A/N: We are so back.

— Chapter 91 —
For Our Undying Resilience

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N O A H

Anxiety was spiking through my every fucking nerve.

Friday night. The big celebration. It was the grand reopening of Joe's Bar, and business was in full swing. Packed as soon as the doors opened, it was one of the exceptionally rare occasions that leather-vested Stray Dogs weren't the only people in the nearby vicinity.

Civilians and strangers I didn't recognize spanned every inch of the place, chatting excitedly with drinks in hand. Clamoring music, laughter, and incessant noise made the atmosphere overstimulating and unpredictable.

"Jesus," Chains had remarked as we'd walked inside, a group of high-ranking bikers in tow. "Are we sure we got the right joint?"

It was a fair question. The place was damn-near unrecognizable. It looked less like a dive bar and more like a somewhat respectable establishment—less clutter, less darkness, less of the usual beers, and a fresh smorgasbord of martinis and cocktails. Laminated certificates, fake plants, and photos of the bar's rich history lined several freshly painted walls.

The checkerboard flooring was gone, replaced with smooth, polished timber. Soft lighting strips illuminated the counter and nearby shelves. Above the bar itself were rows of glasses strung up on gold rails, as well as hanging light fixtures that gave the room a sense of modernity. Every leather booth and stool had been refurbished, the tables replaced, the wood altered to remove every trace of vandalism and graffiti. If I hadn't been so focused on my discomfort just standing here, I'd have probably thrown up in a corner at the sight of it all.

"This place looks fucking great!" Jaws laughed behind me, as nearby bikers echoed the sentiment with eager nods and awestruck expressions.

My opinion was mine alone, it seemed.

Managing to shoo away the patrons at a quieter corner of the room, our group of senior Stray Dogs had soon settled into a spacious booth where we could talk uninterrupted. Rusty had ordered us a round of drinks, and Chains used the waiting time to unfurl a large map across the sparkling table. He stabbed a dagger into one corner to keep it in place.

On the map was an old aerial view of the tracks, the docks, and sections of the few streets that surrounded them. Taking advantage of the unused darts in a nearby dartboard, I'd quickly pinned the different colored ornaments into specific locations on the map.

From there, discussions ensued.

"Let me get this straight." Wilder, the accented Brit, scoffed behind a glass of gin. "You got all this information from Han—the dipshit that tried to kill you—and Sage. The same psychopath who's spent the last several months working for Midas?"

Excluding myself and Chains, the three other bikers at our table exchanged vengeful glances.

"Hey," Chains countered, "Sage may not be all-there in the head, but she's still smarter than half the people in this building. And if she's preparing for something big, that means the rest of us should be arming ourselves up to the nines."

"Or she could just be playing us," Rusty, the voice of experience, muttered. "You know that, right?"

I leveled with a patient nod. "This being a trap is a very equal possibility, yes."

"Forget all that." Jaws leaned elbows into the table. "This Han guy is the bastard who killed our Chief." His thin mouth managed a snarl. "We had a bounty on his head up until a fucking week ago. So if you've got him, then why the hell isn't he rotting at the bottom of Charles River?"

"Prick should be at the top of our hitlist," argued Cig, folding his arms.

Chains sneered at them. "Trust me, the kid's dead the second he stops being useful."

But we did promise to find his grandmother, I recollected, hardly satisfied with our end of the bargain. It's what Elliot wants had become my new source of constant guidance.

Speaking of Elliot—he was currently working behind the counter.

I hadn't lost eyes on him since first spotting his brunette hair through the hoards of carousing customers. Mostly because I was afraid he'd pass out.

If he looked half-dead a few days ago, then he looked like a goddamn spectre now. Dark mounds plagued the skin beneath his empty eyes. The pale skin on his bony frame was practically see-through, without life or shine. Every movement he made was delayed, clumsy, or slapdash—like he was running on autopilot with a brain that was half asleep.

I must've been the only person here with two fucking eyes in my head and a conscience in my chest, because if it were up to me, Elliot would be tucked in bed right now with a mug of soup in his hands and a damp towel on his forehead.

