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.)

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