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Chapter 11

Sable

Isink into the couch, fiddling with the loose drawstring on my sweats, winding it tighter, then letting it go again. My head’s a knot.

Saturday was cars and calls and oil-stained receipts. The mechanic sucked half my savings straight into his register, but at least the engine’s not about to explode anymore. Sunday was brunch with the girls—mimosas, gossip, someone’s new engagement ring sparkling under the cafe lights. After that it was groceries, laundry, dishes, the whole carousel of domestic bullshit.

Which sounds productive, but it was avoidance. Plain and simple. I dodged him all weekend like some kind of coward. Like a hypocritical asshole. “Don’t touch me, Noah. We can’t, we have to keep this clean.” And then what? Telling him to shove his fingers into me in the front seat of his car while the streetlights cut shadows across my thighs. If hypocrisy had a patron saint, I’d be canonized by now.

And the worst part is—this is what I wanted, isn’t it? A man who actually gave a shit about whether I got off. Someone who listens, who’s eager enough to tremble when I tell him to do something—and who does it. Perfectly. He turns me on just by moving and existing in the same damn room, like his pulse alone is tuned to mine.

So what the hell is wrong with me?

I wasn’t even sure what I was going to do until this morning in the break room, when he reached out and brushed my hair back. My chest almost cracked open with it. I should’ve slapped his hand away. I should’ve doubled down on the rules. Instead, the words that came out of my mouth weren’t “stop” or “forget it.” They were—“not here.” They were—“Come to my place after work.”

The knock rattles through the apartment, jolting me. I drag my palms down my thighs, force a breath in, and make myself move, up, past the couch, down through the narrow stretch of hall. By the time I reach the door, my shoulders are squared, my face is set, and I pull it open.

Noah’s on the other side like he’s reporting for execution—shoulders locked way too tight, hair ruffled, both fists clamped around a bottle of wine.

His mouth twitches into a nervous smile when my eyes land on it. “I—uh—thought it might help. Thanks for… inviting me. I’m not really sure what’s going on, but—thanks.”

God, he looks jittery.

I huff a soft laugh. “Relax.” Then I step aside, waving him in, nudging the door shut behind us. His shoes scuff across the floor as I lead him into the living room, and his gaze drops—straight to the table, where two glasses and an unopened bottle are already waiting.

“Damage control,” I say, sinking into the couch and gesturing at the empty space beside me. “I figured you might need it.”

He hovers a second, then sinks down beside me, bottle still clutched to his chest. I pluck it from his hands, twist the cork free, and pour us both a glass.

“Breathe, Noah,” I say, watching his fingers slip clumsily over the glass stem as I pass it to him. “I asked you here to talk. I’m not about to shove you out the window if you say something stupid.”

His laugh breaks sharp in his throat, boyish and nervous, and then he tips the glass like it’s water, draining half before setting it back down with a thud.

“This is a mess,” I murmur, leaning back into the couch.

He exhales hard, knuckles of his free hand tightening against his thigh. Poor thing looks like he’s about to pop a blood vessel just from sitting on my couch.

Alright. Chin up. Chest out. We’re doing this, Sable. Spit it out.

I let out a heavy breath. “But it doesn’t have to be.”

His head jerks up so fast it’s almost comical, eyes widening. “Wh—what? What do you mean?”

I roll the stem of my glass between my palms, eyes on the wine instead of him. “I mean exactly what you think I mean. I want you. And you clearly want me. Unless the way you had your hand buried in me in the front seat was you practicing your penmanship?”

His breath catches, ears flushing red. “I—yeah, I do, I really do, but you… you said not to. You said HR and the rules and⁠—”

“Fuck what I said.” My gaze lifts, pinning him in place. “We can dodge the mess if we’re careful. Rules, discretion, no witnesses. I can work with that. What I can’t do is sit here and pretend I don’t want you when my body already made it very very clear in your car that I do.”

His hand twitches, like he doesn’t know whether to set the glass down or cling to it, and then he does the dumbest, sweetest thing—he gives a single, raw nod.

I take a deep drink of my own wine. “We can try,” I say, softer this time. “If it starts to cost us, we fix it. But there’s one thing we can’t dodge, Noah. Honesty. So if we’re doing this, then you have to be straight with me.”

He swallows hard, Adam’s apple bobbing as he twists glass in his hands.

“Be honest,” I say, leaning forward. “What do you want from me?”

His gaze meets mine, wide and frantic. “I—I don’t know what you mean.”