I let out a long sigh. “I know, but I’m trying here, Ry. I’m trying to make up for what I did, and to one day hopefully tell him why I left.”
Ryan doesn’t say anything at first. His gaze drops to the grass once more, but he doesn’t turn away again. “You really think he’ll be okay on his own?”
“I do,” I say. “He’s scared, but he’s also… ready. And we’re still here. All he has to do is pick up the phone.”
Ryan exhales through his nose and nods slowly. “Yeah. Okay. But I’m still showing up unannounced if I don’t hear from him in a week.”
“Same,” I say.
Ryan finally cracks a smile, and the tension that’s been sitting between my ribs for days starts to loosen.
I glance up at the house. A window on the second floor creaks open, and a breeze lifts the curtain. Probably Noah, airing out the space before he heads out. My chest aches again, that quiet kind of ache you don’t know how to name.
He’s not leaving to get away from us; he’s leaving to find something we can’t give him.
It sucks, but… I would do anything for him. Even lose him so he can find himself again.
Noah
Thesilenceisdifferenthere.
It’s not the kind that waits, pressing into your chest until you have no choice but to fill it with noise. No, this silence is… gentle.
The walls of the apartment are still somewhat bare, but the furniture is soft and welcoming. Whoever lived here last had decent taste—or maybe the leasing office just knew how to stage comfort. Either way, its something I can shape and make mine.
I’ve unpacked most of my things, stacked my books on the small shelf beside the armchair, and set up my equipment in the corner of the bedroom. The kitchen’s full—groceries delivered right on time, and I labeled everything in the fridge like I always used to do back home.
Because I need the labels. I need the order. I need the control.
And now… now, I have it.
My body is warm and loose as I step out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel. It’s nice not having to worry about someone knocking on the door or yelling down the hallway.There’s no footsteps echoing through hallways, no overlapping conversations about team drills or weekend plans, or Killian yelling at someone to turn down the music. There’s no Damien. That last thought sits a little heavier than I expect it to, and I close my eyes, exhale, and push it down.
Not everything has to be so loud all the time.
Not every goodbye is forever.
The floor is warm under my feet as I cross the hall to the bedroom. There’s a full-length mirror on the closet door, and the lighting in here’s softer than the overheads in the Sin Bin. I towel off, skin flushed and pink from the heat, and open the closet with careful fingers.
The top shelf holds two gray boxes I brought with me, carefully hidden between things I knew wouldn’t get jostled much in the move. I stand there in my towel for a moment, chest tight, heart already beating faster even though no one’s here to see me. No one will walk in. No one will laugh, wrinkle their nose, or ask mewhy.
I reach for one of the boxes and pull it down gently, setting it on the edge of the bed. The lid comes off easily. My fingers hover over the contents for a second before I touch them.
The bralette is black lace, soft to the touch, and delicate but not flimsy. The panties match—intricate, pretty, and completely different from the practical cotton briefs stacked in my drawer. These aren’t practical. They’re not made for anyone else’s gaze. They’re made for me.
I sit on the edge of the bed and run my fingers along the lace. There’s still that whisper of shame in the back of my mind. The one that echoes in my mother’s voice:What would people think? That’s not normal, Noah. That’s not right.But it’s easier to ignore in this apartment where her voice doesn’t reach.
I pull down the second box with both hands, carry it to the bed, and place it beside the opened one. My fingers hesitate atthe edge, the lid smooth under my palms. I already know what’s inside. I remember the order confirmation email, the shipping delay that nearly made me cancel, the way my heart leapt the day they arrived, and I had to pretend the delivery was for something else. I remember peeling the tissue paper back as if it were something sacred.
I open the box now with that same reverence.
Black patent leather, pointed toe, red sole. Five-inch stiletto. My mother wouldn’t accept anything less than Louboutin. She always said if you couldn’t afford the best, you shouldn’t bother at all. I twisted that lesson into something else. Because when I bought these, I bought them for the boy she never wanted, not for the one she tried to mold.
I brush my fingers across the pointed toe of one heel, then slide my hand underneath and lift it out. They’re beautiful. Expensive, decadent, and absurdly impractical for someone who spends most of their time in hoodies and sneakers, hiding behind a camera. But when I bought them, I wasn’t thinking about practicality. I was thinking about the way they would make me feel.
I dress slowly, being careful with each item. The lace stretches, warms against my skin, and I smooth it over my hips and chest, adjusting until everything fits just right. The bralette isn’t padded; it doesn’t try to be anything it’s not. It’s not about pretending. It’s just about… feeling right.
Then I sit, lift one foot, and guide it into the heel.
