotel was surprisingly friendly (Your fiancé would have never given importance to that detail, and you made a mental note of it.)

"Does your ring go on t’other hand?"

His fingers brushed against yours, sending a pulse of electricity through your body like a reflex. His skin was rough yet delicate as he turned the pearl between his fingertips for a few seconds. You wished his curiosity was about you and not just the correct placement of an engagement ring. Maybe you had wanted to be noticed by him from the start, back when you first saw him play at that crowded pub nearby.

"I’m not married yet. It’s a tradition for some—an engagement ring goes on the right hand, and only on the wedding day does it move to the left."

He listened intently, and you couldn't remember the last time you shared that without feeling ridiculous.

"So… is this a dream of yours?" He had a brief flashback to a Friends episode where Monica said that women might think about it since they were little, even when they were fighting to put a pillowcase on their heads. At the same time, he was focused on having a functional experience, either with his friends or with a special person he hoped to meet.

Your eyebrows lifted slightly, and he found it endearing how you handled words, as if everything he said carried a weight of its own.

"Getting married?"

He laughed.

"I mean, yeah, but… everythin’ about it seems special t’you. The tradition, the way you smile while talking about it. Feels like you planned this, thought ‘bout it for a while."

You swallowed hard. Something so simple, and yet he figured it out just by exchanging a few sentences with you. You ran your fingers around the ring, turning it slowly.

"Yeah, I guess so. I like the idea of being in love, but I wouldn’t even know about the ring placement if it weren’t for this newlywed woman who once came into the café where I worked. She was so happy—it made me want that for myself, even while being happy for her."

He smiled, a small, knowing expression that softened the lines on his face. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His presence alone made you feel heard.

"The ring's beautiful. Hope you’ll be happy."

You slipped your hands back into your pockets, not wanting him to see it anymore. The ring had been your choice, and honestly, if you hadn’t had that conversation with your fiancé about your years together and what the future held, you weren’t sure if it would even be on your finger right now. But there was nothing to complain about—wasn’t this what you wanted?

Noah noticed the flicker in your eyes and cut in.

"Well, Ah’m gettin’ divorced."

He held up his own ring, relieved when your gaze met his again.

"Why?"

Your voice was quiet, but there was a certain ease in the way you asked, making it clear the question wasn’t intrusive.

"Feel like… if it weren’t for her, I’d still be with her, y’know?"

"She got tired, I'm afraid. Ah-I was around, but it weren’t enough."

You nodded. His expression was tired, but not necessarily sad.

"Did you try to win her back? You didn’t do anything wrong, did you?"

He chuckled at your tone before continuing.

"I tried. She had someone else in mind. I don’t miss her, but I miss the life around her, I don't know? We were together for a while."

You looked at him with warmth, and he accepted it.

You couldn’t quite grasp what it meant to be with someone for long—I also couldn't say if her current partner was thinking about such a long-term relationship. You didn’t know what to say, but you understood why he still wore the ring.

"I’m sorry."

He simply gave you the same gentle smile as before.

Your arms brushed, something comfortable, and you let it happen. Neither of you knew where the line between safe and dangerous was, but this moment was cautious, measured.

"Are you always at the hotel? Never go out?"

His laugh was slightly nasal, soothing in its own way.

"I just came to record some tunes. I'm using my time here to relax, rehearse a little, and make some adjustments before heading out."

Your hands slipped back out of your pockets, and he took that as a sign that you were comfortable.

"Did you write about her?"

He nodded.

"A lot. I don't think about her the same way anymore, but she was a big part of my life. There's definitely a bit of her in my writing."

"Do you regret it?"

He studied your eyes, trying to decipher what the question meant to you, but he couldn’t quite tell.

"Nah. It were a good part o’ me life, even if we're not together anymore."

You licked your lips absentmindedly.

"I wish someone wrote songs 'bout me. It seems very romantic."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, realizing he hadn’t felt this kind of nervousness—the kind that made you hold your breath before speaking—in a long time.

"What’s the most romantic thing he’s done for you?"

Your gaze dropped to the floor. A brief silence, but noticeable. Your hands returned to your pockets.

"We planned this trip about nine months ago. He was supposed to come with me, but there was a work emergency—it happens a lot."

Your voice was calm, free of bitterness, but there was something tired in it—something that sounded like an ending.

....

The silence lingered, broken only by the sound of breathing and the room’s ventilation. You felt good, even with the weight in your chest. It was the lightest you had felt since the proposal.

After a while, Noah rested his cheek on your shoulder, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. He looked peaceful, but you didn’t know that he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. That was a reaction to you. That feeling of warmth and being seen—it was mutual.

Your fingers traced the bridge of his nose, then moved to his hair. You found him beautiful, but there was a distance to that feeling, something that kept it from fully taking shape; yet you were getting lost in his freckles and carpet of tattoos.

His scent had already settled into your clothes, and you knew that if you stayed, you’d finally get the kind of sleep you hadn’t had in a long time. But recognizing this moment as a dangerous threshold, you chose to leave.

....

Daylight had already started to seep in, and Noah felt the emptiness in his chest, knowing you were no longer there. Maybe you’d come back the next time he played.

He thought about going downstairs for breakfast, but instead, let the weight of exhaustion dissolve him bit by bit. If not for the soft knocking at his door, he might have spent the entire day in the same position.

Annoyance flared at being pulled from bed, but it faded the second he saw you standing there. His fingers curled into a tense fist—he recognized that feeling. He had liked you enough for your pain to drain any energy from him.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Your eyes didn’t meet his. They were distant, lost somewhere in the room, drowned in tears. You were still wearing the same clothes, except now just a tank top. It was clear you had been crying and restless for hours, and he hated that you hadn’t come to him sooner—as if he could’ve made it all go away.

"Hey," he murmured, opening his arms; the head speaking louder than reason. You folded into him instantly.

That familiar scent wrapped around you again, his fingers pressing into your back as he pulled you inside. He thought he knew what it was about, even if not entirely.

You left a small damp spot on his shirt, but he kept holding you close. It wasn’t a desperate kind of crying, which somehow made it worse.

The bed was low, and when he set you down and knelt in front of you, it left you at just the right height to hide your face against him. His hands moved along your back, his chin resting on top of your head, while your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt. The small gestures grounded you, bringing you back to reality.