This is not the picture of a person who should be working, I'd thought.

So why is he forcing himself?

Turning my attention back to conversing Stray Dogs, I made my position clear. "Our sources of information shouldn't be the primary concern. As of right now, all we know is that Midas is going to be at these docks two days from now—with a shipment of drugs that'll poison half our city. If we hope to stand a chance of taking him down, him and his empire, then we'll need to be prepared for every possibility."

"Including the risk that we'll be walking into an ambush," added Chains swiftly.

"Which is why this map is so important." Compulsed to keep my hands busy, I tugged Chains' dagger out of the table. "We need to be studying the terrain so we can best predict how and where Midas is going to deploy his men. That way, we can take them out before they ever get the drop on us."

"And that's what the darts are for?" asked Jaws.

"Yes. Each dart represents a position where our men will be most susceptible to attack." Clearing my throat, I clarified, "I won't divulge the exact plan until tomorrow's meeting with the Mayhem boys, but for now, you should all take photos of this." I murmured with settling urgency, "Educate yourselves, arm yourselves, and make peace with the fact that two days from now... the entire Boston underground will be at war."

None of them needed to be told twice.

Questions continued to be shot across the booth as photos were taken and strategies were proposed.

Somewhere in the middle of it all, the bartender Eve approached, an irritated pout on her lips and silver platter of empty glasses hoisted up in one hand.

"Alright," she demanded, "which one of you idiots broke my best bartender?"

The question commanded my full attention.

Wilder gestured to our map with an awkward look. "We love you, Eve, but we're kind of in the middle of something."

"Not anymore you're not." Plucking a highball glass full of red liquor from her tray, she pushed it into the biker's grease-stained hands. The drink looked completely out of character for his rough and punk demeanor. "Taste this."

"What is it?" Wilder asked.

Almost rhythmically, the bartender said, "Vodka cranberry. Elliot made it. Now taste it and tell me what's wrong with it."

Spurred on by amused looks from around the booth, Wilder brought the drink to his lips and swallowed a generous sip. Immediately, his face contorted.

He squeaked out, "It's fucking bitter."

Chains immediately took the drink from his hands and sipped it for himself.

"There's no vodka in it," he deciphered for the rest of us, earning an approving nod from Eve. "It's practically juice soda."

While a sigh slipped past my lips, I looked up at her, frowning.

"So he forgot the alcohol," I suggested. "What's the problem?"

Eve glared at me, exasperated. "Elliot doesn't forget the alcohol. He doesn't forget anything. We've had him here for years and he's never slipped up with a drink. Now, all of a sudden, I'm having people complain about him left and right. On reopening night, no less."

I moved to speak—only found my words replaced by Angela's voice.

"Hey, is everything okay with Elliot?" Approaching our booth with a clear drink in her hands, she gently mentioned, "He's kind of all over the place. I mean, he just gave me a martini instead of a beer, which is kind of... weird."

Eve clapped. "You see?"

Distracted, Jaws elbowed Chains in the side. "Dude," he comically remarked, "why are you still drinking that?"

The second-in-command waved him off, intently drinking from his glass of fizzy cranberry water. Ignoring their tomfoolery, I furrowed my brows towards the sharpened blade still loose in my grasp.

"Elliot's going through some things," I muttered quietly to Eve. "Just let him be."

She shook her head.

"No can do." Downright cross, she explained, "Pete's going to come out of his office any minute now, and if he catches—"

"Catches what?" came a sudden voice.

Eve nearly lost hold of her drinks tray, having jumped through her own skin. Swiveling around, she laid eyes on a stiff-standing Pete with his hands in his pockets. An unimpressed stare blanketed his face.

"Jesus!" the bartender snapped. "Didn't anyone ever tell you not to sneak up on a woman with high blood pressure?"

"Blood pressure." With a smirk, Chains jabbed light-heartedly, "That explains a lot."

I bit down the amusement.

"What's that supposed to mean?" hissed Eve, shooting us both a critical scowl.

