The Soft Spot part 3

He left the room.

I heard the door click shut and the quiet sound of his footsteps fading down the hall. The absence of him settled over the bed like a weight. I turned my face into the pillow that still smelled like him and let the alcohol pull me under.

Morning arrived slowly.

I woke with a dry mouth and a dull throb behind my eyes. The first clear thought that cut through the fog was the memory of my mouth on his. The way he had kissed me back. The way he had looked at me before walking out. I tried to push it aside but the memory refused to leave.

Hours slipped past while I stayed in bed, nursing the hangover with water and silence. By early afternoon the worst of it had faded. I sat up, still wearing last night’s clothes, and decided I needed something cleaner.

His closet was organized and sparse. I pulled on one of his white shirts, It hung soft and loose on me, the sleeves too long, the hem brushing mid-thigh. The fabric carried the same clean scent I had noticed on him for months.

I wandered the apartment barefoot.

The living room was neat and the kitchen was unused. I opened the door to what was clearly his bedroom and stepped inside. The bed was made with military precision. On the low cupboard near the window sat a small collection of photographs.

One of me at a company event, half-turned toward someone else, another from a strategy meeting, eyes focused on a laptop, a third taken outside the building on a windy day, hair blown across my face. Ordinary moments and moments no one else would have bothered to keep.

Something tight and warm moved through my chest.

I was still standing there when the front door opened.

“You’re up.”

I turned too fast. Noah stood in the doorway of the bedroom, work bag still in his hand, eyes moving from my face to the shirt I was wearing.

“I made food,” I said, the words coming out awkward. “Not much. Eggs, toast. It’s in the kitchen.”

He set the bag down. “You went through my room.”

“I was looking for a shirt.”

“And the pictures?”

Heat climbed my neck. “They were out in the open.”

He stepped fully into the room. “You shouldn’t be wearing that.”

“It’s comfortable.”

“It’s mine.”

The air between us thickened. I crossed my arms, the oversized sleeves slipping past my wrists.

“How long have you had those photos?”

“Drop it.”

“No. Tell me why they’re here.”

“That’s none of your business.”

“That’s not an answer.”

He turned toward the door. “I’m going to change. You should get dressed in your own clothes.”

“Where do you think you're going to.”

I moved before I could think. My fingers closed around his sleeve. The sudden pull threw him off balance. He turned, tried to catch himself, and we both went down onto the bed. His weight settled over me for a split second, chest to chest, breath mixing.

Neither of us moved.

I could feel the steady rise and fall of his breathing. The heat of his body through the thin shirt. The way his hands had landed on either side of my head, careful not to crush me.

He started to push himself up.

I leaned forward and kissed him.

For half a second he froze. Then a rough sound left his throat and he kissed me back. One hand slid into my hair, tilting my head, the other gripped my hip through the shirt. The kiss turned deep and hungry almost immediately, nothing like the careful version from the night before.

He broke away only long enough to look at me.

Noah kissed me again, rougher this time, and the last of the distance between us disappeared.