Chapter 54 STOLEN TIME

Chapter 54 STOLEN TIME

POV: Amara

Noelle’s fingers lace through mine as we step off the curb, and for a moment I almost miss the light changing because I am too busy holding on.

I want this walk to last forever. I want the city to slow down for us. I want the sound of traffic and voices and distant music to burn itself into me so deeply that even magic cannot touch it.

“Amara,” Noelle says, tugging me gently back when a cab honks. “You okay?”

I nod too fast. “Yeah. Sorry. I was thinking.”

He smiles, soft and a little crooked. “That’s dangerous.”

I squeeze his hand. “Only sometimes.”

Manhattan is loud and alive around us. The air smells like food carts and exhaust and cold concrete. People brush past us, strangers with their own lives, their own problems. No one looks twice at us, and I love that. We are just suggested into the flow of the city, anonymous and ordinary.

That is what I want right now. Ordinary.

We walk without a plan. That is my idea. No destinations. No schedules. Just steps and breath and the warmth of his hand.

I am memorizing everything.

The way his thumb rubs slow circles against my knuckle when he thinks I am nervous. The sound of his laugh when a street performer almost drops a juggling pin. The crease between his brows when he concentrates on crossing safely.

Every detail feels fragile, like it might shatter if I look away.

“You’re staring again,” he says lightly.

“I like your face.”

He huffs a laugh. “You’re biased.”

“Very.”

We stop at a small diner because my legs are tired and because the windows are fogged and the booths look warm. Inside, we slide into cracked vinyl seats. The table wobbles. Noelle steadies it with two fingers without thinking.

Coffee arrives. Then sandwiches we did not argue about because neither of us cares.

I watch him eat. He notices.

“What?” he asks, chewing.

“Nothing.”

“That’s another lie.”

I shrug. “I just like seeing you happy.”

His expression softens. “I am. Right now.”

Guilt twists sharp in my stomach. I push it down and take a sip of coffee that tastes burnt and perfect.

We talk about nothing important. Old stories. Half remembered holidays. A ridiculous argument about which movie ending was worse. He tells me about a winter centuries ago when the North Pole froze solid enough to crack buildings. I tell him about the first time I got lost in New York and cried on a subway platform until a woman bought me a pretzel and waited with me.

He reaches across the table and wipes a crumb from my lip with his thumb. The touch is casual, intimate. My breath catches anyway.

After the diner, we wander more. Through parks. Down side streets. Past places I want to remember forever.

At some point, I stop checking the time.

That night, we go back to the room Santa arranged for us in the city. It is simple. One bed. Soft light. Curtains that do not quite block the glow outside.

I hesitate in the doorway.

Noelle notices immediately. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” I say, because I cannot say everything. “I just… can we stay in tonight?”

He nods. “Of course.”

We sit on the bed, shoulders touching. Silence stretches. It is not awkward. It is heavy.

I turn to him. “I don’t want to waste this.”

His hand finds mine again. “Then don’t.”

The kiss starts slow. Careful. Like we are both afraid of breaking something already cracked.

Then it deepens. Heat and closeness and the familiar way he fits against me. I cling to him like if I let go, he might disappear.

We make love without urgency, without rush. Every touch feels deliberate. Like a goodbye I am not allowed to say out loud.

I focus on sensations. The press of his body. The sound of his breath against my neck. The way he murmurs my name like it means something sacred.

After, we lie tangled together, skin cooling, hearts slowing.

Noelle traces idle patterns on my arm. “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m tired,” I say.

“Me too.”

It is a lie, but not one he pushes.

The next two days blur together in moments I want to keep.

We eat street food standing up, laughing when sauce drips onto our gloves. We take the ferry and let the cold wind sting our faces. We sit on a bench and watch the water until my fingers go numb and he tucks them into his coat pocket without asking.

At night, I pretend sleep while he holds me, because if I open my eyes and look at him, I might break.

I tell myself I am doing this for him.

I tell myself he will forgive me.

On the last night, the weight in my chest feels unbearable.

We are in bed again. The room is dark except for the city glow leaking through the curtains. Noelle’s arms are wrapped around me from behind, his chin resting on my shoulder.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks quietly.

I bite down on my lip. Tears slip out anyway, silent and hot.

“Amara?” His grip tightens. “Hey. What is it?”

I stare at the wall. “About how much I love you.”

He goes still.

“That sounds,” he says slowly, “like you’re saying goodbye.”

My breath stutters. I cannot answer. If I speak, everything will spill out and I will lose my nerve.

He turns me to face him. I keep my eyes closed.

“Look at me,” he whispers.

I do. His face is soft with concern. Open. Trusting.

I almost tell him everything.

Instead, I shake my head. “I’m just scared.”

He pulls me close again, pressing my face into his chest. “Me too. But we’re still here. Together.”

I cling to him like a lifeline.

In the morning, I wake before dawn.

Noelle is asleep, his arm heavy over my waist. His face is relaxed, unguarded. He looks younger like this. Peaceful.

I memorize him one last time.

Then I gently lift his arm and slip out of bed.

My hands shake as I dress. As I write the note. The words blur through tears.

Forgive me.

I had to save you.

Please don’t hate me for this.

A.

I leave it on the pillow beside him.

I do not look back.

Because if I do, I will stay. And then everything will be lost.