Page 42 of We Can Do
She nods, something vulnerable and trusting in her eyes. “Me too.”
She slides off my lap and takes my hand. Her palm is damp with nervousness as we walk together toward the bedroom. The short hallway feels like miles, each step weighted with anticipation and uncertainty.
I can feel her anxiety in the slight tremble of her fingers. Maybe she thinks I’ll judge her for her condition, or that I’m frustrated by the limitations it puts on us. The thought makes my chest ache.
But I’m not frustrated. Not even close. Life isn’t the fairy tale we’re sold in movies. It’s messy and complicated and sometimes painful. Alexis is a real woman with real struggles, not some perfect fantasy.
A real woman that I’m falling for harder than I ever thought possible.
A real woman that I’m starting to feel I would rearrange the stars for, if she asked.
We cross the threshold into my bedroom, and I’m acutely aware of how bare it is—just a bed with plain gray sheets, a nightstand with a lamp, and a dresser with a few clothes spilling out of a half-open drawer. But none of that matters.
All that matters is the woman whose hand is in mine, who trusts me enough to be vulnerable with me, who’s choosing to be here despite everything complicated between us.
I’m falling for her. No—I’ve already fallen. And standing here in my sparse bedroom with her hand in mine, I know withabsolute certainty that I would move mountains for this woman. I would move the moon itself if she needed me to.
Chapter Sixteen
Alexis
Noah’s bedroom mirrors everything else about his living situation—bare walls, minimal furniture, just the essentials. A bed with plain navy sheets, a single nightstand with a lamp, and a dresser pushed against the far wall. No photos, no art, nothing that tells me who he is beyond the baker who lives for his work. But I’m not here to analyze his decorating choices. My body hums with an entirely different purpose.
I turn to face him, and before either of us can second-guess this moment, I rise up on my toes and capture his mouth with mine. The kiss isn’t gentle or exploratory—it’s hungry, urgent, fueled by shared glances, careful distance, and an attraction that’s been growing for days. His hands find my waist immediately, pulling me closer, and I taste the faint sweetness of flour that always seems to linger on him.
My stomach tightens with more than desire. Anxiety coils through me like smoke, threatening to choke the moment. But I push it down, forcing steady breaths through my nose while our lips move together. Noah Reynolds is not Miles. I repeat it like a mantra. He won’t look at me like I’m a problem to solve,won’t spend hours researching miracle cures online, won’t write articles about the burden of loving someone broken. He’s also not Harvey, who sent three texts after our fourth date saying he “wasn’t ready for something so complicated” after I’d trusted him enough to explain my condition.
Noah is neither of those men. His actions and words have proven that already, right? He could have turned me away and made excuses when I explained my condition in the other room. He’d done neither of those things.
Please let me be right about him.
When we break apart, both breathing hard, he searches my face with those warm brown eyes that first made me forget why I was supposed to keep my distance. “You sure about this?”
“Yes.” The word comes out breathier than intended.
I move toward his bed, lowering myself onto the edge. The mattress is softer than expected, yielding beneath my weight, and smells like him—yeast and butter and something uniquely Noah. He sits beside me, close enough that our thighs touch, but there’s a carefulness to his movements now. Not hesitation exactly, but intention. Awareness.
When he leans in this time, the kiss is different. Slower. We’re not racing against time or doubt anymore. We’re learning each other’s rhythm, finding a pace that belongs just to us. His lips are gentle against mine, asking questions with every press and pull. My hands find his shoulders, solid and warm through his T-shirt.
“Is this okay?” His voice is barely more than breath against my mouth.
“More than.”
Something shifts in his expression—a kind of reverent wonder that makes my chest ache. His hands hover near me, not quite touching, like he’s afraid I might shatter. Or maybe afraid of hurting me without meaning to.
I take his hand in mine, guiding his palm to rest against the side of my neck, just below my jaw. The skin there is sensitive but safe, and when his fingers brush lightly against it, I can’t suppress the contented sigh that escapes. “Here. I like being touched here.”
His thumb traces a slow path along my throat, gentle and precise, and I feel my pulse flutter beneath his touch. He’s studying my face, memorizing this information like it’s one of his recipes—exact measurements, specific techniques, everything noted and filed away.
Slowly, I guide his hand down, along my shoulder, down my back. When we reach the small of my back, I pause, pressing his palm flat against the dip there. “And here.” He applies just enough pressure, fingers spreading wide, massaging small circles that send warmth radiating through my body.
“Good?” His eyes never leave mine, scanning for any flicker of discomfort.
“Very.” My voice sounds foreign to my own ears, soft and full of something I’m not quite ready to name.
I shift on the bed, rolling slightly to face him better, letting my legs fall open just enough to invite him closer. He accepts the invitation carefully, his free hand coming to rest on my knee. The touch is feather-light, his fingers tracing patterns on the fabric of my jeans that I can barely feel but somehow sets every nerve ending alive.
“Noah.” His name falls from my lips like a prayer, and somehow he understands that this—this careful exploration, this patient discovery—is exactly what I need. Not rushed passion or desperate grasping, but this slow unfolding between us. Every touch is a promise, every pause a reassurance that we have time, that there’s no rush, that my needs matter more than any heated urgency.