“I called him,” you sniffled, pulling back just enough to see him.

His hand rested lightly at your waist, keeping you close in a way that didn’t feel improper, especially with your fingers still playing with the buttons of his shirt. He waited patiently for you to continue, and that was something you liked about him—he didn’t ask out of curiosity, he just wanted you to speak if you wanted to.

“He’s not coming back here. He’s too busy. Said he can see me when I get home,” you paused, swallowing a bit.

Noah watched you carefully, not with pity but with an understanding you weren’t used to anymore. His eyes calmed you. He was wearing a long-sleeved button-up, the collar open enough that a hint of chest hair peeked out. He wiped your face with the edge of the fabric, showing you, without words, that he was there.

“I didn’t enjoy any of this trip 'cause I kept waitin' for him to be here, y’see? I thought things would be different. I don’t want it to always be like this. I don’t want this for myself.”

Your shoulders loosened, and to him, your face looked lighter, like speaking was helping you make sense of it all.

"Y’ve talked to him about this a lot, don't you?" He asked, remembering you saying it was a recurring problem.

You nodded. “Yeah. My whole last year has been about this.”

Your eyes dropped, hesitant to admit you had let yourself get into this situation. He brushed your hair away, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.

"I'm not gonna judge you. But he doesn't seem like someone to take serious, if I can say that. Why'd he wanna marry someone he doesn't even listen to?"

Hearing it out loud, from someone else, made it sound so simple.

“Do you think he’s marrying me out of convenience?” you asked, your voice quiet as your hand slipped from his shirt.

You were exhausted. As you looked at him, Noah gave a small, sweet smile. You settled into the bed beside him, the scent of his sheets huggable. When you moved to get up, he simply touched your arm and told you it was okay. You already knew the answer to your question.

"Do you think he loves you?" his voice was low, steady. “Do you feel loved?”

All you could hear was his breathing.

“When did you realize you didn’t love your ex anymore?” you asked.

He lay down too, just an arm’s length away. When he turned onto his side, he was all that filled your vision.

“Dunno,” he admitted. “I think it faded lil' by little as I realized she didn’t feel the same anymore—and didn’t care to show interest. But every situation is different.”

Noah found himself hoping you’d see that maybe this wasn’t the man for you. But he also had to remember he was not, and would never be, someone in your life.

He touched your face, more for himself than for you, and you closed your eyes, letting it happen. His fingers traced along your cheek, then moved to massage your shoulders.

“I don’t know if I love him,” you murmured. “I don’t know if I believe his words, either. He always says he’ll try harder, but it always ends up the same way I’ve come to hate. His indifference makes me want to be alone, and I don’t think he would’ve proposed if I hadn’t confronted him about it. Maybe marrying me never even crossed his mind. I don’t want to be someone’s uncertainty.”

The words came easily, revealing that you had thought about this more than you wanted to admit.

Noah squeezed you, a bit content that you could see things for what they were. You had time, so is he. You still had your chances.

“Don’t let your kids grow up to be bad people to others,” you whispered, pressing your cheek to his shoulder.

He didn’t mind. He liked having you close.

“I won’t,” he murmured, and for a moment, you were struck by the weight of it. Did he want to have children? Did he think about it before the breakup? Did he think about building a healthy family? Because you thought about it, but it seemed distant.

....

Your back didn’t feel as heavy as before. Your face was pressed into the sheets, arms wrapped around one of his pillows. His scent—woody, warm—filled the entire room. It was nice.

Your body still carried the lazy memory of being close to his, of drifting off in the middle of the night with his lips pressing against your forehead and his arm firm around your waist, like he was afraid he’d leave you behind if he let go.

"Better, tiny one?" His voice was smooth. He had changed clothes—still wearing buttons, still a pleasant sight. His hair was damp, and he was jotting something down in a small notebook.

“Good,” you murmured sleepily.

He laughed, glancing at you, and whatever he was writing became secondary now that your voice had settled into the room. It was intimate—bearable, even.

“What do you do?” Noah asked, cautious. He was sure knowing too much about you wouldn’t do him any good, but it was impossible to resist. “You mentioned the café, but said you’re no longer there...”

“I work at a bookstore,” you said, staring at the ceiling.

You could hear the sound of his fingers skimming across the pages, and even without looking, you could picture the shape of his hands perfectly—the wedding band, on long, tattooed fingers.

When you rubbed a hand over your face and looked back at him, he was watching you, his gaze soft. He had noticed—your engagement ring was no longer there. It hadn’t been since the moment you decided to come to him.

“I’m a pianist,” you said, voice steady. “I’m trying to get a spot at a theater in London. I’m really excited about it. Anxious, but waiting on the results.”

He smiled, genuinely. “I’d love to hear you play. I bet you’re good. I’ll save a seat next time I'm in London.”

He took a moment before saying it, wanting to be honest without making you uncomfortable.

You smiled back, a mirror of his own expression.

Noah briefly considered suggesting you work on something together but held back. He also couldn’t remember the last time he had felt truly drawn to a woman.

You kept watching him—the roundness of his cheeks, the way his fingers moved as he worked.

He was a stranger. He shouldn’t have this much of an effect on you.

....

You had put on one of your new dresses—fitted at the waist, flowing just enough. You liked how it looked on you, how it made you feel confident. It was one of the pieces you had carefully chosen for this trip, for the dates you were supposed to have with your fiancé, who, theoretically, should have been with you.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you stared at the hotel phone. Your fingers were cold. You had been ready for a while now, wanting to visit a café you’d spotted nearby. You were determined to go home and at least be able to say you had experienced something of this place.

But suddenly, your fear wasn’t about missing out on seeing the neighborhood anymore—it was about missing him, about not getting to be with him in the short time left before you had to leave.

"I can hear you breathin’, but we can stay quiet if you prefer."

His voice came through the receiver, confident, amused.

You twisted the cord between your fingers, unsurprised that he recognized you without you having said a single word. Somehow, you knew you would have recognized him, too.

His breathing filled the silence between you, steady and calm, making your thoughts settle. He understood this—the simple need to be close.

“I’m going to visit a café nearby. Want to come?”