A loud crash from the bar interrupted us.

To the side of the counter, Elliot had dropped some kind of thick glass. It'd collided against the floor with a heavy thud and shattered into a mess of hazardous pieces. His quivering eyes widened. His posture stiffened under the weight of a few annoyed stares.

My first instinct was to move to him, but I caught myself before I did. Instead, the dagger in my hand fell against varnished wood.

"He's definitely never done that," Angela mentioned.

Pete scoffed hoarsely.

"What the hell's the matter with that kid?" he muttered, interrogating Eve. "Why's he polishing cups when there are customers to serve?"

Picking up the dagger again, I changed the topic with a question that turned heads.

"You ever lose someone, Pete?"

An ugly glare creased the folds of his wearing face. He inquired defensively, "Why do you ask?"

"Curious."

Pete huffed. Scratched his neck. Stared off elsewhere.

"Uh... my daughter," he managed to confess. "I don't like to talk about it."

Daughter?

Everyone at the table moved to stare at him. Safe to say, nobody had been expecting that answer. Not out of somebody so irritable and hard-hearted, at least.

"Really?" Jaws asked.

With the surrounding Stray Dogs hanging on his every word, Pete spoke uncomfortably into the air.

"Three years ago. Car accident," he said. "She was hit by a drunk driver."

Chains knotted his brows. "But you own a bar?"

A gloomy silence quickly encased the booth.

"Yeah." Pete muttered, "Thanks for the reminder."

He turned to Eve.

"I'll be in the back. Don't forget to organize the shelves when you get a chance, and... adjust that crooked picture frame." He griped, "It's bothering me."

So did most other things, evidently.

Eve deadpanned, "Organise the shelves? You mean the ones I just tidied up an hour ago?" A bitter scoff. "Sure, why not. You want them in size or color order this time?"

"Hah, I would've gone for taste!" suggested the nearby Splitter, leaning over the divider of our booth. His buddies cackled.

Goddamn alcoholics, I loured.

"Drop the sarcasm, Eve," the boss cautioned. "I already have one overpaid bartender staring off into space; I don't need you slacking off too."

The tip of my blade stabbed into the table.

As Pete finally sauntered off, the rest of the booth broke out in a gaggle of laughs, mocking Eve with pointed fingers and exaggerated Ooohs. Curling her lip distastefully, she rolled her eyes at their behavior.

Her attention turned to the mess Chains and I had made of the table and map.

"Chipping away at the furniture we just got." Lightly smacking the back of Chains' thick head, she scolded, "Very considerate, gentlemen."

Sulking, the ivory-haired biker grumbled an array of curses and rubbed his hurt skull. Eve strolled off, and I smirked at Chains' misery.

Reaching for the darts, I dislodged them from the map and rolled up the coarse paper.

"Alright," I spoke up, commanding silence over the chattering bikers in our booth. "Now that everyone here has a general understanding of the situation, I trust that all the essential details will be relayed to the rest of the club. The location for tomorrow's rendezvous with Mayhem will be sent out in the morning." Scanning the bikers' expressions, I checked, "Any last questions?"

"Yeah." Cig raised his hand. "How sure are you that this plan is going to work?"

My jaw ticked—for once, I wasn't completely decided on a reply. How sure was I on this? How sure was I that I wouldn't be leading everyone here to an early demise?

Pulling in a deep breath, I let my nerves settle before replying in turn.

"As sure of it as my father would've been."

Sideways glances were passed around the table. I simmered in the groups' silence—until, eventually, Rusty perked up from his quiet corner.

"Shit—" he raised his glass— "good enough for me."

I would never admit it out loud, but... I was slightly touched by the vote of confidence.

The booth resumed conversation. Beer was drowned in, laughter continued to echo, and I soon found myself looking down at my phone when it began to buzz in my pocket.

The notification came from a text to an unfamiliar group chat—one with Chains in it, apparently, because the biker pulled out his phone in kind. Our attentions narrowed to the words on our screens.

New Notifications (2)
Kato: We have a problem.

