Damien
I’mstandingunderthespray longer than I need to, forehead tipped forward, hands braced against the wall like the water might knock something loose if I let it. Steam curls thick around the stall, clinging to my skin, my hair, my thoughts. For a few blessed minutes, the only thing that exists is the sound of water hitting tiles and the steady, grounding pressure against my back.
I don’t want to leave tomorrow.
Which is fucked, honestly. He’s fine, safe, and happy if last night meant anything. He’s stronger than anyone gives him credit for. Hell, stronger than I give him credit for, and I know it.
But that doesn’t stop the clench in my chest, the part of me that can’t shake the image of him curled up alone in my bed while I’m halfway across the state with my head stuck in a playbook.
It makes me feel like I’m doing something wrong by leaving, even if it’s just for a weekend. Even if it’s something I’ve done a hundred times before.
I hate that part of myself—the part that wants to hover, lock the door, cancel everything, and sit on the bed with him to count breaths and meals and hours until I’m sure—really sure—that he’s okay.
Because I know that’s not what he wants.
I know what that looks like to him. Being watched, managed, and handled with kid gloves like he’s fragile instead of a person who’s already been broken and had to put himself back together more times than anyone should have to.
I rinse the soap from my shoulders, tilt my head back into the spray, and let the water hit my face hard enough to sting.
“Get it together,” I mutter, voice echoing faintly off tiles. “You’re not his keeper. You’re—”
His partner.
His boyfriend.
The guy who loves him.
That’s different. It has to be different.
I shut off the water, and the sudden quiet feels too loud. I grab a towel, rough-dry my hair, and scrub my face until my skin’s pink and awake again. I’m still wound tight, still buzzing with nerves, but it’s a familiar kind now—the kind I get before games, before travel, before anything I can’t control.
I step out of the bathroom barefoot, towel slung low around my hips, already half-planning what I’m going to say to him about tomorrow. About the away game, how Sage and Nate will be here, and how Killian will keep an eye out even if he pretends he isn’t. That I’ll text, call, FaceTime, whatever Noah wants, without hovering, without making it a big thing.
I’m rehearsing it in my head, then I look up and my brain just… stops.
Noah’s on my bed.
No. Noah’sposedon my bed like sin incarnate.
He’s splayed out like a fucking fever dream, one leg bent, the other kicked lazily to the side. He’s not wearing much—a pink lace bralette stretching across his chest, and a matching jockstrap hugs his hips, framing the swell of his ass and the outline of his cock, thick and hard and pushing against the fabric.
The silver slip chain is looped around his neck again, resting against the soft column of his throat, the heart-shaped O-rings just begging to be pulled.
And the fucking heels.
Black, strappy heels with buckles around his ankles and sharp arches that make his legs look even longer, leaner, like every inch of him was sculpted for ruin.
My brain blanks out for a solid three seconds. I just stare, frozen, heart trying to climb out of my ribs while my cock hardens to steel.
I fucking hate myself for hesitating because this boy—this beautiful, complicated, terrifyingly soft boy—is offering himself to me without a word. And I want him.I do. But I can’t look at him lying there like a dream I don’t deserve without thinking about why he’s doing this.
He’s trying. Trying to take control. Trying to reclaim something that was stolen from him in all the worst ways.
And I want him.
God, I want him.
But I don’t move because the part of me that’s still thinking—the part that remembers the way he looked when I stopped him last time—is warning me that he might still be trying to fix something that doesn’t need fixing.