You probably sounded like a stalker, but Noah had to admit to himself that he had considered asking someone at the hotel for your number. The thought of you having to craft a story convincing enough for them to connect you to his room amused him.

"Alright, I’ll grab a jacket and meet yoh downstairs, tiny one."

You straightened up as soon as you saw him, a smile tugging at your lips. He looked relaxed, his usual furrowed brow still faintly marked, eyes focused ahead—until they found you. Your heart warmed a little when his expression softened, when his lips curled into a small smile that smoothed out the lines on his face.

It was like knowing that he naturally had a sweet and relaxed demeanor, but he needed you to remind him of it.

You wished you could take him home with you. Maybe no one would even notice.

His gaze traveled over you—not in a way that made you self-conscious, but in a way that felt good.

"Is this what takin' off a ring does?" he murmured, and you felt your cheeks burn.

He took your hand in his, and you noticed his wedding band was gone too. Then, with an easy motion, he made you twirl in front of him. When you stopped, his eyes hadn’t drifted far—they remained on your smile.

And so, the first steps were taken with the careful distance of two people still pretending they weren’t walking towards something. He kept his hands behind his back, and you found yourself a little too nervous to speak or gesture much. But it didn’t take long before your arms brushed, and his hand found a comfortable place on your back, guiding you along with him.

"Isn’t pumpkin supposed to be a vegetable?" he frowned at the orange hue of your drink, his voice laced with quiet skepticism.

He had ordered nothing but black coffee, refusing even a small cake. He was tolerant of new things, but he needed to annoy you.

"It is," you shrugged, taking a sip. "But it works in drinks. And desserts."

You nudged the cup toward him, inviting him to try.

He was dressed in black as usual, his hair a little longer, giving it a soft volume at the top. He was attractive—undeniably so. And knowing he had spent over years with someone by his side made you believe he must be a good person to have around.

Sitting across from him, avoiding him was impossible.

He took a hesitant sip, pretending to deliberate.

"You liked it," you teased. "Not as much of a grumpy man as you wish you were, uh?"

He let out a low, unguarded laugh, and you liked being the reason for it.

"It tastes like dessert. Too sweet," he admitted.

He saw a light in you that resonated with him, something he hadn't appreciated since his last tours or previous relationship.

You nodded in understanding, and he pushed his own cup toward you—black coffee.

You had never been fond of it, but you hesitated, curiosity getting the better of you.

The bitterness hit instantly. You had taken too big of a sip, and your eyes watered in protest.

Noah regretted it immediately, which only made you laugh as he rushed to pour you a glass of water and snatched his cup away from you.

"No wonder you only wear black and walk around completely dazed," you teased, watching as amusement flickered in his eyes.

He liked everything about you—how effortlessly you spoke to him, how you weren’t trying to make him think you were someone good.

"You look stunning," he murmured, brushing a napkin against your chin to wipe away brownie crumbs.

It felt right to say it, though he should have said it earlier.

Your eyes flickered away, unable to meet his directly. Instead, you cut the brownie in half, offering him a piece.

"Eat. We’re trying more of these."

He nodded, knowing he had endured worse things in life than indulging in a few sweets for a girl. 

....

You were wrapped in one of his button-up shirts, loose and comfortable around you. There had been no need for words—just a quiet, mutual agreement that you would stay. Your hair was tied back, still damp from a shower, and he found you just as endearing as ever.

There was no hesitation when he sat beside you, close enough that the small couch felt even smaller. His hand ran over your arms, then down your back, and soon your head rested against his chest, as if it had always belonged there. He pressed a kiss to your hairline, his body unwinding as your arms curled around him.

A few days ago, Noah had been uneasy about what was ahead—unsure, directionless. But now, all he could think about was tomorrow, and the fact that he would get to talk to you again. You made him see past all of it. It wasn't the end of the world, though they had left him exhausted just thinking about them.

Your fingers trailed up his chest, finding the collar of his shirt and twisting the fabric idly. Your scent was starting to settle into him, a quiet imprint. Your palm found warmth against his tattoos, fingers playing with them.

He brushed your hair back, taking in the peaceful way your eyes remained closed. And for the first time in a while, he felt the same.

"You good?" he murmured.

Your gaze lifted to his, wide and searching, and you nodded. He kissed your cheek, and when you sighed in quiet satisfaction, he did it again—dragging his nose along your skin, leaving lingering kisses along the path.

The faint stubble on his jaw scraped against you in a way that was more pleasant than not. And when he finally pulled back, you were still smiling at him, calm and close.

Too close.

He realized it at the same time you did, and he started to move away. But your fingers found the back of his neck, keeping him with you. The furrow in his brow deepened, and you pressed soft kisses there until it smoothed out again.

"You’re probably never going to see me again."

You had thought about saying more but left it at that. There was nothing else that needed to be said. You both understood this wasn’t something that could work. He had a cruel life, a country and friends to come back to, a career that had nothing to do with the world you lived in. He might even go back to his ex-wife. And you—maybe you weren’t ready to give up on marriage as an idea.

It was complicated. You both knew that.

His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, and before you could say anything else, he pulled you in for a kiss.

His nose brushed your cheek, his lips soft, the warmth of him seeping into your lungs. His hand cradled the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, holding you there—not in urgency, but in something slower, something indulgent.

Something that felt like exactly what you both needed.

 His fist closed in your hair, pulling firmly to give him more space to go deeper. Your chest felt heavier, your breathing more desperate, your hands gripped his arms, between fabric and flesh, hoping that this would be enough of a sign for him not to stop. The kisses went down to your neck, spreading to your collarbone. He was so gentle, his fingers traced over your skin as if pressing too hard might shatter you, as if the wrong touch could make you slip right through his hands. 

 You held on tighter to him, and his nimble hands on your waist guided you closer. His thigh between your legs, your body pressed against his, he trailed his lips down your shoulder, your arms, every visible point of skin. Your thighs flexed against his in response, and soon your face grew hot, even though you could feel his jeans against your skin and your body was melting into him with no much shame.

 Noticing you pausing, he pulled back slightly, his tongue wetting his lips as he let his back rest against the couch. His thumb traced slow circles on your waist, his gaze darker as it settled on you–this was good.

 He squeezed your waist a little tighter, and you saw encouragement in it.