The message that followed had Chains and I up out of our seats in an instant, pushing for the front doors.

Kato: It's Han. He's gone.

===

E L L I O T

It was late in the night when Noah finally came home.

Of course, I was off in my room the second I heard his keys in the front door. There was no need for me to risk witnessing another one of his sorrowful stares, or the conflict that plagued his eyes whenever the two of us were close enough for a conversation. I also didn't want to be reminded of what'd happened that night. Our frustrating argument.

I hated every second of us like this. I also knew I was only postponing the inevitable—but I just wasn't in the state to talk. I didn't want to talk about my parents, or how I was coping, or my conversations with Han or Sage. Selfish as it was, Noah didn't need to see me.

Unfortunately, only a little while later, my deliberate attempts to skirt him hadn't seemed to work out.

A short knock rapped against my bedroom door.

Don't answer it, part of me thought. You know you're only going to fight if you answer it.

Brushing my hair back, I felt my exhausted heart hammering into my mouth, but I kept myself planted on my bed. No dice. Noah knocked against the barrier again, and I slowly realized he wasn't planning to let me off free.

Lugging my feet, I swallowed down my antsy nerves before dragging open the door.

Noah waited for me on the other side, one arm propped against the doorframe, the other tucked into the back pocket of his grey sweatpants. The silver ring hanging from his chain glistened in the middle of his exposed chest. He wore nothing else. Seeing as his hair was moist and his skin was beaded with stray droplets of water, I figured he'd just come out of the shower.

He spoke up first, quietly. "You got home before me."

That's it?

"Felt sick. Left work early." Keeping it terse, I asked, "What do you want?"

As long as 'sick' meant 'I had an anxiety attack in the bathroom', and 'left' meant 'I quit my job', then I'd told him the truth. For the most part, at least. He didn't need to know about the coughing fit yet, or the fact that I was being haunted by the memories of Malcom strangling me. Perhaps I'd talk to him about it all later, though.

Either way, my life was officially Joe's-free.

Noah crossed his toned arms over an insufferably bare chest. With a slight head-tilt, his rubescent lips pursed, and an inscrutable glance rested down onto my figure.

"You're wearing my shirt," he pointed out.

"I'm wearing a shirt." A very cozy, very oversized, very Noah-scented shirt.

"My shirt."

I sucked my teeth. "You have a hundred black shirts. Go pick another one."

"I want that one."

"This was in my pile, so it's mine now." Reaching for the door, I told him, "If you're so desperate, then go put those millions you have to good use and buy another freaking closet. I don't care."

He wedged his foot in the gap.

"Elliot."

I stepped back as he pushed my door open. When I didn't put up a fight, his mountainous figure loomed into my space, casting a shadow over me that barred the light from the hallway. His hard shoulders mimicked the unrelenting clench that had tightened his sculpted jaw. Something had clearly stressed him out tonight.

"Are you kidding me?" I rasped. "Of all the things we have to argue about right now, you pick a shirt?"

Eyes unmoving, Noah was silent.

"Look," I stammered, shrinking in on myself. "I get it. I shouldn't have gone to Sage without telling you. I shouldn't have put myself in danger like that, and I shouldn't have gone behind your back to find Han. You don't have to keep drilling it into my head."

The biker stated, "I wasn't going to."

"Then what do you want? Because you're obviously not here for the shirt; you want to argue with me. So fine, let's argue."

Noah moved to speak, but I cut him off.

"Yes, Noah, I messed up. I went behind your back that night at the beach, and instead of telling you that Han was there, I was insane enough to want to hear him out. Yes, he killed the Chief, and that is unforgivable—but I thought I could use him to help us." Pushing my hair back, I admitted, "Except, more than all that, I wanted to know how my mom died. Because everyone in my life was lying to me, and I was selfish enough to want answers about it—answers from somebody."

My arms crossed. "So, yes, I hurt you. And I regret that now—but I will never regret learning the truth."

Honey-gold eyes roamed my withdrawn figure, his attention sinking into every word that escaped my bruised lips. Standing still between me and the exit, Noah baked me in our stiff silence, his only response an idle tapping on my doorknob.

