“I know,” he said. “I saw your hands shaking. You did it anyway.”
He reached out then, slowly, giving me time to pull away, and brushed a tear from my cheek with his knuckle. His touch was feather-light.
“I meant what I said in the car,” he said. “The building is yours. No conditions. I’ll have the deed brought to the shop tomorrow. No matter what you decide about me, about us — it’s yours.”
I looked at him, at this man who could have had anything taken for him, who was kneeling on a restaurant floor to wipe a girl’s tears.
“What do you want me to decide?” I asked.
He swallowed. For the first time that night, he looked nervous.
“I want you to let me take you home,” he said. “I want you to let me come to the shop tomorrow and watch you work. I want you to let me learn how to be someone you could say ‘yes’ to, eventually. Not ‘not yet.’ Yes.”
The firelight caught the gold flecks in his dark eyes.
Outside, the rain had softened to a drizzle.
I placed my hand over his where it rested on the arm of my chair. His fingers turned, laced with mine, calloused and warm.
“One hour became two,” I said.
“Let it become more,” he said.
We left together, his hand on the small of my back, light enough that I could step away if I wanted to. I didn’t.
Paulie was gone. Vincent’s car was gone. The town car waited, and Noah opened the door for me again, and this time when I slid in, he slid in beside me, not across, and left a careful, respectful few inches between us that felt more intimate than if he’d pulled me against him.
At the shop, my father was waiting at the window, his face pressed to the glass. When he saw us, he opened the door before we reached it, rain still misting his hair.
“It’s done,” Noah said to him, before I could speak. He held out the folded lease copy. “The debt is gone. The building is Elena’s. My lawyer will bring the papers at nine tomorrow. No one will bother you again.”
My father took the paper with shaking hands. He looked at me, at Noah’s hand hovering near my back but not touching, at my wet eyes and my steady mouth.
“Are you alright?” he asked me.
I nodded. “We are.”
My father did something I didn’t expect. He stepped forward and, after a brief hesitation, extended his hand to Noah.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice thick. “For keeping your word.”
Noah took his hand and held it firmly.
“Thank you for trusting me with her,” he said.
Later, after my father had gone to bed and the shop was dark except for the single lamp over the cutting table, I stayed up to finish the suit.
Noah didn’t leave. He took off his jacket and rolled his sleeves to his elbows and sat on the stool in the corner, watching me work. The rain ticked against the windows. The radiator hissed, finally warm.
“You don’t have to stay,” I said, pinning the hem.
“I know,” he said.
The scissors whispered through wool. My hands were steady now, sure. I could feel his eyes on me, not predatory, just attentive, like he was memorizing the way I moved.
When I finished, I held the jacket up. It was perfect. Dark charcoal, clean lines, the lining I’d chosen for him — deep navy, almost black.
“Try it,” I said.