 He tensed the muscle in his thigh, adding more to it. Your fingers tightened around him, tighter than before, and you wrapped your legs around him, letting out a pleasant sigh. He bit his lip, his hair falling a bit over his forehead, sweaty. In a slightly more abrupt movement, you could feel your raw skin brushing against his jeans, making your sigh louder and your head fall onto his shoulder.

 "I've got you, princess." He comforted you, his rough, big hands running up your thighs, rising ever so slightly, until he held the hem of your shirt and pulled it up over your hips. His lips were at your ear, he whispered how good of a girl you were. He moved the fabric out of the way, digging it into his fingers along with the strength with which he held your waist and made the movement for you.

 Your knees ached from the friction, but you were so wet that the contact with his jeans still allowed a muffled, wet sound through the silent room. You could hear his gasps, with each time your body moved forward and slowly back, as he controlled it. Sometimes the rhythm allowed you to feel how hard he was getting, and you had to admit it looked painful. He went back to kissing your shoulder, while you bit his, leaving his shirt damp, every now and then he pressed his fingers tightly into you and you wished you had his marks on your skin later. 

 Your body was starting to tremble, the spasms in your hips were no longer as controlled, your face and chest completely immersed in his body as he held you steady. Everything was slow, calculated by him, so that every second would take longer and he would have more time with you. He stood up, your arms and legs joining him like a puzzle piece, and delicately he placed your back on the bed. 

 You held him close, his weight on you was moderate—comforting. He looked at you with desire, but also as if he appreciated you being there, as if you weren’t going anywhere and had more to give. You thought of him as more than just this moment. His gaze made you feel attractive, even like this—messy hair, wearing clothes that weren’t even yours.

"I don't want to have to go back home,"

The melancholy in your voice made him shake his head immediately.

"I don't know what to say," he said honestly. He also thought about how much he wanted you around, but he didn't see a future in it; you didn't even really know him. "But I also wanted to stay here."

You shifted him, considering how this—whatever it was—was all you had. There were no "what ifs." He kept his leg between yours, the closeness a quiet reminder that he was here.

He moved briefly, and you traced a line from his chest to the mark you had left on his jeans with your eyes. His thighs made you imagine other things too. He opened his shirt wider, you bit your lip and he chuckled lightly. You could feel the elastic of your panties a bit out of its place and that was a good reminder of minutes ago.

He lifted your shirt again, kissing your knees and thighs, taking his caresses to your belly. Your eyes closed with the texture of his skin brushing where you were sensitive and then his nose lightly tapping the spot. He kissed you cautiously over the fabric and his eyes went up to you, his expression relaxed, as if he thought about being between your legs often and he whispered, "Is it alright if I carry on??" and all you felt was your heart bursting and your wetness like never before.

....

He didn’t hesitate to take you to the airport. Things were heavy, though there was an air of hope between you—not because there was any chance of being together, but because you saw things differently now.

You couldn’t bring yourself to touch him. You were too close, close enough to hold his gaze, but if you reached for him, it would break you.

"Y'know, I’ll come see you when you play at the London Theatre."

He touched your arms, pulling you into him. Your vision blurred slightly. His entire height intertwined with a sheet of paper being held in an envelope, you so wanted to live there.

"I don’t even know when that’ll be, and you’ve never seen me play, so you can’t say that." You joked, unsure how to take it.

"You saw something was off, like with your relationship, and handled it right. You're workin’ outside your field ‘cos you believe in it. You're determined—don’t seem the type t’ hesitate. If not now, then one day, you’ll get there. I believe in you."

You inhaled sharply, the tears never making it down your cheeks because he wiped them away first. His eyes were watery too. It made you realize how little you had accepted in past relationships.

Your fiancé once mentioned how important a stable job was—you had seen it as a valid concern, but he had always seemed to hate having an old piano taking up space in the living room.

"You won’t remember me," you murmured.

He shook his head, making that small sound with his mouth that told you to be quiet.

"Ah-I will. I feel relieved that I got to talk to you these past few days."

He wiped your face, watching as you tried to steady yourself, though your hands were trembling.

"And I need to see you play."

You laughed.

He told you he’d be in Tokyo for a while, dealing with record label matters. You told him you’d be going back to Europe. He lived in the USA—far from you. Your mind tried to map out the distance as something manageable, but the truth was neither of you would fit into each other’s lives.

He hated the thought that his life would be dragged into yours, a chaos you weren't even aware of, and you wouldn't risk the distance; it would certainly only make things worse. The present memory you shared was sweet, and it should prevail.

It was hard, but there wasn’t much to discuss. There was no space for bitterness.

"I got you something." his voice echoed in your mind as he kissed you right there, in front of everyone. It was slow, your fingers tangled in his hair, grazing through the soft strands. You needed a moment before facing his flushed lips and reddened nose. Your lungs felt empty.

You couldn’t look at him when you said goodbye.

All you had was the plastic bag he had given you, filled with the same macarons from when you first spoke to him, with revived dreams, and a cassette tape with your name on it—signed by him, with the words "For the good memories."

Noah noticed you quickly.

His room was across the hallway, and over the past few weeks, he had assumed you were alone in the city. Every time he made noise with his guitar or tried to work through something, you would either crack your door open or casually stand in the corridor. You didn’t seem to be hiding, but you also didn’t make yourself too easy to see.

One night, he considered stepping out to talk to you, but the moment he opened his door, you had already disappeared into the elevator.

You exchanged polite smiles in the lobby. It wasn’t flirting—it was more of a silent acknowledgment that you both saw each other. You both knew you listened to his singing and enjoyed it. Still, you may not have felt quite aligned enough to join in.

"Is everything all right over there?" Noah asked, forcing a smile—one that, unbeknownst to him, wasn’t exactly natural. You were pleasing to his eyes, and although he was shy, he wanted to make a good impression.

He had noticed the ring on your finger before, but now, up close, as you hugged a box of macarons, it seemed to hold more weight. It reminded him of when he was carefree about how famous, listened to, and talked about he had become. Though he had no regrets and had managed to keep things amicable, he appreciated how, over the years, it had become just another detail in the long stretch of his life.

"I'm sorry, I didn’t mean to stay here—I really am sorry."