He's provoking me on purpose, I thought. Except his clouded stare was impossible to read.

"And let's not pretend like you didn't hurt me, either," I stuttered out, desperate to fill in the gaps he was leaving behind. "I mean, how could you? After everything I've said, everything we've been through together, how could you think that it was okay to treat me like that? How could you push me away? How could you shout at me, a-and accuse me of things that so obviously weren't true?

"That was the last thing I needed out of you, of all people. I could've gone to anyone else on the planet, but I went to you first, because you were the only person I trusted enough to help me. You destroyed that trust like it was nothing. On a night when I was already going through enough crap, your actions delivered the final blow. And that hurt more than anything else. More than James' lies, more than discovering the truth about my own mother's death."

More silence followed.

An inexplicable weight had made my limbs heavier. It stiffened my nerves and rooted me to my place. If I were a tree, I would surely be using all my leaves to hide myself away.

Why won't he say anything?

"So, yeah," I rambled on. "I'm sorry if I don't want to forgive you. I'm sorry if I can't find it in me for us to be on good terms right now. I'm sorry that I keep messing things up for you, and I'm sorry that I keep getting in your way. I'm sorry I'm such a big, monumental fuck-up in the grand display of your life."

A brush of insult struck Noah's expression. His rigid gaze softened.

"But you know what?" I decided.

Clearing my coarse throat, my foot took a mutinous step forward. A quiver tickled my spine.

"You hurt me," I spoke. "And for a long time, I didn't think that kind of thing was possible for me anymore. I thought I was well past feeling miserable over the actions of other people. I thought I'd locked myself up enough to never feel that way again."

"To never feel love," Noah remembered.

The fragile lining of those heartfelt words struck me like a dagger to the ribs.

"That's right," I said. "I've lived through that kind of horrible shit once already." Gripping my hair, a scoff followed. "Hell, my entire life has been one great, big theatre act of horrible shit, and for god's sake, I'm still persevering through it all. So if the hell I've been going through this last week is the worst it can get for me, then what's some more shit added to the pile?"

Noah's attention tilted upwards; his chiseled features pointed in confusion.

"Where are you going with this?" he asked.

"I was afraid." Forcing down a painful breath, I told him, "For the longest time, I thought that if I ever opened up my heart to someone again, whatever pieces of it were still intact would be broken. But I'm not afraid of that anymore. After what happened that night at the beach—I am not afraid of pain anymore.

"A broken heart can't possibly hurt me as much as anything that the last week has put me through. So, if telling you how I really feel might take even a sliver of this terrible weight off my chest, then I'm just going to go for it. I'll take the damn trust fall."

"Elliot, what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that... I'm done fighting." Heart hammering away, I swallowed hard. "And I know there's a good chance this might go nowhere, but... I would happily live the rest of my lifetime in endless misery if it meant just a second of happiness by your side. I'd gladly take on all that pain, and it'd be okay, because it'd be for you."

I took a breath before speaking again.

"I'm in love with you, Noah."

His grip tightened on the edge of my door.

"And as frustrated as I am right now," I mentioned softly, "it's been killing me inside every minute you haven't known that."

Neither of us moved.

Perhaps I'd expected more. Perhaps I'd expected a look of relief, or a devastating smile, or maybe even a quick laugh. Perhaps I'd expected him to sweep me up into his arms, to kiss my cheeks and temples. Perhaps I'd expected more joy.

Noah gave me none of that.

"You don't really want this." His words ghosted over me, uniform and distant. "You're lost, and confused, and you're making a mistake."

"I... I thought you'd be happier."

His head shook. "I don't want you to say it just to make me happy, Elliot, I want you to say it because it's consumed you. I want you to say it because, like me, it's the only goddamn thing that keeps you sane." He argued, "I want you to say it because you trust in it, you believe in it; because you know it's real and true and everything you've ever desired."

My heartbeat thundered. Taken aback, I didn't speak.

