Noah's POV
The faint clatter of dishes pulled me from sleep. At first, I thought I was dreaming—the soft thud of drawers opening, the rhythmic scrape of a spoon against a bowl.
I rolled out of bed, rubbing my eyes, and reached for the first shirt I could find. The hallway felt colder than I expected, but the glow spilling from the kitchen drew me like a moth.
Inside, the air was alive with light and motion. Olivia stood by the counter wearing a pale yellow apron, her hair tied up loosely, a few strands framing her face as she mixed something in a large bowl. Her brow was furrowed in concentration, lips pursed slightly as she stirred.
For a moment, I just watched her.
Then she turned and caught me standing there like an idiot in the doorway.
"Oh!" She nearly jumped. "You scared me."
"Sorry," I said quickly. "Didn't mean to sneak up on you."
She glanced at the clock on the wall. "Noah, it's only four in the morning. Why are you even awake?"
"I'm a light sleeper," I replied.
Her shoulders slumped a little. "I'm so sorry, I didn't realize I was making that much noise."
"It's fine," I said with a small laugh. "Honestly, it's not a big deal. My body's probably still adjusting. That, or my old apartment neighbors arguing at two a.m. rewired my brain."
She chuckled softly, visibly relaxing. "Well, since you're up, you might as well sit down. I'll fix you some tea."
"Or," I said, stepping closer to the counter, "I could help. What are you making, anyway?"
She looked at me skeptically for a moment, then sighed in mock defeat. "Bread. And since you insisted—" Her eyes glinted with amusement. "You can knead the dough. It's the worst part."
"Oh, great," I groaned, pretending to regret my decision.
"Too late to back out now." She pushed the bowl toward me, smirking.
I rubbed my palms together and stared at the soft lump inside. "All right, do I just… go for it?"
She laughed. "Not like it's dangerous. Just fold and press. Like this." She demonstrated once, her hands moving with a familiarity that made the whole task look almost graceful. "Now, your turn."
I tried to mimic her movements, slowly pushing the dough, folding it back, doing my best not to mash it into a disaster. My hands were clumsy, and I could feel her watching.
"Relax," she said, trying not to laugh. "You look like it's alive and might fight back."
"It feels alive," I muttered, struggling with the sticky edges.
She was laughing openly now, that same laugh I remembered from school. "This scene is giving me such déjà vu."
I raised an eyebrow, glancing sideways at her. "How so?"
"Remember college? Art class? That one time you used my clay because yours dried up?"
I blinked, realizing where she was going.
"You mean when you scolded me for kneading the clay too long?"
"Yes!" she said, laughing even harder. "You looked exactly like this—terrified of breaking something delicate. You said, 'It's clay, Liv, not glass.'"
"And you said, 'You're overworking it, that's why it cracks!'" I recalled, grinning at the memory. "You sounded so mad."
"I was helping!" she countered, feigning offense.
I smirked. "Would you still scold me if I mess this up?"
"Absolutely," she said without missing a beat.
We both laughed until the sound of the whisk tapping against the bowl filled the space again.
Working side by side in that early morning light, everything felt strangely easy. Peaceful. As if the years between us had vanished with the sunrise.
When the dough was finally smooth enough, she patted it once and smiled. "Perfect. We'll let it rest for a bit before baking."
I wiped my hands, watching her move gracefully between shelves, her presence so natural in this small kitchen.
Olivia's POV
Once the bread was in the oven and the timer set, I turned to Noah, who had taken a seat at the table. "Want to come with me to the orchard?"
He looked up, surprised. "Now?"
"The light's nice in the morning," I said, tying my hair back again.
He smiled. "Sure. Lead the way."
The air outside was cool and crisp. Dew still clung to the grass, and a few faint streaks of gold painted the sky above the trees. The air smelled faintly of earth and sweet fruit.
As we started picking, Noah asked questions the way he always used to: curious, constant, relentless.
"Do certain apples ripen faster, or is it random?"
"Depends on the variety," I said, reaching up to pluck one from a high branch. "These are Honeycrisps—sweet and crunchy when they're just right."
He bit into one straight from the branch. "I can confirm," he said with his mouth full. "Sweet and crunchy."
I laughed. "You'll spoil your breakfast."
"Worth it."
We spent the next hour gathering apples, occasionally tossing them lightly into each other's baskets, pretending it was a competition. When one rolled near his feet, he picked it up, polished it on his sleeve, and tossed it to me.
"Your prize," he said.
"Winning has never tasted this unexciting," I teased, taking a bite.
Sunlight crept higher as we worked, painting the orchard in warm hues. Eventually, the baskets grew heavy, and our shoulders started to ache pleasantly.
"I think that's enough," I said finally, wiping my forehead.
Noah dropped his basket next to mine and stretched his arms above his head. "You were right. The light here's amazing."
He lay down in the grass without bothering to brush it off first. After a moment of hesitation, I joined him. The ground was cool and surprisingly soft, the world around us quiet except for the hum of distant birds.
Above us, the sky glowed with gentle yellows and faint pinks.
I turned my head slightly to look at him. The peace on his face was something I hadn't seen before—something freer, lighter. He looked years younger, and yet older at the same time.
Without realizing it, my hand brushed against his as we shifted on the grass.
The touch was light, fleeting, but it felt like lightning.
My breath caught; I pulled my hand away instinctively. "Oh," I stammered. "Sorry."
But Noah sat up, eyes never leaving me. "It's okay," he said softly.
The air around us thickened, warmer somehow. He turned slightly, facing me fully, his gaze intense in the quiet space between us.
"Olivia," he said, and my name sounded unfamiliar on his tongue—gentler, heavier all at once.
He reached out and, very carefully, took my hand again. His fingers intertwined with mine, slow and deliberate, as if giving me time to pull away.
I didn't. Not immediately.
There was something in his expression—an honesty that didn't need words. It wasn't flirtation, not really. It was something deeper. Recognition, perhaps. The acknowledgment of something that had lingered between us all along.
But the rush of fear came soon after—the guilt, the awareness of what this could mean, what it already did mean.
I pulled my hand back, almost too quickly, standing before he could say anything else. "We should head back," I said, forcing a light tone. "The bread might be done."
He nodded slowly, getting up and picking up the baskets. I noticed that he didn't meet my eyes for the first few steps back.
As for me, I kept one hand close to my chest, the lingering warmth of his still pressed into my skin. Every step felt heavier, like I was walking away from something I didn't fully understand.
The smell of baked bread reached us as the house came into view—warm, familiar, and steady. But behind that comfort, something new had started to bloom. Something dangerous. Something I wasn't ready to name.