A startled laugh slips out of me, and Adrian’s mouth twitches in approval. “That’s so cool,” I say honestly. “But why won’t you tell them, besides the playlist thing?”
He sighs. “Because it’s mine, and once something is shared, it stops being just that.”
That familiar truth hits me square in the ribs, and I nod slowly. “That’s how I used to feel about my photography.”
Adrian studies me, then says in an even quieter tone, “ I also don’t… want what everyone else seem to want. It’s one of the biggest reasons I hide so much about myself from them.”
I blink at that. “What do you mean?”
He holds my gaze steadily, biting his lip. “You know how most of the guys in the house are, right? They basically have revolving doors of partners, and I guess that’s normal for college kids. But… I’m not interested in that. Not really, anyway. I like people and connection and closeness—the rest doesn’t call to me at all.”
It takes a few seconds for me to understand what he’s saying. But when it clicks, my brain starts to scramble into that usual panic response of‘say the right thing, don’t mess it up, don’t offend him, don’t make it weird.’
I force my shoulders to relax and keep my voice even. “I don’t see anything wrong with that. Sex doesn’t mean the same thing to everyone, you know?” I keep my eyes on him, hoping he can see how much I mean it. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting different things, or wanting less, or wanting more. You’re not weird for it. I promise.”
Adrian lets out a slow breath, the tension draining from his shoulders. “Yeah. I know. I just… It’s easier to keep that part quiet. If I say I’m not interested, everyone wants a reason, and they start asking questions, or they try to fix whatever is wrong.”
I nod, a deep understanding tightening in my chest. “I get that too. When people find out I don’t go out much, or that I prefer to be alone, they act as if it’s some phase I’ll grow out of, not something that makes me feel safe.”
He offers me a small smile. “It’s not something to fix.”
“Right,” I say softly, my lips curving at the corners. “It’s just who you are.”
Adrian fidgets in his seat, glancing away, the tips of his ears flushing pink. “I like that you don’t make a big deal about it. That you don’t push.”
I shrug, heat rising in my own cheeks. “It irks me when people push, and makes me feel as if I have to explain myself all the time, and I never really know how.”
We sit in that gentle quiet, the kind that feels full instead of awkward. The air between us buzzes with an easy understanding that I don’t really find with a lot of people.
“Thanks,” Adrian says after a moment. “For listening.”
“Anytime,” I reply, meaning it. “But I have to know… why are you so comfortable talking to me? Not that I mind, it’s just, we don’t really know each other, and I know you don’t really talk to most people.”
Adrian looks down at his hands, then back up at me. “Because sometimes it gets a bit lonely,” he says simply. “And you seem like a good person. You don’t push, and you don’t make people feel stupid for being quiet.”
I nod once, because if I try to speak right now, my voice will crack.
We say our goodbyes soon after that, needing to go to our separate classes. But our conversation lingers in my mind long after I get home that evening. I never thought I’d meet another person with similar traits to me, or that they’d become my friend.
I guess Blackthorne isn’t so bad after all.
Damien
I’mnotkeepingcount,but I know it’s been three days since Noah last answered my texts.
Three days, which shouldn’t mean anything. People get busy. Schedules change. Shit happens. But I wake up every morning glancing at my phone like a junkie waiting for a hit. I feel every hour of silence that stretches between us, and it’s so fucking annoying because I don’t want to bethat guy. The one who double texts and triple panics.
But it gets harder not to overthink shit. I know he’s not angry—I’ve seen and lived angry Noah. But the absence grinds against every raw nerve I have left, and the worst part is I can’t ask about it without sounding desperate.
I scroll, check, and scroll again, every hour on the hour. Because I’m pathetic, and that boy with blue hair and mismatched eyes has turned me into fucking wreck, and he doesn’t even know it. It’s like he slipped some wire under my skin, and now he gets to decide when the electricity flows.
Doesn’t matter that I’m taller, broader, more experienced, older—none of these things hold up against the simple fact that I want him. Not in the casual, passing way that comes easy with most people. But in the brutal, stomach-clenching way that turns a grown man into a fool for a glimpse of a name on his lock screen.
It’s ridiculous, the way that I measure my day in notifications now. I was never this guy before him; never the one stuck halfway between hope and humiliation, waiting for someone to throw him a line. But here I am, losing sleep over the chance of a single message. Even after everything, after all the silence and distance, he’s still got that hold on me. I know I can’t ask for reassurance when I haven’t even earned his trust back yet.
At the end of the day, I’m still just that seventeen-year-old kid who’d do anything for one more minute with Noah Adams. And even now, with all the years and hurt between us, that hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s only become worse.
So, I sit with it. I let it churn. I let the what-ifs gnaw at the edges of my sanity while I get dressed on autopilot, my body moving through the motions same as usual.