"I want you to need it," Noah pressed, desperation wavering his voice. "Not because I want it, or because it's your only option, but because it's the only thing that'll let you breathe." He stood up straighter. His sullen eyes wandered elsewhere. "If you really mean this, you won't say it for my happiness. You'll say it for yours."

Noticing the splintering pain in my chest, I insisted,

"I love you, Noah."

"No," he refuted. "No, you don't."

"And how would you know what I feel?"

"Because you can't love me, Elliot," he drove out. "You want to love me, yes, but me won't be good for you. I've been putting your life at risk since the very first day we met. I've hurt you, I've broken promises, I've betrayed your trust and I've failed to keep you safe time and time again." Noah muttered, "That is not the kind of love you deserve. You deserve better than me."

Is that what you believe?

Before thinking on it, my nails curled into the flesh of my palm. My stomach hurt. My tears wanted free.

"That's what you think," I said, forcing it all back. "That's what you feel. You think my life has been this great, colossal mess since the day we met—but that's not true. I've been the mess. I've been the mess because of you."

"Don't go there, Alley Cat." He sighed. "Don't m—"

"You gave me freedom. You cared for me. You gave me your patience, your kindness, your love." Balling my fists, I breathed, "You showed me your golden heart—and despite every horrible circumstance we've been through, you did your best to take care of mine. Despite everything, I still shiver for you like I did that first day we met. So if I've been a mess, it's because you've made me that way. Because your love has devoured me."

A glimmer of emotion rippled through his eyes.

Holding on to that, I closed the distance. His soothing warmth embraced my lone frame. I reached for his hand in that moment, slipping my trembling fingers into his tender ones.

"I don't care that we're not perfect," I promised. "I care that we're trying. I care that you've helped me open my heart up again, and... I care about you."

Noah's breathing faltered.

"I love you," I whispered. So, so gently, I spoke, "I love you so much that I'm weak whenever you're around. I love your warmth, your laugh, and how your eyes always watch for me whenever I'm close by. I love you like I love your scars. I love you the same way I love your name and I love you like my skin loves your touch. I love you." My palm brushed the side of his cheek. "I love you, Noah Black, and I will never let you wish that away."

For a long moment, the Stray Dog was elsewhere.

His lungs heaved. His eyes, full of devastation and hope and grief, stared right over my head. The room was so silent I wasn't sure whose heartbeat was ringing in my ears. I hoped it was his.

"Say something," I whispered to him. "Please."

An exhale.

"You're still wearing my shirt."

Perhaps silence would have been kinder. Shouting and crying were both viable reactions to those words.

I picked defeat.

Chewing on a shuddering lip, I pried some distance between us. He doesn't care. I wanted to sob. Maybe he loved the challenge, but not me. Bundling the bottom hem of the fabric in my grasp, I thought frustratedly, All he wants is his damn shirt.

I turned my back to him and pulled the loose material over my head in one swift motion. Let him have it. Standing frigid in shorts and socks, I gripped the shirt in distressed hands and wished I could set the thing on fire as I teetered back around.

Except, Noah wasn't standing by the door anymore.

"Do you mean it?" came a breathless, uneven whisper. Bare chest to bare chest, his hesitancy was palpable. "You... you meant what you said? You're sure?"

Heat flushed into the peaks of my cheekbones.

My blood was pure gasoline. Shivers like dancing sparks moved up my naked spine, and I stifled labored breaths, trying not to ignite my own skin.

It's the only thing I've ever been sure of, I decided, nodding my faint head.

"I love you."

And this time, it was easier. Lighter.

"Do you have any idea," panted Noah softly, "how long I've waited to hear you say that?"

Daring to face him, I peered upwards, confronting his height with a shield of curiosity. But nothing could have prepared me for the fervent desire in his gaze. Brown like sweet honey and just as warm, wisps of profound lust bled into pools of adoration in his eyes.

Please, I didn't ask aloud—but I didn't have to.

He was kissing me.

Everything else vanished. The cold, the pain, the air in my lungs—and even my shirt, when Noah tossed it to the floor.

Heaven help me.