Your rushed apology made him laugh, this time far more genuinely than before. You were wrapped in a large sweater and loose-fitting pants, looking completely at ease. Your face carried a hint of exhaustion, the darkness beneath your eyes more pronounced. Standing there in front of him, studying him with quiet curiosity, you looked undeniably endearing. He couldn’t deny he had thought that from the very first time he saw you.

"Did y’come t’listen t’me?"

Scratching the back of his neck, he realized how odd that sounded. His cheeks were certainly tinged with color, but you only gave him a shy smile and nodded.

There was something about the moment that was hard to put into words, yet it all felt so natural. The way you stepped into the spacious room, took a seat at one end of the couch and made it easy for him to grab one of the macarons and take a bite. You stuffed your hands into your pockets to keep them warm. You were fun to watch.

He didn’t play for you, but you ended up listening to random albums together, discovering a shared taste in music. The conversation stayed light, shifting from the weather to how the city felt during tourist season, to how the newspaper vendor beside the hotel was surprisingly friendly (Your fiancé would have never given importance to that detail, and you made a mental note of it.)

"Does your ring go on t’other hand?"

His fingers brushed against yours, sending a pulse of electricity through your body like a reflex. His skin was rough yet delicate as he turned the pearl between his fingertips for a few seconds. You wished his curiosity was about you and not just the correct placement of an engagement ring. Maybe you had wanted to be noticed by him from the start, back when you first saw him play at that crowded pub nearby.

"I’m not married yet. It’s a tradition for some—an engagement ring goes on the right hand, and only on the wedding day does it move to the left."

He listened intently, and you couldn't remember the last time you shared that without feeling ridiculous.

"So… is this a dream of yours?" He had a brief flashback to a Friends episode where Monica said that women might think about it since they were little, even when they were fighting to put a pillowcase on their heads. At the same time, he was focused on having a functional experience, either with his friends or with a special person he hoped to meet.

Your eyebrows lifted slightly, and he found it endearing how you handled words, as if everything he said carried a weight of its own.

"Getting married?"

He laughed.

"I mean, yeah, but… everythin’ about it seems special t’you. The tradition, the way you smile while talking about it. Feels like you planned this, thought ‘bout it for a while."

You swallowed hard. Something so simple, and yet he figured it out just by exchanging a few sentences with you. You ran your fingers around the ring, turning it slowly.

"Yeah, I guess so. I like the idea of being in love, but I wouldn’t even know about the ring placement if it weren’t for this newlywed woman who once came into the café where I worked. She was so happy—it made me want that for myself, even while being happy for her."

He smiled, a small, knowing expression that softened the lines on his face. He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t have to. His presence alone made you feel heard.

"The ring's beautiful. Hope you’ll be happy."

You slipped your hands back into your pockets, not wanting him to see it anymore. The ring had been your choice, and honestly, if you hadn’t had that conversation with your fiancé about your years together and what the future held, you weren’t sure if it would even be on your finger right now. But there was nothing to complain about—wasn’t this what you wanted?

Noah noticed the flicker in your eyes and cut in.

"Well, Ah’m gettin’ divorced."

He held up his own ring, relieved when your gaze met his again.

"Why?"

Your voice was quiet, but there was a certain ease in the way you asked, making it clear the question wasn’t intrusive.

"Feel like… if it weren’t for her, I’d still be with her, y’know?"

"She got tired, I'm afraid. Ah-I was around, but it weren’t enough."

You nodded. His expression was tired, but not necessarily sad.

"Did you try to win her back? You didn’t do anything wrong, did you?"

He chuckled at your tone before continuing.

"I tried. She had someone else in mind. I don’t miss her, but I miss the life around her, I don't know? We were together for a while."

You looked at him with warmth, and he accepted it.

You couldn’t quite grasp what it meant to be with someone for long—I also couldn't say if her current partner was thinking about such a long-term relationship. You didn’t know what to say, but you understood why he still wore the ring.

"I’m sorry."

He simply gave you the same gentle smile as before.

Your arms brushed, something comfortable, and you let it happen. Neither of you knew where the line between safe and dangerous was, but this moment was cautious, measured.

"Are you always at the hotel? Never go out?"

His laugh was slightly nasal, soothing in its own way.

"I just came to record some tunes. I'm using my time here to relax, rehearse a little, and make some adjustments before heading out."

Your hands slipped back out of your pockets, and he took that as a sign that you were comfortable.

"Did you write about her?"

He nodded.

"A lot. I don't think about her the same way anymore, but she was a big part of my life. There's definitely a bit of her in my writing."

"Do you regret it?"

He studied your eyes, trying to decipher what the question meant to you, but he couldn’t quite tell.

"Nah. It were a good part o’ me life, even if we're not together anymore."

You licked your lips absentmindedly.

"I wish someone wrote songs 'bout me. It seems very romantic."

He exhaled sharply through his nose, realizing he hadn’t felt this kind of nervousness—the kind that made you hold your breath before speaking—in a long time.

"What’s the most romantic thing he’s done for you?"

Your gaze dropped to the floor. A brief silence, but noticeable. Your hands returned to your pockets.

"We planned this trip about nine months ago. He was supposed to come with me, but there was a work emergency—it happens a lot."

Your voice was calm, free of bitterness, but there was something tired in it—something that sounded like an ending.

....

The silence lingered, broken only by the sound of breathing and the room’s ventilation. You felt good, even with the weight in your chest. It was the lightest you had felt since the proposal.

After a while, Noah rested his cheek on your shoulder, his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open. He looked peaceful, but you didn’t know that he hadn’t been sleeping well lately. That was a reaction to you. That feeling of warmth and being seen—it was mutual.

Your fingers traced the bridge of his nose, then moved to his hair. You found him beautiful, but there was a distance to that feeling, something that kept it from fully taking shape; yet you were getting lost in his freckles and carpet of tattoos.

His scent had already settled into your clothes, and you knew that if you stayed, you’d finally get the kind of sleep you hadn’t had in a long time. But recognizing this moment as a dangerous threshold, you chose to leave.

....

Daylight had already started to seep in, and Noah felt the emptiness in his chest, knowing you were no longer there. Maybe you’d come back the next time he played.

