Chapter 32
Stella:
Wednesday morning arrived with the sharp buzz of my alarm and an immediate spike of anxiety when I remembered Noah was in my guest room.
I'd brought him home from the hospital late yesterday afternoon—Tuesday evening, technically, after the doctor had finally cleared him for discharge with a long list of instructions and warnings about delayed reactions. Forty-eight hours of rest and observation, the discharge papers had said. Which meant he should stay home today while I went to teach my ten o'clock lecture.
I'd already planned it out: leave him with breakfast, my phone number posted on the fridge, strict instructions to text me if anything felt off. I'd check on him between classes, come straight home after office hours.
Instead, I found him in my kitchen at seven-thirty a.m., fully dressed in the Target clothes, looking far too alert for someone who'd been hooked up to an IV less than twenty-four hours ago.
"What are you doing up?" I asked from the doorway.
He glanced up from my Nespresso machine, a mug already in his hand. "Making coffee. Want some?"
"You're supposed to be resting. In bed." I crossed my arms. "I was going to bring you breakfast before I left for campus."
"Left for campus?" He turned to face me fully, and I saw the moment he understood. "You're going without me."
"You were discharged yesterday evening. The doctor said forty-eight hours of rest and observation."
"Observation." He set down the mug and leaned against the counter. "Which means someone needs to observe me. And you're planning to leave me here alone for—what, five hours? Six?"
"I have to teach. It's the first class back after the break, I can't cancel." I moved into the kitchen, reaching past him for a clean mug. "You'll be fine here. You have my number. If anything feels off—"
"Then I'll be alone in your apartment, potentially having a delayed reaction, with no one around to help." His voice was calm, reasonable, which somehow made the argument more effective. "Does that sound like good observation to you?"
I paused with the coffee pod in my hand. "That's not—"
"If I come with you, you can actually watch me. The entire time." He held up a hand before I could protest. "I'll sit in class. That's it. Just sitting and listening. If anything feels wrong, you'll know immediately. Isn't that better than leaving me here and spending the whole lecture wondering if I'm okay?"
He had a point. I hated that he had a point.
"The doctor said rest—"
"The doctor said observation. And normal activities as tolerated." He picked up the mug he'd been preparing and held it out to me—coffee with cream, made exactly the way I'd prepared it at the hospital. "I feel fine, Stella. I promise. But if it makes you feel better to have me where you can see me, then that's where I'll be."
I took the mug, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic to keep them from shaking. The memory of finding him on my bathroom floor Monday morning was still too fresh, too vivid. Blue lips. Shallow breathing. The terrifying minutes before the ambulance arrived.
"Front row," I said finally. "Where I can see you the entire time."
His expression softened with something that looked like relief. "Deal."
"And we leave immediately after class. No staying on campus, no library, nothing."
"Also deal."
"And if you feel even slightly off—dizzy, short of breath, anything—you tell me immediately."
"I promise." He smiled, and there was something gentle in it that made my chest ache. "Thank you for letting me come."
I took a long drink of the coffee to avoid examining why I'd just let him talk me into something I knew was probably a bad idea. He'd remembered how I took my coffee. He'd made it without asking. And somehow that small gesture had undermined every reasonable objection I should have maintained.
"We leave in twenty minutes," I said. "If you're not ready, I'm going without you."
"I'll be ready in ten."
---
The drive to campus was quiet. Noah sat in the passenger seat, occasionally glancing at me with an expression I couldn't quite read. When I pulled into the faculty lot, he reached for the door handle, then paused.
"Hey," he said. "I know this isn't how you wanted to spend your morning. Babysitting me."
"I'm not babysitting you."
"Observing, then." The corner of his mouth quirked. "Either way. Thank you."
I didn't trust myself to respond, so I just nodded and got out of the car.
In the lecture hall, the room buzzed with the particular energy of students returning from a break—backpacks smelling of home laundry, faces still soft from two days without deadlines. Noah took a seat in the front row, directly in my line of sight, and pulled out his notebook with the kind of deliberate care that told me he was making good on his promise to take it easy.
I started the lecture on attachment patterns in adult relationships, and found myself hyperaware of him in a way that had nothing to do with our complicated history. I was watching for signs of distress—pale skin, labored breathing, any indication that bringing him here had been a mistake. But he looked fine. Better than fine. He took notes by hand, asked one question that was genuinely insightful, and didn't once reach for his phone.
When I called for a five-minute break halfway through, I made my way to his desk under the pretense of checking my lecture notes.
"How are you feeling?" I asked quietly.
"Fine." He looked up at me with clear eyes. "I promise. No dizziness, no weird symptoms. Just sitting and learning about anxious-avoidant attachment dynamics."
"Good." I hesitated, then added, "Let me know if that changes."
"I will."
The second half of the lecture went smoothly. By the time I dismissed the class, I'd almost convinced myself that bringing him had been the right call after all. Students filed out in their usual clusters, a few stopping to ask about the upcoming assignment. Noah stayed in his seat, waiting until the room had cleared before making his way back to my desk.
"So," he said, hands in his pockets. "Since I'm here anyway."
I raised an eyebrow.
"The prize. For highest midterm score." There was a hint of amusement in his voice. "You did promise."
I had. Before everything—before the hospital, before the soup—I'd told the class that whoever scored highest on the midterm could choose their reward, within reason.
"What do you want?" I asked.