Why do we keep repeating the same mistakes, even when we know how they end, how they always end?
My heart doesn’t have a brain. So it doesn’t know that skipping at the sight of Noah early in the morning, casual in jeans and a hoodie, hair pushed back just right, is wrong. So very wrong.
But it skips anyway.
And my eyes? They linger too long these days. There’s nothing new about him, I see him every day, yet I still stare. I still shiver when his fingers brush mine as he passes the salt or the bowl.
“Morning,” Noah says, and my heart keeps jumping.
People say I have a blank face. I’ve heard it my whole life. But I blush too easily. And I know I’m blushing now.
I look away. Noah glances over, grabs a slice of French toast from the table, takes a bite.
“What’s wrong?”
“What?”
