Izzy & Noah ✔️

Twenty: The Weight of Emotions

"You know you can always talk to me about whatever is bothering you," Noah says, pulling back slightly as we stop kissing.

I meet his gaze, his eyes filled with sincerity.

Honesty. Raw honesty.

It's what calms me in a world that often feels too fast, too shallow. To find someone who is so real, so willing to stand by you through life's highs and lows—it's rare. So rare, in fact, that when you find them, you realize just how precious they are.

"If I can't talk to you, who can I talk to?" I say, my voice a bit quieter now. "I think I've finally started fixing a relationship that's been broken for years. It's hard, but I know my dad would want it. He would have loved you, you know. Before everything went wrong with Mum... he was the funniest, kindest person you'd ever meet." My voice falters, and for a moment, I can't continue.

The memories rush in—the way he would make me laugh in the mornings, how he'd always find a way to make light of everything, how he solved problems with the calmest, most rational mind. He could always make me feel safe.

Noah nods, understanding, though words are unnecessary.

"Let's go upstairs. You can talk in peace, if you want," he offers, his voice soft but firm, like an anchor in a storm.

I follow him up the stairs to our flat, walking closely, feeling his presence steadying me.

Noah fumbles for the keys and opens the door.

I shed my coat, hanging it up with the weight of the world still on my shoulders.

"Come on, I'll cook something for you. You must be starving. You can talk while I do. I love listening to you," Noah says as he walks toward the kitchen, already rummaging for ingredients. His movements are fluid, his tall, lean body moving with effortless grace.

I watch him, a small smile creeping onto my face. "Sometimes, it feels like you can read my mind. You always know exactly what I need and how to give it."

"No, it's not that," Noah laughs, turning to me. "You're just an open book. Easy to read."

I chuckle, the sound easing some of the tightness in my chest. I watch as he chops onions, then moves to the chicken with the precision of someone who's done this a hundred times before.

"Chef Noah," I tease, getting up from the chair and sidling behind him to peer over his shoulder at the cutting board. "What's on the menu today?"

"Something tasty," he grins, eyes glinting mischievously. "Chinese vegetables with chicken."

I steal a kiss from him, then another, then another, enjoying the warmth of his lips against mine.

"You mustn't disturb the chef," he says, a mock-serious tone in his voice.

We both laugh, the sound echoing softly in the quiet apartment.

His blue eyes meet mine as he turns back to the stove, and I feel my heart settle, the weight lifting just a little.

"Tell me more about what happened today," Noah asks, his voice gentle, like he's inviting me to lay my burdens down.

"Yes, of course," I reply, settling onto a bar stool as Noah pours me a glass of wine. He sets it down next to me, and I take a sip, feeling the warmth of the wine spread through me. It's been a long time since I had a drink like this—longer since I allowed myself to truly relax.

We're not done yet, not by a long shot, but for now, I'm content. I'm safe. And for the first time in a long time, that's enough.

More often than usual, I find myself in moments like this—not because I'm running away from reality, but because, with Noah, cooking and sharing meals has become a rare sanctuary. It's something that feels right, that brings us closer, piece by piece.