The arch of it fits perfectly, and I get that giddy feeling when I stretch out my leg and see how gorgeous it makes my leg look. I slide the second one on and stand carefully, remembering everything I learned from watching my mother’s models in Milan. I cross the bedroom on slow steps, listening to the faint click of the heels against the floorboards, and something inside me unlocks.
I don’t look in the mirror yet. I don’t know why, but I need a second. When I feel brave again after a few deep breaths, I step back and face the mirror.
The person looking back at me doesn’t look ashamed tonight. Not under the warm glow of the bedside lamp or the silver wash of moonlight coming through the window. My hair’s still damp, curling slightly at the ends. The bralette is sheer enough that I can see the soft lines of my chest, the curve of my collarbone. The panties hug me just right, smooth and beautiful.
My throat gets tight before I feel the sting behind my eyes. The first tear slips down without warning, then another. I don’t wipe them away because for the first time in forever, I feel likeme.
Not the quiet boy in the shadow of an Olympic father or the echo of a supermodel mother’s disappointment. I’m not a house guest. I’m not just Damien’s ex-stepbrother.
I’m… Just me.
Noah.
Soft and strong, still learning to ask for and take what he wants.
I press my palm to my chest over the lace, over the place where I know my heart’s still learning how to slow down, how to beat softer when it’s safe.
It’s not sadness causing these tears to fall, it’srelief.
This is the first time I’ve worn this without worrying about whether someone might find out. Without checking the locks. Without keeping my robe within arm’s reach just in case. This is the first time I’ve looked at myself without judgment clinging to every line of my body.
I want this softness. I want to feel beautiful. Not hot, not desirable, not even sexy—justbeautiful.
Something in me wonders what Damien would say if he saw me now. If he’d still call me Blue. If he’d still look at me like I mattered. I wonder if anyone ever will.
But I’m not scared of that thought tonight because Idomatter. Even if I’m alone. Even if no one ever sees me this way.I matter. I’m here. And for the first time in a long time, I feel comfortable in my own skin, even as the tears don’t stop.
I slip off the heels and lie back on the bed, still in my lace, with the ceiling fan spinning slowly. I stare up at it, blinking back more tears, but they’re quieter now. Just the kind that come when you’ve held something in for too long and it finally slips out.
“You’re okay.” My voice shakes as I whisper into the empty room, but I say it again. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
No one answers, and that’s okay, too.
I roll to my side and curl around a pillow. My fingertips brush the lace at my ribs, and I close my eyes.
One Month Later
I haul myself out of the pool, my shoulders ache, and my lungs are still burning from the last set. The water clings to my skin, and I tug my cap off with a slow drag, shaking the water from my ears.
Dual meets start next week, which means practices have dropped into something just short of cruel, since Coach believes pain builds character.
After a shower, I towel off, get dressed without rushing, and slide my camera bag over my shoulder before leaving.
There’s still half the day ahead, but I’ve got a photography project due next week, and I haven’t shot a single frame. Technically, Ihaveframes. They’re just not ones I want to submit. There’s a difference between ticking a box and capturing something real, and I’m not in the mood to turn in garbage just because I’m tired.
The forest trail behind the campus has always been quiet this time of day. Most students avoid it unless it’s fall and they’re chasing golden leaves and Instagram-worthy lighting.
But I know the curve of the trees here better than most. I’ve walked this trail enough times in silence that the sounds—distant birdsong, the crunch of gravel, the rustle of wind-touched branches—have become familiar comforts.
The first thirty minutes are just light studies. Trees against the sky, sunlight streaming through broken branches, the curve of moss along the bottom of a fallen trunk. My camera is a natural extension of my hand. I stop often, adjust the angle, and crouch for depth. I like it better when things don’t talk back. When I can frame them the way I see them, not the way they want to be seen.
I’m half focused on a cluster of mushrooms growing along the side of an old oak when a twig snaps behind me. My spine straightens instinctively, and I glance over my shoulder.
It’s Adrian.
He’s in a dark hoodie with the hood down, curls messy and windblown, green eyes shadowed under the low light breaking through the canopy. He stops when he sees me, probably hadn’t expected anyone out here either.
“Hey,” I say, voice quiet out of habit.