He thought about going downstairs for breakfast, but instead, let the weight of exhaustion dissolve him bit by bit. If not for the soft knocking at his door, he might have spent the entire day in the same position.

Annoyance flared at being pulled from bed, but it faded the second he saw you standing there. His fingers curled into a tense fist—he recognized that feeling. He had liked you enough for your pain to drain any energy from him.

Your mouth opened, but nothing came out. Your eyes didn’t meet his. They were distant, lost somewhere in the room, drowned in tears. You were still wearing the same clothes, except now just a tank top. It was clear you had been crying and restless for hours, and he hated that you hadn’t come to him sooner—as if he could’ve made it all go away.

"Hey," he murmured, opening his arms; the head speaking louder than reason. You folded into him instantly.

That familiar scent wrapped around you again, his fingers pressing into your back as he pulled you inside. He thought he knew what it was about, even if not entirely.

You left a small damp spot on his shirt, but he kept holding you close. It wasn’t a desperate kind of crying, which somehow made it worse.

The bed was low, and when he set you down and knelt in front of you, it left you at just the right height to hide your face against him. His hands moved along your back, his chin resting on top of your head, while your fingers clutched the fabric of his shirt. The small gestures grounded you, bringing you back to reality.

“I called him,” you sniffled, pulling back just enough to see him.

His hand rested lightly at your waist, keeping you close in a way that didn’t feel improper, especially with your fingers still playing with the buttons of his shirt. He waited patiently for you to continue, and that was something you liked about him—he didn’t ask out of curiosity, he just wanted you to speak if you wanted to.

“He’s not coming back here. He’s too busy. Said he can see me when I get home,” you paused, swallowing a bit.

Noah watched you carefully, not with pity but with an understanding you weren’t used to anymore. His eyes calmed you. He was wearing a long-sleeved button-up, the collar open enough that a hint of chest hair peeked out. He wiped your face with the edge of the fabric, showing you, without words, that he was there.

“I didn’t enjoy any of this trip 'cause I kept waitin' for him to be here, y’see? I thought things would be different. I don’t want it to always be like this. I don’t want this for myself.”

Your shoulders loosened, and to him, your face looked lighter, like speaking was helping you make sense of it all.

"Y’ve talked to him about this a lot, don't you?" He asked, remembering you saying it was a recurring problem.

You nodded. “Yeah. My whole last year has been about this.”

Your eyes dropped, hesitant to admit you had let yourself get into this situation. He brushed your hair away, tilting your chin up to meet his gaze.

"I'm not gonna judge you. But he doesn't seem like someone to take serious, if I can say that. Why'd he wanna marry someone he doesn't even listen to?"

Hearing it out loud, from someone else, made it sound so simple.

“Do you think he’s marrying me out of convenience?” you asked, your voice quiet as your hand slipped from his shirt.

You were exhausted. As you looked at him, Noah gave a small, sweet smile. You settled into the bed beside him, the scent of his sheets huggable. When you moved to get up, he simply touched your arm and told you it was okay. You already knew the answer to your question.

"Do you think he loves you?" his voice was low, steady. “Do you feel loved?”

All you could hear was his breathing.

“When did you realize you didn’t love your ex anymore?” you asked.

He lay down too, just an arm’s length away. When he turned onto his side, he was all that filled your vision.

“Dunno,” he admitted. “I think it faded lil' by little as I realized she didn’t feel the same anymore—and didn’t care to show interest. But every situation is different.”

Noah found himself hoping you’d see that maybe this wasn’t the man for you. But he also had to remember he was not, and would never be, someone in your life.

He touched your face, more for himself than for you, and you closed your eyes, letting it happen. His fingers traced along your cheek, then moved to massage your shoulders.

“I don’t know if I love him,” you murmured. “I don’t know if I believe his words, either. He always says he’ll try harder, but it always ends up the same way I’ve come to hate. His indifference makes me want to be alone, and I don’t think he would’ve proposed if I hadn’t confronted him about it. Maybe marrying me never even crossed his mind. I don’t want to be someone’s uncertainty.”

The words came easily, revealing that you had thought about this more than you wanted to admit.

Noah squeezed you, a bit content that you could see things for what they were. You had time, so is he. You still had your chances.

“Don’t let your kids grow up to be bad people to others,” you whispered, pressing your cheek to his shoulder.

He didn’t mind. He liked having you close.

“I won’t,” he murmured, and for a moment, you were struck by the weight of it. Did he want to have children? Did he think about it before the breakup? Did he think about building a healthy family? Because you thought about it, but it seemed distant.

....

Your back didn’t feel as heavy as before. Your face was pressed into the sheets, arms wrapped around one of his pillows. His scent—woody, warm—filled the entire room. It was nice.

Your body still carried the lazy memory of being close to his, of drifting off in the middle of the night with his lips pressing against your forehead and his arm firm around your waist, like he was afraid he’d leave you behind if he let go.

"Better, tiny one?" His voice was smooth. He had changed clothes—still wearing buttons, still a pleasant sight. His hair was damp, and he was jotting something down in a small notebook.

“Good,” you murmured sleepily.

He laughed, glancing at you, and whatever he was writing became secondary now that your voice had settled into the room. It was intimate—bearable, even.

“What do you do?” Noah asked, cautious. He was sure knowing too much about you wouldn’t do him any good, but it was impossible to resist. “You mentioned the café, but said you’re no longer there...”

“I work at a bookstore,” you said, staring at the ceiling.

You could hear the sound of his fingers skimming across the pages, and even without looking, you could picture the shape of his hands perfectly—the wedding band, on long, tattooed fingers.

When you rubbed a hand over your face and looked back at him, he was watching you, his gaze soft. He had noticed—your engagement ring was no longer there. It hadn’t been since the moment you decided to come to him.

“I’m a pianist,” you said, voice steady. “I’m trying to get a spot at a theater in London. I’m really excited about it. Anxious, but waiting on the results.”

He smiled, genuinely. “I’d love to hear you play. I bet you’re good. I’ll save a seat next time I'm in London.”

He took a moment before saying it, wanting to be honest without making you uncomfortable.

You smiled back, a mirror of his own expression.

Noah briefly considered suggesting you work on something together but held back. He also couldn’t remember the last time he had felt truly drawn to a woman.

