“I don’t get it,” he says finally.
I lower my hands, but not all the way—one thumb tracing gently over the pulse at his neck. “I know, and I’m sorry. I know my reasons aren’t enough right now, and I know it doesn’t fix anything. One day, if you’ll let me, I’ll explain everything. All of it.”
He opens his mouth, and I know he wants to push for the truth, but I can’t give it. Not yet. Not without risking him.
“I’m sorry,” I say instead, as if those two words could wipe it all away. “I know that’s not enough, and I know it’s too late, but I am so fucking sorry for leaving, Blue.”
He nods, but I know it’s going to take more than that. And when he steps away from me and leans forward slightly, resting his arms on the railing again, I do the same.
Close but not touching. Two ghosts sharing the same deck, trying to relearn the shape of each other in silence.
My chest is still burning, raw from words I shouldn’t have said and truths I still can’t give. I let myself watch him openly, seeing all the small ways he’s changed and all the ways he’s still the boy I left behind.
He’s biting his lower lip, that nervous habit he picked up when he was fifteen and never managed to break. I know he’s not okay, but he’s trying. He’s still here, still letting me stand close, even though I’ve given him every reason to turn away.
“I still hate parties,” he mumbles, voice half-lost in the night air. “Too loud. Too many people talking at once, and everyone always stares.”
The honesty in his voice almost floors me. For a second, I want to reach for him again, tuck a hand behind his neck, pull him in, and let him hide. But I keep my hands to myself. I have to earn it if I’m ever going to get to have it again.
I manage a quiet laugh, the sound coming out rough. “Because of your eyes?”
He shrugs, staring at the dark lawn. “That’s part of it. People say they’re pretty, but it’s not a compliment when it feels like I’m on display.”
A sharp, protective anger flares up in my chest, but I tamp it down. “Theyarepretty, but I get it. You used to disappear into the garage during your mom’s fundraisers. I’d have to go looking for you, but I’d always find you curled up behind those boxes with your headphones on, pretending you couldn’t hear me calling.”
He smiles at that, and it’s his genuine smile. I let myself take it in, memorizing the shape of it, the way his mouth curves, the way it makes his eyes go brighter for a second.
“I still do,” he says, voice warmer now. He glances over at me, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. “Hide, I mean. Not always the garage, but… wherever I can find a place to breathe.”
A beat passes, his hand moving just a little closer to mine on the rail. Then, softer than before, he asks, “You want to hide with me?”
I look at him, and for a moment, I forget to breathe. It’s the first olive branch he’s offered since I saw him again, the first crack in all the armor he’s built since I left. And god, I want to take it.
I’d follow him anywhere, even if it’s only to the quietest corner of his world, just for the chance to be let in again. Even if I have to keep the rest of the story locked behind my teeth for now, I’d follow him.
Every time.
Noah
Thesecondthewordsleave my mouth, I regret them.
You want to hide with me?
It’s the kind of question you only ask someone when you’re desperate enough to want them near but not brave enough to say it out loud. It wasn’t even a real invitation. It just… slipped out—an echo of how things used to be. Back when we’d sneak out of mom’s functions or my dad’s endless corporate parties and curl up in the garage under an old blanket, earbuds split between us, pretending the world didn’t exist beyond the four dusty walls and the crickets outside.
Back then, Damien always said yes. But now everything is too fractured and too raw. Now, we’re not fifteen. We’re no longer stupid kids leaning too close on a twin mattress. Now, I’ve cried in front of him, yelled at him, accused him of breaking me—and he didn’t deny it.
He’s still looking at me, though. Having him this close again feels like waking up in a place you forgot you used to live, onlyto find all the furniture rearranged. It’s still familiar. It just hurts more now.
I wonder if I imagined the last ten minutes. Perhaps I imagined him cupping my face and apologizing. Maybe this is all some drawn-out daydream where I finally get to ask all the things I’ve held in for four years, and he finally looks at me again.
“Yeah,” he says quietly, and it startles me.
I blink up at him. “What?”
His mouth curves a little, not quite a smile, not quite neutral. “I want to hide with you, Blue.”
He doesn’t give me time to back out. His hand wraps around mine, and I freeze. His fingers are rougher than I remember, calloused from years of ball handling and gym hours and god knows what else, but his grip is steady.
