S A R A H

I move around the living room, dusting shelves and wiping down surfaces, trying to stay focused on the task at hand. But every so often, I feel Noah's presence in the room.

I scrub the counter with more force than necessary, trying to ignore Noah's presence as he walks past, but he stops and looks at me, his eyes narrowing slightly. I can feel his gaze tracing over me, lingering on the scar at my neck.

"What happened there?" he asks, his voice a low murmur.

I freeze, every muscle in my body tensing. The nerve he has to ask that, to poke at something so personal without even knowing me. My hand flies to the scar reflexively, covering it like a shield.

"It's nothing," I snap, hoping he'll take the hint and move on.

But he doesn't. He just keeps looking, his gaze stubbornly fixed on me as if he has some right to answers. "Doesn't look like nothing."

His words feel like an accusation, each one prying a little deeper, and a surge of irritation shoots through me. Who does he think he is, acting as if he cares?

"I said drop it," I bite out. "I don't need you digging into my life."

He doesn't move. "Look, if it's something you don't want to talk about, fine. But if it's something... someone did to you..."

I shake my head, feeling the walls I've constructed tighten around me. I don't want him prying.

"I'm fine," I say firmly, though the words sound hollow even to me. "Just drop it."

I let out a tense breath. It isn't just his question. It's everything about him, the way he feels he has a right to know things, as if my life is some open book for his entertainment. I press a hand to the scar, the memory prickling in the back of my mind, reminding me why I keep my guard so high.

He holds my gaze, then finally nods, the hard lines of his face softening briefly. "Sorry," he murmurs, sounding almost genuine.

A sigh escapes me as he disappears down the hall, the memory flickering in my mind like a shadow across a wall.

I shake the memory away, focusing on the rhythm of cleaning, the mindless actions keeping me grounded.

I hear his voice again, drifting down the hallway. He's on the phone, his tone low, almost pleading.

"Ryza... please, I don't want to do this anymore. Just leave me alone."

I stop, half-listening despite myself, hearing a Noah I hadn't expected.

"Stop calling me, Ryza. This has to end," he continues, his voice strained.

For a second, my irritation wavers, giving way to an unwanted curiosity. There's a desperation in his voice that surprises me, a hint of someone else under all that bravado.

"Ryza... please, I don't want to do this anymore," he says, the exhaustion clear in his tone. "Just leave me alone."

My hand stills on the cloth I'm using, my curiosity piqued.

"Stop calling me, Ryza. This has to end." His voice trembles slightly before he falls silent, and I hear him take a long, shuddering breath.

The conversation has left him rattled, and for some inexplicable reason, it tugs at something deep within me.

After finishing the hallway, I head upstairs, mentally preparing myself for what I'm sure will be a long day. But when I reach the top, I stop dead in my tracks.

There's Noah, already up here, and he's managed to clean nearly the entire upper floor. It's... unexpected, to say the least.

Seeing him with a broom in hand, dust on his shirt, it feels surreal, like I'm watching some other version of him, not the Noah I've come to know. He turns, catching my expression, and raises an eyebrow as if daring me to comment.

"I... didn't expect you to do all this," I finally manage to speak, folding my arms.

He shrugs and, without a word, holds out a small trash bag filled with odds and dust rags, a few random items he's clearly found during his half-hearted cleaning spree.

"Here," he says, pushing it toward me, almost as if he's impatient to be done with it. "I just thought I'd help out. Don't make it a big deal."

I take the bag, hesitating for a second, and narrow my eyes. "Why?"

He scoffs. "Why does anyone help? I figured it would go faster if we both worked."

He gestures around the room, his jaw tight, like he's annoyed he even has to explain himself. "Look, you don't have to overthink it. Just... go with it."

I just nod, clutching the bag he's handed me and swallowing back any comments that might ruin the temporary peace. I start to turn away, but his voice stops me.

"You're welcome, by the way," he adds, his tone sarcastic but tinged with something lighter.

Idiot, Sarah!

I force myself to reply, even if it's just a muttered "Thanks."

He steps closer, clearing his throat as if he's about to say something, and I stiffen, bracing for whatever cutting remark is coming.

Instead, his tone surprises me. "About last night..." he begins, his voice lower than usual. "I was out of line."

"Are you apologizing?" I ask, my voice cold, eyes challenging him to be sincere.

He hesitates, his gaze dropping to the floor before he looks back up at me, frustration flickering in his expression. "Yeah, I guess I am," he mutters, his voice almost a growl.

Silence hangs between us, thick and tense. I want to ignore him, to brush off whatever apology he's attempting, but something in his expression keeps me rooted in place. He isn't done talking.

He glances away, his fingers curling into a fist. "People look at me a certain way," he continues, his tone turning harsher. "Like they know who I am from one damn thing they saw or heard."

His voice wavers slightly. "I know what everyone thinks of me. I know what you think of me."

I want to look away, to deny that he's right, but it feels wrong to lie. He waits, his gaze daring me to say something, and I finally mutter, "I don't know what you're talking about."

He shakes his head, a slight smirk tugging at his mouth as though he can see right through me. "I'm not asking for sympathy," he says, his voice quieter now.

"I just thought... maybe one person could try not to see me as... whatever everyone else does."

For a moment, I feel a pang of something almost like pity, but I push it away. He might be hurting, but I can't forget the things I've seen or the things I've heard.

"Maybe you should try not giving people reasons to judge you," I say coldly, turning back to my work, hoping to end this conversation.

I hear him take a breath, as if he's going to argue, but he just exhales and mutters, "Forget it."

He turns away, his footsteps echoing as he walks off, leaving me alone with the unsettled feeling he's stirred up.

As I go back to my cleaning, his words linger in my mind, a reminder of the strange, complicated tension between us.

---

Sarah's POV or Noah's POV?