It's past 9 PM when I finally finish doing the laundry. My tiny studio smells faintly like detergent now, warm and clean. I drape the last hoodie over the chair by the window and sit on the bed, a little proud of myself. Back in Evergreen, someone else used to do this stuff. There were housekeepers and assistants, dry cleaning services that picked things up from the front gate. I don't even remember what detergent we used, not that I ever cared.
Now, it's me, a single packet of off-brand soap, and a half-broken washer I fed with coins at the end of the hallway.
I toss myself onto the bed and that's when my phone buzzes.
Noah.
My lips move into a smile before I even realize it. I roll onto my side and answer the call, my voice soft, almost sheepish. "Hey."
"Hey," he says, just as soft. "Did I catch you at a bad time?"
"Not at all," I say, already shifting into a comfortable position. I prop a pillow under my arm and stretch out, letting my legs tangle in the blanket. "Just finished laundry."
"Oh? Domestic Knox," he teases.
"Very. I'm becoming a responsible adult."
He continues, "Or should I say ... malewife Knox?"
He laughs. That low, amused chuckle that sounds like it comes from his chest. I close my eyes and let it settle in my bones. My cheeks burn. I don't know why. It's just a joke. I know. Or not, probably. I don't know.
Malewife he said? I bury my face on pillow. That word gives me weird, unfamiliar feeling. Even when I was in relationships with my exes, I didn't usually get this kind of nervous.
He asks me if I had dinner, if my burned hand is okay. I tell him it stings a little but it's manageable. He hums like he's not entirely satisfied with that answer but lets it go.
Then he asks, "Do you have any plans on your day off?"
Monday. That's in two days. "No," I say. "Sleep until noon, probably."
"Well, I was wondering," he says, sounding a little shy. "I'm thinking of getting a dog. Planning to go to the animal shelter on Monday. And since you once had dog, your opinion will be needed. Want to come with me?"
The question fills me with a kind of giddy warmth I didn't expect. I sit up a little too fast. "Yes. Definitely. I mean, yeah, sure. I'd love to."
I hear a small laugh from his side. "Cool. I'll pick you up after breakfast."
"Okay. I'll make a note."
"You sound so excited," he comments.
"Because I am excited. It's been a long time since I pet a dog."
Noah adds, "What dog was Knox?"
"Golden Retriever!"
He chuckles. "Oh. Now that's interesting. I'm planning to get one too."
"REALLY?!" I shout. "... sorry I got too excited again."
Noah laughs again. "I know I'm asking the right person. Then let's pet one together. Shall we?"
Now. Now that's what you call a promise. An invitation. A ... what? I don't know. But I feel like I'm matter to him. Did he really just ask me to raise a pet together? No way. No. Fucking. Way.
"Are you sure?"
"I'll give you time to think. It's okay if you don't want to. I know it's such a big request in a sudden time."
We fall into easy chatter after that. About animals—what kind we liked as kids, whether we're more of a dog or cat person. He says he prefer cats but has a trauma of them so he wants to have a dog instead.
We drift from animals to favorite places. He says he likes mountains—anywhere that's a bit remote, cool, with fog. I tell him I like lakes. Still water, long grass, soft wind. Somewhere you can draw for hours and no one bothers you.
There's a lull, but it's not uncomfortable. Just space. Just breathing.
I turn on my side again and glance at my phone, his name still glowing at the top of the screen. And I think … I'm starting to get addicted to this. This voice. This time. This safety.
I used to hate silence. It meant something was wrong. Someone angry, or disappointed. Or worse, indifferent. But this—this is different.
Noah doesn't fill every gap with noise. He lets things be. And I find myself wanting to stay in that quiet just a little longer.
"Hey," I murmur.
"Yeah?"
"What are you doing right now?"
I hear the rustle of sheets. "Lying in bed. Same as you, I assume."
"Yeah," I say. "Trying not to fall asleep too fast."
He chuckles again. "Why not?"
"Because then the call ends."
Another pause. Then, softly, "I won't hang up even if you fall asleep."
God. That does something to my chest. Something dangerous.
I press the phone closer to my ear, trying to breathe through it.
"Do you do this with other people?" I ask, trying to keep it light. "Call them until they fall asleep?"
"No," he says simply. "Just you."
I bury my face into my pillow to muffle the sound I almost make. I shouldn't like this. I shouldn't crave this. I tell myself it's just comfort, just something temporary, just someone being kind.
But that's not the truth.
The truth is, I look forward to his name lighting up my screen. I look forward to hearing his voice say my name in that low, steady way. I want to tell him things. Stupid things. Things that don't matter.
Like how I hate folding socks. How I'm scared of pigeons. How I cried during a documentary about baby elephants.
Like how sometimes I feel like I'm standing on the edge of something that used to be mine. A cliff of memory. And how hearing him laugh makes it feel okay, just for a second.
"Hey, Noah," I whisper.
"Yeah?"
"Thanks."
He doesn't ask why. He just says, "Sleep well, Knox."
"I will. You too, Noah."
And somewhere in the middle of his breathing, and mine, I fall asleep with the phone still pressed to my ear.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, I don't feel alone. Like ... I have someone who got my back.