Page 9 of They Are Mine

Watching him the way I watch him.

My lips press together.

I don’t like that.

She’s pretty. Not stunning. But trying. The careful, curated kind of pretty, the one that takes an hour in front of the mirror, the kind that wants to be noticed.

But Noah doesn’t notice her.

He’s focused on his music.

Still.

I move anyway.

Slowly, casually, I rise from my seat and slip to the front, sliding into a table directly in front of the small stage. Close enough to be seen. Close enough that when he looks up, I’ll be the first thing he sees.

And then, it happens.

Noah is called up. He stands, grabs his guitar, and makes his way onto the stage. He adjusts the mic. Strums once. Twice.

Then, his eyes lift…

And land on me.

For a second, he looks surprised. Then, he smiles.

My heart pounds.

There it is.

The quiet little thrill that spreads through my chest, warm and perfect.

Because of course he smiles.

Because he remembers me.

Because this is fate.

And then, he plays.

Noah plays beautifully.

I knew he would.

But knowing it and experiencing it are different things. His voice is soft, warm, a little unpolished but in a way that makes it feel more real. More intimate. The way his fingers move, the way he strums like it’s effortless, like the guitar is an extension of him.

I can’t look away.

And I don’t have to, because he’s looking at me.

Every time his eyes lift from the strings, they find mine. Over and over, like a silent message. Like a confession.

By the time the song ends, I feel high.

I knew it. I knew this was real.

I knew he felt it, too.

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