You kept watching him—the roundness of his cheeks, the way his fingers moved as he worked.

He was a stranger. He shouldn’t have this much of an effect on you.

....

You had put on one of your new dresses—fitted at the waist, flowing just enough. You liked how it looked on you, how it made you feel confident. It was one of the pieces you had carefully chosen for this trip, for the dates you were supposed to have with your fiancé, who, theoretically, should have been with you.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you stared at the hotel phone. Your fingers were cold. You had been ready for a while now, wanting to visit a café you’d spotted nearby. You were determined to go home and at least be able to say you had experienced something of this place.

But suddenly, your fear wasn’t about missing out on seeing the neighborhood anymore—it was about missing him, about not getting to be with him in the short time left before you had to leave.

"I can hear you breathin’, but we can stay quiet if you prefer."

His voice came through the receiver, confident, amused.

You twisted the cord between your fingers, unsurprised that he recognized you without you having said a single word. Somehow, you knew you would have recognized him, too.

His breathing filled the silence between you, steady and calm, making your thoughts settle. He understood this—the simple need to be close.

“I’m going to visit a café nearby. Want to come?”

You probably sounded like a stalker, but Noah had to admit to himself that he had considered asking someone at the hotel for your number. The thought of you having to craft a story convincing enough for them to connect you to his room amused him.

"Alright, I’ll grab a jacket and meet yoh downstairs, tiny one."

You straightened up as soon as you saw him, a smile tugging at your lips. He looked relaxed, his usual furrowed brow still faintly marked, eyes focused ahead—until they found you. Your heart warmed a little when his expression softened, when his lips curled into a small smile that smoothed out the lines on his face.

It was like knowing that he naturally had a sweet and relaxed demeanor, but he needed you to remind him of it.

You wished you could take him home with you. Maybe no one would even notice.

His gaze traveled over you—not in a way that made you self-conscious, but in a way that felt good.

"Is this what takin' off a ring does?" he murmured, and you felt your cheeks burn.

He took your hand in his, and you noticed his wedding band was gone too. Then, with an easy motion, he made you twirl in front of him. When you stopped, his eyes hadn’t drifted far—they remained on your smile.

And so, the first steps were taken with the careful distance of two people still pretending they weren’t walking towards something. He kept his hands behind his back, and you found yourself a little too nervous to speak or gesture much. But it didn’t take long before your arms brushed, and his hand found a comfortable place on your back, guiding you along with him.

"Isn’t pumpkin supposed to be a vegetable?" he frowned at the orange hue of your drink, his voice laced with quiet skepticism.

He had ordered nothing but black coffee, refusing even a small cake. He was tolerant of new things, but he needed to annoy you.

"It is," you shrugged, taking a sip. "But it works in drinks. And desserts."

You nudged the cup toward him, inviting him to try.

He was dressed in black as usual, his hair a little longer, giving it a soft volume at the top. He was attractive—undeniably so. And knowing he had spent over years with someone by his side made you believe he must be a good person to have around.

Sitting across from him, avoiding him was impossible.

He took a hesitant sip, pretending to deliberate.

"You liked it," you teased. "Not as much of a grumpy man as you wish you were, uh?"

He let out a low, unguarded laugh, and you liked being the reason for it.

"It tastes like dessert. Too sweet," he admitted.

He saw a light in you that resonated with him, something he hadn't appreciated since his last tours or previous relationship.

You nodded in understanding, and he pushed his own cup toward you—black coffee.

You had never been fond of it, but you hesitated, curiosity getting the better of you.

The bitterness hit instantly. You had taken too big of a sip, and your eyes watered in protest.

Noah regretted it immediately, which only made you laugh as he rushed to pour you a glass of water and snatched his cup away from you.

"No wonder you only wear black and walk around completely dazed," you teased, watching as amusement flickered in his eyes.

He liked everything about you—how effortlessly you spoke to him, how you weren’t trying to make him think you were someone good.

"You look stunning," he murmured, brushing a napkin against your chin to wipe away brownie crumbs.

It felt right to say it, though he should have said it earlier.

Your eyes flickered away, unable to meet his directly. Instead, you cut the brownie in half, offering him a piece.

"Eat. We’re trying more of these."

He nodded, knowing he had endured worse things in life than indulging in a few sweets for a girl. 

....

You were wrapped in one of his button-up shirts, loose and comfortable around you. There had been no need for words—just a quiet, mutual agreement that you would stay. Your hair was tied back, still damp from a shower, and he found you just as endearing as ever.

There was no hesitation when he sat beside you, close enough that the small couch felt even smaller. His hand ran over your arms, then down your back, and soon your head rested against his chest, as if it had always belonged there. He pressed a kiss to your hairline, his body unwinding as your arms curled around him.

A few days ago, Noah had been uneasy about what was ahead—unsure, directionless. But now, all he could think about was tomorrow, and the fact that he would get to talk to you again. You made him see past all of it. It wasn't the end of the world, though they had left him exhausted just thinking about them.

Your fingers trailed up his chest, finding the collar of his shirt and twisting the fabric idly. Your scent was starting to settle into him, a quiet imprint. Your palm found warmth against his tattoos, fingers playing with them.

He brushed your hair back, taking in the peaceful way your eyes remained closed. And for the first time in a while, he felt the same.

"You good?" he murmured.

Your gaze lifted to his, wide and searching, and you nodded. He kissed your cheek, and when you sighed in quiet satisfaction, he did it again—dragging his nose along your skin, leaving lingering kisses along the path.

The faint stubble on his jaw scraped against you in a way that was more pleasant than not. And when he finally pulled back, you were still smiling at him, calm and close.

Too close.

He realized it at the same time you did, and he started to move away. But your fingers found the back of his neck, keeping him with you. The furrow in his brow deepened, and you pressed soft kisses there until it smoothed out again.

"You’re probably never going to see me again."

You had thought about saying more but left it at that. There was nothing else that needed to be said. You both understood this wasn’t something that could work. He had a cruel life, a country and friends to come back to, a career that had nothing to do with the world you lived in. He might even go back to his ex-wife. And you—maybe you weren’t ready to give up on marriage as an idea.

It was complicated. You both knew that.

His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt, and before you could say anything else, he pulled you in for a kiss.

