Pulse between us

No title

Noah’s POV

I tell myself I’m only here to drop off the reports.

That’s the reason I rehearse in my head as I climb the stairs to her apartment, file tucked under my arm, heart doing that uneven thing it does whenever she’s near.

When she opens the door, paint is streaked across her wrist, a curl stuck to her cheek. She looks softer out of the lab coat—human in a way that makes my chest ache.

“Forgot these,” I say, holding up the folder. My voice sounds steadier than I feel.

“Thanks,” she murmurs, stepping aside. The scent of turpentine and citrus slips out into the hall, the scent of her mixed with something newly fragile.

I shouldn’t look, but I do.

There’s an easel by the window.

A portrait—unfinished, but unmistakable.

Me.

My throat tightens. “You’ve been painting.”

“Just practice,” she says quickly, like she’s been caught.

But the eyes on that canvas know me too well to be practice. They’re the eyes of someone who once looked at me like I was worth something.

I take a step closer, then stop. “You remembered the scar on my chin.”

She sets the brush down with trembling fingers. “It’s habit. I remember details.”

I should leave. I know that. But something about the quiet—the way the light touches her hair—makes it impossible to move.

“You still hide when you’re afraid,” I say before I can stop myself.

Her shoulders stiffen. “And you still think you know me.”

“I do.”

The room is too small now.

The silence presses between us, heavy, electric.

My pulse is loud in my ears. Every part of me wants to close the distance—to see if the years between us have changed the way her name feels against my breath.

But I don’t.

I only take half a step closer, close enough to feel the warmth coming off her skin, close enough that she inhales like the air just shifted.

She whispers, “Liam’s coming soon.”

The sound of his name is a slap of reality. I force myself to nod, to breathe, to remember who I’m supposed to be now.

“I should go,” I say, but I don’t move.

My hand brushes hers as I pass the folder back. It’s nothing—an accident—but it sends a tremor through both of us.

For a heartbeat, everything in me rebels against logic. I want to pull back, to apologize, to forget.

Instead, I just stand there—so close I can count the flecks of gold in her eyes—and let the want show for a single second.

Then the sound of a car door slams outside.

Liam.

I step back fast, swallowing the heat in my chest.

“Your painting,” I manage. “It’s… beautiful.”

She doesn’t answer.

By the time I reach the garage, my hands are shaking.

I tell myself it was just a moment, nothing more.

But I know better.

Because when I close my eyes, I can still feel the distance between us—thin as air, sharp as guilt—and the part of me that should’ve let her go years ago finally admits it:

I don’t know if I ever will.