— Chapter 10 —

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"Leave it," Noah told me, referring to the glass on the floor. He kept his gaze trained on the drunk men before him. They weren't laughing so much anymore.

I shook my head and answered him carefully, "it's fine, Noah. I can—"

"I said leave it."

Drawing my hands away from the many shards before me, I figured it was wiser to listen... especially with the look on his face and the situation unfolding before me.

Despite the commotion, someone from Noah's table chuckled, "'Noah?'"

I realized quickly that it was a criticism of addressing Noah by his name. Apparently, not many people did that. Shit, I thought to myself, did I fuck up?

Noah didn't seem to notice, though, the situation between the four of us still heavy.

"You felt the need to break all this shit," he spoke coldly. I couldn't help but listen nervously at the ominous way in which he spoke. "Clean up after yourselves."

"Come on, man," the red-haired one chuckled lightly. "We were just messing around."

"Yeah?" Noah feigned care for a brief second, before going flat again. "I'm not. Hurry the fuck up."

"Christ, fine," the younger biker scowled. Leaning over to me, he reached for the dustpan. Noah stopped him before he could take it.

"No, I don't think so."

"What the fuck do you expect us to pick it up with, then?" The younger one frowned.

Noah shrugged.

"You have two hands and opposable thumbs," he said simply. "I'm sure you can figure it out. Come on."

"This is a must be a joke," the other biker scoffed, puffing out his jacket. His scowl rested on me for a split second, before turning back to Noah. "You can't be serious."

Noah answered, "Am I laughing?"

"Whatever, man. We're paying fucking customers," the man with red hair answered. "I'm not doing it."

A dark look came to rest on Noah's face as an annoyed exhale left his lips.

"I'm not in the mood to deal with this shit," he grumbled.

Then, without another word, Noah escalated the situation. Forcefully gripping the hair of both bikers, he dragged them to their feet—despite the loud curses that flooded out of their mouths. I moved out of the way, both shocked and somewhat relieved.

"Let's go," Noah said to them, pulling them by their hair in the direction of the front doors. Despite the struggling of the men in his grasp, Noah didn't seem to require much effort to move them.

The two bikers yelled drunkenly at him—mostly different iterations of 'get the fuck off me' and some additional cuss words. Eventually, though, Noah shoved them out of the bar, leaving most of us inside with our jaws hanging open.

Did that really just happen?

It was a moment or two before he came in again, dusting his hands off and giving a flat look to the people staring at him.

"Alright," he said, "show's over."

As the bikers took the cue and branched slowly off into their own conversations, Noah returned to me, dropping down to help me pick up the glass.

The look on his face had softened, for the most part. With a gentle gaze, he said, "sorry about them. They won't be bothering you anymore."

"You didn't need to do all that," I said to him.

"You'd rather I let them pick on you?"

I shook my head and frowned, picking up the last of the larger shards. "I would have handled it."

"Well, I handled it for you," he shrugged, a soft pull on his lips. As he picked up the brush to sweep up the tiny pieces, he added, "You're welcome, by the way."

"I don't remember saying thank you."

He chuckled in response.

As the last of the glass got cleaned up off the ground, I dusted off my hands, noticing the few tiny cuts on my fingers. Perhaps I shouldn't have done it bare-handed.

Noah passed me back the full tray of glass and offered me a small but genuine smile. He opened his mouth to say something, but I spoke first.

"Can we talk?" I asked hesitantly. "Outside?"

Surprise flashed across his eyes for the second that followed. He then nodded his head, speaking softly.

"Sure."

By the time I'd disposed of the broken glass safely, Noah had passed a few words to his table and left to wait for me outside of the bar. I needed fresh air, anyway. Once I was sure the bar would be fine, I decided to go on an early break.

I picked my bag up off the floor behind the counter and walked out of Joe's. As the doors shut behind me, I took the moment to spot Noah out in the parking lot.

He was leaning on his motorcycle not many feet from the building, scrolling through his phone. A lit cigarette rested between his lips—though, with the few minutes he'd been waiting for me, he'd burned through most of it.

Thin flakes of snow fell lightly from the dark sky, with the full moon faintly visible from behind a grey cloud. It was a pretty night.

Noah looked up when I approached him, crushing the butt of his Marlboro cigarette under the heel of his boot. The winter air had made his cheeks flush a subtle shade of pink, and the breeze had ruffled the locks of his dark hair.

Christ, he's attractive, I couldn't help but think when his eyes locked with my own. Briefly scolding myself on the inside, I listened as Noah spoke up.

"Hey."

Getting to the point, I unzipped my bag and pulled out a familiar pile of faded leather.

"I have your jacket," I told him quietly, holding it up for him to see properly. Noah's gaze trailed over it as I asked, "Uh... it's yours, right?"

"Yeah," he answered, something sparkling in the darks of his eyes. "It's mine. How'd you know that?"

"It's got 'Stray Dog' written on it," I stated, pointing out the obvious. "You and Chief are the only two people who own one like it—from what I remember, at least—so I just took an educated guess."

He took the jacket from my hands. Slowly folding it in half, he draped it over the seat of his bike. "Right," he answered gently.

Instead of ignoring it like I told myself I would, I figured I'd get the question out in the open while I still had the chance.

