comfort {complete}

56

Noah picks me up from therapy the next day. It's my last weekly session—we're reducing it to monthly check-ins now that I'm doing better. He's waiting by an Audi when I finally escape from Melissa's stuffy office, a tiny smile adorning his handsome features as I lope towards him.

"Hi," I breathe, draping my arms around his neck.

He smiles and runs a hand through my hair, effectively moving it out of my face. "Hey. How was it?" he asks, moving both hands to my waist.

"Ugh, shitty."

"Why?"

"She doesn't think I'm ready for a relationship," I mumble, laying my head on his shoulder. "But she's wrong."

"Are you sure? Because I can back off until you're comfortable, if that's what you need," he says, looking like he really doesn't want to back off.

"No. I'm fine, really. I love you and I love this"—I gesture between us— "she thinks my mental state is much worse than it actually is, Noah. And maybe if you weren't essentially the physical personification of comfort and reassurance, it'd be a concern, but you are. You're perfect." He looks doubtful, so I add, "For me, anyway."

He grins. "How so?"

"Stop fishing for compliments."

He lowers his head and kisses me, softly and nicely, until I forget entirely that we're in the parking lot of my therapist's office and she could walk out any minute. Maybe that's why I love him so much—he makes me forget all the things I want to forget, or at least remember them in less harmful ways, just by kissing me.

It's not dangerous or risky to be with him—except for how it's illegal until my birthday in five months—it's just wonderful. He makes me happy, and I need that, and I need him. And when he's kissing me as sweetly as he is now, it's wonderfully apparent that he needs me, too.

I love him, and it's going to be a little complicated until I'm not a minor, but that's okay.

He's completely worth it.