Page 82 of The Misfit

“No,” Noah leans forward. “YOU cleaned it up. You said it yourself. Without counting first. Without panicking. And I bet Lee just stood there watching you with that strangely proud look he gets on his face when he stares at you for longer than two seconds.”

The memory hits me hard—Lee’s smile, his quiet“that’s my girl,”and the way he’d squeezed my hand after.

“One incident doesn’t?—”

“You went to a charity gala, too, with tons of people in attendance, with germs all around you. Do you remember telling me about that as well?” Noah interrupts.

“Stop making sense.” I shake my head at him.

His face lights up. “I can’t. Not when you did so fucking great. You danced in public. You handled his mother’s fake rich lady smile and didn’t break under pressure. That’s not pretending, Salem. That’s growth, that’s healing.”

Thunder cracks overhead, making me jump. But Noah’s right—six months ago, that sound would have sent me straight into a panic attack. Now it’s just startling.

Because of Lee.

Because of how he teaches me to breathe through the scary parts.

Because of how he makes everything make sense, even when nothing makes sense at all.

“Growth or not, I’m still broken,” I whisper as rain drums against the roof.

Noah’s smile is soft but firm. “Maybe. But you’re stronger broken with him than perfect without him. Plus, we’re all broken in some way, shape, or form.”

The truth settles in my chest.

Broken but stronger.

Imperfect but trying.

Maybe that’s enough.

Maybe I’m enough.

My phone buzzes again, but this time, Drew’s name lights up the screen. Noah raises an eyebrow as I actually reach for it this time.

Drew:He’s not doing well.

Drew:Hasn’t left his apartment in two days.

Drew:Keeps cleaning everything. Three times.

My heart clenches deep in my chest like someone is squeezing it. Lee doesn’t clean obsessively—that’s my thing, my coping mechanism.

Except …

Another text, this time from Bel.

Bel:Found him counting ceiling tiles at The Mill.

Bel:He misses you.

Bel:He’s lost without his anchor.

“See?” Noah gestures at my phone. “You’re not the only one falling apart.”

My gaze catches on the silk gloves Lee bought me. They sit folded on my dresser, arranged by length. I remember how careful he was when presenting them to me and how he’d learned exactly how to help me put them on. What we did at the gala was terrifying, but is admitting and accepting my feelings for him more terrifying than never sharing another laugh or kiss with him again?

“Did you know,” Noah asks quietly, pulling up photos on his phone, “that Lee came to me last week? He asked me to teach him more about OCD. He told me he wanted to learn everything he could so he could help you.”

---