"You didn't have to leave it over me that night," I muttered. "Why did you?"

For a moment, he didn't answer, which made me nervous. Was I too upfront about it?

"Apparently I 'didn't have' to do a lot of things," he chuckled lightly, briefly resting his gaze on something in the distance. I couldn't help but notice the subtle bags beneath his eyes.

Shoving his hands in his pockets, he turned back to me. There was a small pull on the sides of his lips as he answered me. "I just... saw you sleeping there. You were shivering. It looked like it was going to snow, too, so I guess I saved you the trouble of catching a cold. I figured you'd give it back anyway, so I thought... why not?"

I sighed.

"We're not friends, Noah," I told him. "You don't even know me. That doesn't make any sense."

He shrugged. "I felt like doing a nice thing. Sue me for it."

Crossing my arms over my chest, I pointed out the obvious yet again. "You realize that doesn't sound like you at all, right?"

"What can I say?" He joked. "I defy expectations."

Why did he have to make this so difficult?

"I didn't ask for your help."

He shrugged. "Maybe not. But you were sleeping outside, Elliot, and in the middle of winter. I doubt that it was the first time, either. So hate me all you want, but it's obvious something's going on. I'm not just going to ignore that, alright?"

"You should," I snapped. Lowering my head, I softened my tone and let out a shaky exhale. "It's none of your business. You should just... stay away from me."

"Why?"

Looking up at him, my breath caught in my throat when I realized his gaze was already focused on me.

Noah's eyes. Those pretty, terrifying, brilliant, wonderful eyes of his. So lightly colored—lighter than any set of brown eyes I'd ever seen. Tinted a bright, honey-brown, I couldn't help but feel calm when I saw them. Not to mention the small, gold flecks he had, shimmering like fine glitter. They were striking—at times, it felt like he could see right through me. The only set of eyes that could read me like an open book.

"Because you're worried I'll find more bruises like the one I saw that day?"

Noah's tone was both careful and warm as he spoke the words, a sharp contrast to the internal landslide I was facing.

Just like that, he'd stolen a glimpse at one of my pages. Noah Black. He was a stranger—someone I was only just beginning to know. And yet, it felt like he already knew everything there was to know about me.

"You weren't supposed to see that," I mumbled, digging my nails into my palm again. I was nervous—even somewhat scared. Noah couldn't uncover my secrets so easily. He just couldn't. I didn't want him to.

Noah promised me softly, "I'm not going to hurt you, Elliot."

How was I supposed to trust in his words? How, when everyone who'd ever said the same had ended up proving me wrong?

"Let me see your hands," he said to me, drawing me out of my thoughts. Looking up at him, I tried to decipher what he was attempting to do.

My hands?

Slowly, I pulled them out of my pockets, putting them out for him to see. They trembled slightly, but that was mostly due to the cold.

"What is it?" I asked.

Noah gently took hold of them, his warm fingers catching me off guard. Turning my hands up, he rested his attention on my palms.

"I saw you clenching them in there," he explained, tracing his thumbs on the insides of my hands. "You do it quite a bit, actually. See? Nail marks. I figured."

He traced the four tiny marks on each of my palms, taking care not to be rough. The notches were still raw, considering how often I'd pressed into them today.

"How did you know?"

He gave me a soft look, unfolding his right hand for me to see.

"Because," he said, exposing the faded marks on his palm, "I used to do it too."

His weren't as obvious as mine. They weren't red, either, just a little paler than his skin tone. In fact, they looked old—four, small notches, slowly faded with time. It was a total coincidence that he had them too... but it made me feel a little more understood.

"You don't do it anymore?"

He shook his head. "No. Not in a long time."

Noah turned over my hands again, and I couldn't help but focus on the smoothness of his slim fingers. His nails looked like they'd been bitten. His hands were larger than mine, though, with noticeable veins and better-defined knuckles. He had a few small, faded scars in a few places, too.

The Roman numerals he had tattooed over his knuckles in small letters were prominent, too. A date, I figured, only I was too rusty to decipher the exact values.

"Your wrist's swollen," he noticed, his thumb resting on the inner side as he nudged my sleeve out of the way.

My wrist? I frowned. Oh.

Quickly retracting my hands from him, I forced myself out of the temporary calm his presence placed on me. Pulling down my sleeve and stuffing my hands back in my pockets, I watched the way Noah's expression slowly fell flat. My fingers nervously curled around the hems of my sleeve.

"C-Carpal tunnel," I uttered quickly. "It's inflamed."

Noah let out a slow exhale, not in the least convinced from the look on his face.

"You just lied to me," he said, "again."

I chose to ignore him, hoping that a change of topic would make him move on from it.

"Anyway, I... I just wanted to give you your jacket," I told him. "So, if there's nothing else, I'm going back inside."

"Can I see your phone?"

The sudden request made me pause. My phone?

Pulling the old thing out for him to take, I said, "Sure. Why?"

He chuckled as he typed into it, saying, "You should put a passcode on this thing." After a few more moments, though, he met my gaze and turned the screen off.

"Here," he smiled, passing it back to me. As I took it from his hands, he mentioned, "You've got my number now."

...What?

"If you ever feel the overwhelming urge to sleep in a park again... call me," he said, picking up his jacket to head back inside.

He can't be serious.

"See you around, Elliot."