The late afternoon light filters in through the wide cafe windows, warming the wooden floors and casting a golden hue over the string lights we've half-hung. The shift is nearly over. Paul and Chloe are already here, chatting as they prep for the night ahead. I'm on a small step stool, helping Noah stick a glittering snowflake decal to the glass door, while Yuna is still handling the customer. Noah holds the tape, passing it to me piece by piece.
"You missed a corner," he says, quietly amused.
I glance down, trying to align the sticker properly. "You're the one handing me the tape too slow."
"Oh?" His voice is teasing. "I thought I was being precise."
Behind us, Paul suddenly whistles. "Would you look at that? I've never seen Noah care so much about a sticker."
Chloe giggles. "Or hover that close to someone."
Yuna leans on the counter, chin resting on her palm with her wide grin. "He even fixed Knox's apron earlier. So sweet."
I blink, caught off guard. My cheeks flush as I step down from the stool. "You guys are reading into things too much."
"Are we?" Yuna adds, "Because I swear Noah practically leapt across the counter when you spilled that drink earlier. He looked like he was about to fight that lady."
I wave them off, laughing too, even if it's a bit forced. "He was just doing his job. It's customer service, right?"
"Okay," Paul whistles.
Noah, as always, remains composed. He continues with taping the decoration and says nothing. Not a single word to confirm or deny. That should calm me down, but it doesn't.
It makes my thoughts spiral.
Did I misread everything?
Was I imagining his concern? The way he always makes sure I eat? The phone calls, the way he looked at my hand like it physically hurt him to see me injured?
I glance over at him. He's calmly fluffing a small Christmas pillow for the window seat, his profile serene as ever. Like the teasing didn't reach him at all.
I laugh again and shove a plastic reindeer into the centerpiece. "Anyway, you're all delusional."
They let it go, eventually, and I finish the rest of my shift without further commentary. But the teasing lingers in my chest like a stubborn ember.
***
After closing, I grab my coat and head for the door. As usual, Noah walks beside me. There's an easy rhythm to it now, like an unspoken agreement. He doesn't ask—he just comes with me. Protectively, quietly.
We stop by the corner supermarket again. Winter wind claws at our cheeks, and I don't even try to resist when he buys us each a cup of hot noodles. We sit on the bench near the bus stop, the steam fogging up my glasses.
He waits until I've had a few bites before gently taking my hand.
"Let me see it."
I freeze but let him unwrap the bandage. The burn stings less now, but his touch is still cautious, fingers warm even through the winter chill.
"It's healing well," he says softly. "But you need to be more careful."
"You make it sound like I did it on purpose."
He doesn't answer. He just dabs a bit of ointment from a tube he brought and wraps my hand again, carefully, as if he's handling something fragile. His brows are slightly furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line. There's that look again. Concern. Or maybe something more. I don't know.
And I don'twant to know.
Because his hand lingers on mine a moment too long, and something inside me twists in a way I can't name. My breath catches.
I pull back a little, trying to force a grin. "You're fussier than Yuna."
"You're worse than Paul," he counters, but his tone is warm.
We sit there in silence for a moment, just sipping our noodles and watching the cold breath of winter curl around the streetlamps.
Then I say it, because it's been on my mind since the hospital.
"I need to earn more money."
He turns to look at me, unreadable again. "I thought you were living alone? Well, just guessing."
"I am," I answer, "but I have ... other responsibilities. I've been thinking about finding another part-time job. Something evening or weekend."
Noah looks away, sighs through his nose.
"I understand," he says after a moment. "But … working two jobs isn't easy. It'll stretch you too thin. You've already got dark circles. You had a sleeping problem, right?"
"I can handle it."
"Can you?"
I want to snap, to say yes just to defend my pride. But I stay quiet. Because he's right. I've been running on caffeine and anxiety. My body aches at the end of every day. The hospital visits tear me apart. And I've been avoiding checking my bank balance.
Noah stands and throws away his empty noodle cup. Then he looks down at me, tone gentler now.
"I know you're trying to rebuild everything you lost," he says, "but burning yourself out won't bring it back any faster."
I look up at him, startled.
How does he always say the thing I'm not ready to admit?
I nod, slowly. "I just … I don't want to feel helpless anymore."
He sits again. "You're not helpless. You're doing what you can. And you're not alone."
His words land heavy in my chest.
Not alone.
But the problem is—I don't know what we are.
I lean back against the bench and close my eyes for a second. His presence beside me is calming, like a heavy coat in the cold. And yet, it stirs something uneasy in me too.
I'm straight. I remind myself.
This is just comfort. This is just gratitude. This is just me, clinging to something warm in a long winter.
But when he bumps his shoulder lightly against mine, when he offers to walk me a little further than the stop, I don't say no.
And I don't ask why I'm smiling.