His nose brushed your cheek, his lips soft, the warmth of him seeping into your lungs. His hand cradled the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, holding you there—not in urgency, but in something slower, something indulgent.

Something that felt like exactly what you both needed.

 His fist closed in your hair, pulling firmly to give him more space to go deeper. Your chest felt heavier, your breathing more desperate, your hands gripped his arms, between fabric and flesh, hoping that this would be enough of a sign for him not to stop. The kisses went down to your neck, spreading to your collarbone. He was so gentle, his fingers traced over your skin as if pressing too hard might shatter you, as if the wrong touch could make you slip right through his hands. 

 You held on tighter to him, and his nimble hands on your waist guided you closer. His thigh between your legs, your body pressed against his, he trailed his lips down your shoulder, your arms, every visible point of skin. Your thighs flexed against his in response, and soon your face grew hot, even though you could feel his jeans against your skin and your body was melting into him with no much shame.

 Noticing you pausing, he pulled back slightly, his tongue wetting his lips as he let his back rest against the couch. His thumb traced slow circles on your waist, his gaze darker as it settled on you–this was good.

 He squeezed your waist a little tighter, and you saw encouragement in it.

 He tensed the muscle in his thigh, adding more to it. Your fingers tightened around him, tighter than before, and you wrapped your legs around him, letting out a pleasant sigh. He bit his lip, his hair falling a bit over his forehead, sweaty. In a slightly more abrupt movement, you could feel your raw skin brushing against his jeans, making your sigh louder and your head fall onto his shoulder.

 "I've got you, princess." He comforted you, his rough, big hands running up your thighs, rising ever so slightly, until he held the hem of your shirt and pulled it up over your hips. His lips were at your ear, he whispered how good of a girl you were. He moved the fabric out of the way, digging it into his fingers along with the strength with which he held your waist and made the movement for you.

 Your knees ached from the friction, but you were so wet that the contact with his jeans still allowed a muffled, wet sound through the silent room. You could hear his gasps, with each time your body moved forward and slowly back, as he controlled it. Sometimes the rhythm allowed you to feel how hard he was getting, and you had to admit it looked painful. He went back to kissing your shoulder, while you bit his, leaving his shirt damp, every now and then he pressed his fingers tightly into you and you wished you had his marks on your skin later. 

 Your body was starting to tremble, the spasms in your hips were no longer as controlled, your face and chest completely immersed in his body as he held you steady. Everything was slow, calculated by him, so that every second would take longer and he would have more time with you. He stood up, your arms and legs joining him like a puzzle piece, and delicately he placed your back on the bed. 

 You held him close, his weight on you was moderate—comforting. He looked at you with desire, but also as if he appreciated you being there, as if you weren’t going anywhere and had more to give. You thought of him as more than just this moment. His gaze made you feel attractive, even like this—messy hair, wearing clothes that weren’t even yours.

"I don't want to have to go back home,"

The melancholy in your voice made him shake his head immediately.

"I don't know what to say," he said honestly. He also thought about how much he wanted you around, but he didn't see a future in it; you didn't even really know him. "But I also wanted to stay here."

You shifted him, considering how this—whatever it was—was all you had. There were no "what ifs." He kept his leg between yours, the closeness a quiet reminder that he was here.

He moved briefly, and you traced a line from his chest to the mark you had left on his jeans with your eyes. His thighs made you imagine other things too. He opened his shirt wider, you bit your lip and he chuckled lightly. You could feel the elastic of your panties a bit out of its place and that was a good reminder of minutes ago.

He lifted your shirt again, kissing your knees and thighs, taking his caresses to your belly. Your eyes closed with the texture of his skin brushing where you were sensitive and then his nose lightly tapping the spot. He kissed you cautiously over the fabric and his eyes went up to you, his expression relaxed, as if he thought about being between your legs often and he whispered, "Is it alright if I carry on??" and all you felt was your heart bursting and your wetness like never before.

....

He didn’t hesitate to take you to the airport. Things were heavy, though there was an air of hope between you—not because there was any chance of being together, but because you saw things differently now.

You couldn’t bring yourself to touch him. You were too close, close enough to hold his gaze, but if you reached for him, it would break you.

"Y'know, I’ll come see you when you play at the London Theatre."

He touched your arms, pulling you into him. Your vision blurred slightly. His entire height intertwined with a sheet of paper being held in an envelope, you so wanted to live there.

"I don’t even know when that’ll be, and you’ve never seen me play, so you can’t say that." You joked, unsure how to take it.

"You saw something was off, like with your relationship, and handled it right. You're workin’ outside your field ‘cos you believe in it. You're determined—don’t seem the type t’ hesitate. If not now, then one day, you’ll get there. I believe in you."

You inhaled sharply, the tears never making it down your cheeks because he wiped them away first. His eyes were watery too. It made you realize how little you had accepted in past relationships.

Your fiancé once mentioned how important a stable job was—you had seen it as a valid concern, but he had always seemed to hate having an old piano taking up space in the living room.

"You won’t remember me," you murmured.

He shook his head, making that small sound with his mouth that told you to be quiet.

"Ah-I will. I feel relieved that I got to talk to you these past few days."

He wiped your face, watching as you tried to steady yourself, though your hands were trembling.

"And I need to see you play."

You laughed.

He told you he’d be in Tokyo for a while, dealing with record label matters. You told him you’d be going back to Europe. He lived in the USA—far from you. Your mind tried to map out the distance as something manageable, but the truth was neither of you would fit into each other’s lives.

He hated the thought that his life would be dragged into yours, a chaos you weren't even aware of, and you wouldn't risk the distance; it would certainly only make things worse. The present memory you shared was sweet, and it should prevail.

It was hard, but there wasn’t much to discuss. There was no space for bitterness.

"I got you something." his voice echoed in your mind as he kissed you right there, in front of everyone. It was slow, your fingers tangled in his hair, grazing through the soft strands. You needed a moment before facing his flushed lips and reddened nose. Your lungs felt empty.

You couldn’t look at him when you said goodbye.

All you had was the plastic bag he had given you, filled with the same macarons from when you first spoke to him, with revived dreams, and a cassette tape with your name on it—signed by him, with the words "For the good memories."