Thrilling electricity pierced through my every nerve in a frenzy. My feverish skin brushed against his embracing arms; my brain clouded over in a mess of unfinished thoughts and delighted senses. I melted into him. His powerful arm around my torso was the only support I had when my knees buckled beneath me.

Panting into his mouth, my hands trailed from his chest to his neck to his clean hair. The musky, vanilla scent wreathing into my space was quickly defeated by the sweetness of his lips against mine. Commanding, caring, passionate. For my fast-beating heart, however, all of this was too slow, too sensual, too patient.

Without breaking the kiss, Noah hoisted me up with ease. My legs hooked around his waist. Head full of stars, I barely noticed him walking us elsewhere.

His bedroom, came a thought that fizzled away.

With a nip to the tattoo in my mouth, Noah haphazardly elbowed open his door. Reading his mannerisms, I swept his objects off the nearby dresser before my ass landed onto it with an oomph. Heated air flushed down my lungs when our lips finally parted. Taking hold of my face with a ringed hand, he purposefully exposed the crook of my sore neck and trailed sucking kisses near my jaw.

A wheezy moan fluttered from my throat. My head was spinning, and I thought for sure that I was floating.

"I... I was blinded, that night," Noah murmured against my skin. "I thought that you'd been hurt, that you'd been threatened, and when I found out you weren't... I didn't know what to do with myself." He kissed my cheekbone. "I didn't know how to feel, how to react, and at the end of it all... I picked the worst possible option. That's my fault." With a voice like leather, he said, "I should've had more faith in you than that."

My temple, my eyelid, my nose. Everywhere his lips kissed me, every part of me that his fingers touched—all of it felt like it was glowing.

His forehead moved to rest on mine.

"I should've been attentive enough to hear what you had to say." Impassioned eyes spelled my soul as he whispered, "I'm so sorry, Elliot."

I know.

"Always apologizing," I teased softly.

Noah's hands curled tentatively around mine.

"I mean it," he voiced. "I'm... just scared. Scared that someone could hurt you, but most of all, scared of myself. I've never... I've never done this before. I've never felt this way with anyone, never loved anyone like this, and I'm terrified that I'll destroy it."

"No," I murmured, "you won't."

As a show of reassurance, I placed a kiss on his tattooed shoulder. Clothed hips rolled against him. Hot breaths panted into my hair as I kissed flowers onto his reactive skin. A scarlet blush had stained the back of his neck and ears—I adored the way that color deepened when I greeted the sweet spot on his neck with a soothing love bite.

He shuddered into me. A stifled groan sounded from the back of his throat.

"Behave," Noah muttered through his teeth.

I don't want to.

Satisfaction played on my mind. His fingers hooked into my waistband, and I lifted my hips, letting him pull off my shorts. Clothed only in grey boxers now, I brushed away the chip of self-consciousness on my shoulder and held on tight when he lifted me off the dresser.

We moved to the satin sheets of his mattress.

Noah laid me down softly. Settling between my legs, he pushed hair out of his face and sat back on his ankles.

The sight of him took my breath away.

Lethal wasn't strong enough to describe it. In the faint moonlight coming in through the curtains, Noah's body was a masterpiece of brutal edges and sharp angles. Tattoos coiled up his arms, his chest, his ribs. The silver chain around his neck glimmered between his collarbones, while scars from old wounds painted stories on his pristine canvas. On his knees before me, he gazed down at my winded body like I was his beloved god. Like I was the only one here worthy of such worship.

He admitted into the air, "All I've been able to think about is you, in pain, alone. It's been breaking me apart."

I missed you too.

Leaning over me, the mattress heaved beneath his weight as he caged me between his arms. Gentle fingertips went to brush the stray hair out of my lashes.

"Let me make it up to you." With a chaste kiss to my right collarbone, he ardently vowed, "Let me spend the rest of my life making it up to you."

