It takes a second for it to land, and for the simple honesty of his request to sink in. He wants me there. He wants me in his space. That’s a fucking huge deal to me, even though it’s just dinner.
“Yeah,” I say, maybe too fast. “Yeah, I’d like that, Blue. Let me shower, and I’ll come by?”
He nods, lips curving into a shy, pleased smile that makes me melt. “Yeah, I have to… tidy up, anyway. Make sure I don’t leave socks anywhere.”
“Wouldn’t wanna trip on one and sue you for ruining my career,” I tease, nudging him with my shoulder. The contact is brief, but fuck me, is it electric.
He gives me a half-laugh and rolls his eyes. “You’re such an asshole, Mien.”
I shrug, still grinning. “Only sometimes.” I try to keep my voice light, but it’s hard when my chest is buzzing. “I still have your address, so I’ll be there as soon as I’m done, yeah?”
Noah grabs his things, that smile not wavering. “Okay, I’ll, uh, see you soon.”
I take one last look at him—flushed, a little breathless, headphones still in hand—and it hits me just how much I’ve missed this. The easy back and forth, the anticipation and possibility of something… more.
I want to tell him everything. I want to lay it out and ask him to stay, to never go back to that quiet, sad place again. But I can’t… I don’t even know why I can’t. Fear, maybe? Fear of losing him again, fear of judgment and the possibility of him losing his parents. Of losing his career.
Instead, I just offer him a smile before I turn to leave—too scared to touch him because I know how much he hates to be touched by hands when he’s not expecting it.
In the locker room, I wash and rinse off in record time, barely registering the heat and steam. I’m out and drying off before Ryan can say a damn thing, shoving my kit into my bag to drop off in the laundry room later.
On the drive over, I can’t stop thinking about how nervous he looked when he asked me if I wanted to come over. I keep one hand on the wheel, the other tapping out a nervous rhythm against my thigh. I know I shouldn’t get ahead of myself, shouldn’t imagine what tonight might mean, but hope is a bitch like that. It creeps in even when you’ve spent years learning not to trust it.
By the time I park outside his building, my palms are sweating, and I feel seventeen again—desperate and hopelessly in love. I grab my bag, double-check my phone, and head up the steps two at a time, excitement making me reckless.
I don’t care what we eat, I don’t even care what we do. I just want to be here with him right now. In his space, in his orbit, even if only as a friend.
If this is what coming home feels like, I’m not sure I ever want to leave.
Noah
Ihaven’tstoppedpacingsince I got home, feet tracing the same path from the kitchen to the living room and back. My stomach is knotted, my hands are clammy and trembling, and I’ve been trying to convince myself that the last few minutes after Damien’s practice didn’t happen.
It’s ridiculous. I should sit down, take a breath, or turn on some music—literally anything else than circle my own apartment. But every time I try to stand still, my heart tries to crawl up my throat.
I keep checking my phone for the millionth time to make sure I haven’t missed a text, or worse, an “I can’t make it, something came up.” There’s nothing, just the text I sent, and a read receipt.
Why did I do this? Why did I invite Damien Moore over for dinner at my tiny apartment as if it were the most natural thing in the world? As if we haven’t spent the last few years orbiting each other with all the grace of two wounded animals.
Because I want him here, and that’s the terrifying truth of it all. I want him to know where I live now, and to see how I carved out a space for myself that belongs only to me. I want him to sit on my couch and see the stacks of books on my coffee table and my half-done projects piled on my kitchen island. I want him to see this little part of me and not run away when he realizes that I’m still trying to figure myself out.
I want him to look at me the way he used to—like I’m his Blue and not Noah Adams, only son of two larger than life people.
The apartment feels too small. I check the kitchen. Everything’s clean. Living room—pillows neat, candles lit, lights low. I double-check that the bathroom door is closed, that my shoes aren’t in the middle of the hallway, and that there’s nothing embarrassing left on the counters. Why does it feel like I’m about to go on a first date instead of just having dinner with someone I’ve known since I was fourteen?
I press my palms to my face and exhale, trying to ground myself. But the memory of him on the court won’t leave me. There’s a kind of graceful violence in the way he moves—controlled energy that makes chaos look easy. Every pivot, every call he made that echoed across the gym, and people listened; they always do. Damien Moore was built to be seen and followed.
He’s all his father’s legacy and then some: sharp jaw, olive skin, that bone structure that photographs too well even when he’s sweaty and exhausted. Then there’s his wide, wicked smile that used to get him out of every bit of trouble we stumbled into.
I take a deep breath, stand by the window, and try to slow my heart. But my brain is racing, spinning out what-ifs—What if he hates the place? What if it’s awkward? What if I say something stupid and he regrets coming? I pace again, counting steps. I’ve always done that. Eighteen paces from the kitchen to thewindow. Fourteen if I skip the island. My stomach’s twisted into something ugly.
Then there’s a knock at the door. My hands freeze, then start sweating. It’s not a loud knock—just two sharp raps, the kind that would annoy me from anyone else, but from him, it’s familiar.
I force myself to walk across the living room. When I open the door, Damien is standing there with a grin so wide and easy that it makes my heart trip. He’s still a little damp from the shower, hair wet at the tips from underneath his backwards cap, wearing a navy hoodie and dark jeans that should be illegal with the way they fit.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough from yelling plays.
I swallow, clutching the doorknob. “Hey,” I manage, voice embarrassingly breathless. “Uh. Come in.”
