His mouth quirks, but not into a smile, and he pushes off the column and steps down toward me. “You dyed your hair again,” he says, eyes drifting up to my hair, then back to my eyes. “Blue always suited you.”
I swallow hard and look away, scuffing my sneaker against the gravel and trying not to show how much his words hit. “It’s my thing.”
Kill me, please.
“Hmmm.” His gaze drops to my neck, then slowly trails down, lingering for a beat too long before returning to my face. “Still suits you.”
I hate how warm that makes me feel. I hate that I still want to hear him say more. I hate him.
I miss him.
And I’m pretty sure that’s going to be a problem.
We stare at each other, time stretching and fraying between us. Eventually, I break the silence. “Well, I guess we’re housemates again.”
“Guess so,” he says, then he gives me that smile that I used to love and hate in equal measure. “It’s good to see you again, Blue.”
I wish he hadn’t said it like that because I can still feel the echo of how it used to feel when he called meBluein that low timbre. The way it sounded when no one else was around, when we’d sneak into the kitchen at 2 a.m. for cereal and talk about things we weren’t supposed to. When he’d ruffle my hair just to piss me off, and I’d roll my eyes to hide how much I liked it.
“I need to get inside,” I say, barely managing to speak. “Ryan’s probably already told everyone I’m a trainwreck.”
Damien nods and takes a step toward me, and I freeze at the familiar scent of spicy cologne and cinnamon gum. “Let me help with your things—”
I shake my head. “Don’t. Please.”
He backs off instantly, eyes wide and hands raised. “Okay.”
I walk past him before I do something stupid. Like look back, or fall into those arms that I imagine would still feel safe. I’m not going to survive living under the same roof as Damien Moore. Not when I never stopped loving him.
He has no idea just how much itstillfucking hurts.
Damien
21 Years Old
Themomentheturnsaway, I feel it again—the same bone-deep, breath-stealing ache I’ve been living with for the last four years.
Noah always walks like he’s apologizing for taking up space. Shoulders slightly hunched, head low, jaw clenched as if bracing for impact—as if the sound of his own footsteps might offend someone if he’s not careful. I hated it back then. I hate it now. Noah Adams isn’t the kind of person who should ever apologize simply for existing.
And yet, he does. Every goddamn time.
His footsteps are quiet, but they echo louder than any fight, any final goodbye. Louder than the silence on the night I walked out of that house. I don’t move. I don’t call out. I might as well be seventeen again, standing on the front porch of his dad’s house with a bag in one hand and a choice I never wanted in the other. I’m still losing him in slow motion, no matter what I do.
He’s smaller than I remember, or maybe I just got bigger in all the places that started hurting after I left. Either way, something about the way he moves still guts me.
He doesn’t look back once as he climbs the steps, not even when he reaches the front door. I don’t expect him to because if I were him, I wouldn’t look back at me either.
I stay there for a long minute after he disappears inside, pretending I’m not losing my mind.
Everyone here thinks they know me. Damien Moore. The slut of the Sin Bin. The one who doesn’t do feelings, and definitely not the one who falls in love with his fucking ex-stepbrother. I’ve got a room full of trophies, a rotation of hookups who text me at all hours, a schedule booked with parties, drills, and early morning conditioning, complete with a smile that doesn’t crack unless I want it to.
I’m the guy you call when you want to get out of your head and into someone else’s bed. The guy who never says no, who never catches feelings, who gets away with throwing punches during playoffs because I flash the right kind of smile and back it up on the court.
But they don’t know shit.
They don’t know that I used to sit by my phone, staring at his contact, rereading the last stupid meme he sent me before everything fell apart. They don’t know that I delete every text I type before hitting send, because there’s no version of “I’m sorry”that would make it okay.
I thought I could forget him. Thought that if I kept my hands busy, I could drown it out. Drownhimout. But that ache never really left, did it?