His lips wandered. Wet kisses moved in tandem with his scarred, callous hands, slowly caressing paths down my muscles and curves. He ravished every inch of me as I moaned beneath him in raspy breaths. Taking his time, he made sure to watch every reaction I had with that striking stare of his. If I tried to hide my flustered face away at any point, he would pin my wrist to the bed and nip my chest. Behave would echo in my head.

Control had slipped out of my grasp. I was now just a passenger on this ride, and there was no going back.

"My darling," he breathed. "My devotion."

"Noah..."

"Tell me you want this," he pleaded deeply, keeping my waist locked down. "Tell me it's okay."

Heat brimmed the edges of my eyes.

"Please," I whispered. "Please. I need you."

I'm lost without you.

Acting on those words, Noah's mouth eventually made its way down from my sternum to my hipbones. I gasped. My chin trembled as he sucked at my skin and left gentle bites wherever was particularly sensitive.

Which, as it turned out, was everywhere. My hips bucked at his gestures. A low whine betrayed my lips.

"You're the only thing I've ever wanted," he professed against my burning frame. "In all these years, you're the only thing that's kept me going. Before I met you, before I even knew your name... I knew you were the only one for me." He murmured, "God knows I would take apart the fucking universe if it meant you'd give me just a minute of your attention."

My breathing hitched.

Years.

I barely had time to process the implications of those thoughts before Noah sunk down, propping one of my legs onto his shoulder.

"For all this time," he continued by my inner thigh, "you've been somewhere behind every dream and every decision I've ever made. And now that I know you—" he kissed my supple skin— "now that I have you in my arms, I can't... I can't just let you..."

His voice faded away. Replaced by shallow breaths and delicate touches, his arms curled around my legs, keeping me pliant to his every whim.

I'd be okay with it. If the entire world ended right here, if the earth stopped spinning and the clocks stopped ticking and the sky collapsed down all around us, I'd be okay with it. Because, if nothing else, he and I would be together. We'd live out the rest of our eternity in this moment, finally at peace, finally joined as one superlative whole. I didn't need another day. I didn't care for anything or anyone else—all I needed was him.

Touching me, kissing me, filling my head with supernovas and silk. I love him. More than everything above, I needed him to be mine.

Red marks blossomed where he licked and sucked at my skin. Following my curvatures with his piercing and teeth, I moaned shamelessly, panting like a stray in a box without holes. He was so precise with everything he did—deliberate, mapping out the nerves of my body with every taste and caress. Amber irises would briefly hold eye contact with me through his thick, half-mast lashes.

If only I could tell what he's thinking.

Just when I thought I was going to tip over the edge from his touches alone, Noah lifted himself up again.

I tilted my head back and caught my breath.

Brushing his fingers into my hair, he savored a path up my torso and finally embraced me with his arms. One supported my head, the other curved around to my shoulder blades. Holding me. Secured in his grasp, I felt my heart punching holes through my ribs. Rushing blood was a veil over my senses that tinted my surroundings a rose-colored red.

After a kiss to my hairline, he rested his temple against my cheek. Puffing for air, he took a moment to compose himself before speaking.

"If I've ever had you feeling less than deserving of my love, then that, by far, is my greatest shame." Every goosebump on my body resonated with his voice. "I'll spend every day trying to make up for it—trying to give you a life overflowing with all the beautiful things you deserve. That's the kind of devotion I was made for."

My soul echoed, I was made for you.

Our lips weaved together. Passionate, slow, I invited in his pierced tongue. It traced my mouth and the four tattoo hidden behind it. He only did that when he was most comfortable—when he was completely, undeniably, effortlessly in love with me.

"Alley Cat," his swollen lips whispered. "Tell me this is okay."

"It's okay. I'm okay."

"Let me have you," he pleaded. "Let me have all of you, please. Let me..."

I kissed his jaw. "You've already got me."

His expression caught itself somewhere between a smile and a laugh. Golden eyes overflowed with his weightless joy. The look utterly melted my cold spirit.

Beautiful.

"I love you, darling. My heart will love yours forever."

Those were the words that demolished the last of my walls and brought me to life in his tender arms.

=||A/N||=

I think I'm just... gonna go...
lay down in the street for a while...