Page 37 of Lift Me Up

I whine, try to pull away but he's unfazed by my protest. Instead, he pulls my hands up to his mouth and places a kiss on the back of each one. It's so gentle, so sweet, so Noah that I don't know how to react. It makes me blush, makes me smile when he smiles back, and it makes me want so many things.

“What are you doing out of bed?”

“I was woken up by the smells,” I admit, face heating with embarrassment when my stomach growls. Loudly. Noah chuckles.

“I figured you hadn’t eaten all day. How are you feeling?” Noah asks, touching my forehead.

“Um… I mean, I think the fever broke,” I mumble.

“I’ll check it again in a bit. Are you still not feeling 100%?” He cares, God, he cares so damn much it hurts.

“I never feel 100%. It’s… complicated.” , Trying and failing to look away.

“I’m a big boy, I can handle complicated.”

I flounder. Mouth open. Mouth closed. Eyes wide as saucers. Unsure how to proceed. What do you even say when a man tells you that? All I know how to do is deflect and avoid, so I clear my throat, “What are you cooking? Also, how are you cooking when I know for a fact I didn’t have half of that in my house?”

It distracts him, but I see the grit of his teeth when his jaw flexes. He shrugs, “I may have placed a grocery delivery order to make this…”

“You didn’t have to do that...”

“I wanted to.” He tells me emphatically with a squeeze.

“I thought you told me you don’t like cooking.” I remind him as he steps away from me to continue stirring.

“That’s still true. But I can cook, and I wanted you to have something nice when you woke up.”

“What time even is it?” I have lost all sense of time, which is a common theme in my life on flare days that I hate.

“It’s around 9. The sun’s just gone down. Okay, this is done.”

He clicks off my stove, scanning my cupboards and pulling down bowls, one for me, one for him. Then he grabs my only ladle and scoops the delicious smelling thing, which I think is some kind of soup. It has a golden broth that he adds extra to our bowls before placing them on a breakfast-in-bed style tray I wasn’t aware I had, and then he plates up fresh buns. This man. Made fresh. Cheese buns.

“Umm…” unsure what to say, to feel, I look to Noah for guidance.

“You just have to tell me what you want to drink. No fretting.” He rubs away the worry lines on my face with his thumb, and I bite the inside of my cheek anxiously instead.

“Water?”

“Good. Now back to bed with you.” He ushers me away, and I go back down the hall to my room and crawl into my bed like a kid waiting for Christmas to come. I watch as Noah enters just moments after I do, tray in hand, steam wafting up off the bowls and two bottles of water, one in either corner.

Noah tells me about what he’s made while I eat. A rich, hearty chicken and brown rice soup. It’s loaded with an intense broth, slightly spicy, with celery and carrots: all things I know won’t cause me to feel like I am dying. Food is a big trigger for my HS, things like nightshades (tomatoes and peppers being the worst) and sugar and all things good and carb-y in life can cause a flare if I am not careful. I am not as great about keeping up with it as I should be, I try my best to stay away from most of them. You will never find me giving up cheese though. I refuse. Especially when the cheese buns Noah makes are officially my new favourite food. Ever.

“What sorcery are these?” I say around a mouthful of ooey-gooey cheese inside and out of the bun, savoury garlic butter and herbs on top. I think I’m in love. With the buns. Definitely just the buns.

He laughs, pulling apart his own bun, and taking small bites, “They’re my sister's recipe.”

“Does she sell them?”

“She should. I’ve been trying to convince her for forever.” Noah starts into a full conversation about Sienna, her parents’ disapproval of her choices, her pregnancy, her husband encouraging her. But as Noah said, only Sienna can decide to do anything for herself.

“So, you’re going to make these any time you’re over, right?”

“Maybe even when you come over to mine.” He agrees with a grin.

Our conversation is lighthearted, airy, and fun. The rest of the night is like this, and when I curl into Noah again, I’m relieved when he settles in and stays. His fingers skate across my skin, figure eighting and eliciting goosebumps in their wake. He kisses my forehead and sighs contently.

This. I could get used to this. It has been so long since I’ve been with someone who wanted to just be with me. Someone who doesn’t need explanations, someone who understands when words aren’t enough. But I want to tell him everything. I want him to have the full picture, to know what he’s getting into. He deserves that, to make his own decisions, and I wouldn’t judge him in the slightest whatever he decides.