“A good deal?” I raise a brow as he pulls me into a tight hug, which I return, even if I’m still in shock. “You neglected to mention the rent comes with its own private zip code.”
He laughs and pulls back to look at me. “Killian King owns it, and we don’t pay for shit. Athletes only, so you qualify.”
I roll my eyes, but the smile pulling at my mouth is genuine this time, and I can’t help it. Ryan’s the only one who stuck around when I stopped trying to be the version of myself that looked good in my dad’s holiday card.
“Killian King? Is his dad that senator—”
“Yeah, that asshole,” Ryan says, before gesturing to my bags. “Ready?”
I’m not. I haven’t been ready since I packed my things and left my dad’s place. But I nod anyway. “Yeah, just let me—”
“Hey, Blue.”
Two words, that’s all it takes for every thought in my head to slam to a halt like a needle scratching across vinyl. I know that voice; I could pick it out in a crowd even after years of silence.
I don’t turn right away. I can’t. I just stare at Ryan, wide-eyed and betrayed, as he grins. “You son of a bitch,” I hiss.
His smug little smirk is the confirmation I don’t need but already expect. “Surprise?”
“You’re dead to me, Torres,” I mutter under my breath, glaring at him, but he just laughs.
I sigh and turn slowly, and there he is—leaning against the front porch column, unaware that he just stepped out of my old daydreams and into my worst nightmare.
Damien fucking Moore.
Every inch of him is worse than I remember. Taller, broader, all sharp edges and newly inked skin wrapped in a black tank top that clings to his chest. He’s wearing a backward cap, dark hair curling around his ears, with a water bottle in one hand and a smile that makes my knees feel unreliable.
But those eyes—those fucking brown eyes—pin me in place.
I forget how to breathe, and my fingers tremble. So, I tuck them into the sleeves of my hoodie and pretend I didn’t just get sucker-punched by the ghost of every goddamn feeling I thought I’d buried.
The past four years collapse in on themselves with just one look. Four years of silence, of unanswered texts, of pretending I didn’t check his social media every few months just to make sure he was still alive. Now he’s standing there, casual as anything, smiling at me as if he didn’t break every part of me the year he left.
I want to run. I want to scream. I want to throw my bags in the car and reverse out of this driveway like a man possessed. But instead, I stand there, frozen and hating how much I still love the sound of that nickname when he says it. “You live here, too?”
“Yeah,” Damien says simply. “Been here a couple of years. Got recruited early.”
My stomach twists. “Right. Of course. You’re…good at what you do.”
I want to scream into the nearest tree. That’s what I came up with?You’re good at what you do?Jesus, Noah.
He doesn’t tease me for it, though. Just gives me that long, weighted stare I remember too well. The kind that used to make me forget what air felt like in my lungs. The kind that made me wonder what it would feel to kiss him just once, just to see if it would ruin everything or fix something inside me.
Ryan clears his throat dramatically. “So, I’ll get your bags. You two can keep… staring at each other or whatever the hell this is.”
He disappears before I can hit him, leaving me with nothing but my duffel bag, my burning face, and the boy I’ve been in love with for more years than I’m willing to admit. Damien hasn’t moved. Neither have I.
I can’t decide whether to run or punch him. My heart is sprinting, my lungs burn like I’ve been underwater too long again, and his gaze is a vise on my chest.
“I didn’t know you were here,” I say, finally finding my voice. “Ryan failed to mention that part.”
He shrugs. “Guess he wanted a front-row seat to the reunion.”
“I’m not here for a reunion, Damien.”
Damien’s eyes narrow just slightly at the tone of my voice. “Still dramatic, huh?”
“Still a dick, huh?” I shoot back before I can stop myself.
