I set him down gently on his bed, pausing to pull the covers up over his body, and he curls onto his side, half on his stomach, arms tucked close. For a second, I stand over him, fighting every instinct to stay. To crawl in beside him. To hold him through the night and make up for every second I ever left him wondering if I cared.
Instead, I do what I’ve always done—I put him first. I brush the hair out of his eyes, letting my fingers linger at his temple, then lean down and press a kiss to his hairline.
“Night, Blue,” I whisper, voice thick. “Thank you for letting me in.”
Back in the kitchen, I grab the pen and a sticky note from the little pad on his fridge. The light from the stove is a little harsh after the dimness of his bedroom, and I squint as I scrawl out the words with a shaky hand.
Hey, Blue.
Didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for the best night I’ve had in a long time. Text me when you wake up.
—Mien
I pause, thumb running over the corner of the paper. There’s so much more I want to say—so many apologies, so many what-ifs, so many years I wish I could hand back to him whole. But that’s not what tonight was about. Tonight was just… tonight. A second chance to be here, to be wanted in whatever way he’ll have me.
So, I stick it dead in the centre of his fridge and secure it with his whale magnets, knowing he’ll see it in the morning. Before I leave, I put the leftover food in his fridge, then I grab his phone and place it on his nightstand. Then I let myself linger a bit, looking around at the little details of his space.
The textbooks on his counter, the camera bag hanging from one of the barstools, the burnt-out candles on his coffee table. I see the life he’s trying to build for himself one day at a time, and I ache to be part of it.
With a sigh, I head toward the front door, slipping my shoes back on and grabbing my bag by the door. When I close his door, I wait for the latch to click to signal that it’s locked before I walk outside.
I breathe in the cold air and let it anchor me, allowing the midnight hush to settle as I walk to my car while already counting the minutes until I get to see him again.
By the time I pull up to the Sin Bin, it’s well after one in the morning. I leave the car idling for a minute, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, and just breathe through the chest-deep ache of having to walk away from Noah.
I cut the engine and grab my bag, letting the front door fall shut behind me. The Sin Bin is quiet at this hour—no parties,no video game tournaments in the den, and no half-dressed athletes eating pizza at midnight. I know where I need to go before I’ve even made the decision.
I should go to bed, I know that. Should head to my room, drown myself in silence, and pretend I don’t still feel Noah’s weight in my arms. But I don’t. I veer left instead, straight down the hall toward Ryan’s room because my chest feels like it’s full of glass, and if I don’t say something—if I don’t let it out—I’m going to crack in half.
His door is cracked open as usual. Ryan never locks it unless someone’s pissed him off. I knock once. “You up?”
There’s a beat of silence, then a rustling noise followed by a groggy, “If you’re not bringing pizza or dick, I’m hanging up this dream.”
I huff a laugh and push the door open. Ryan is lying on his bed in black basketball shorts and an old tournament T-shirt, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His curls are wrapped up in a black silk bonnet, and he’s trying to glare at me but not quite pulling it off.
“It’s like one in the morning, bro. You trying to catch hands or what?” His voice is half teasing, half genuine concern, because he’s always been better at reading me than most.
I lean against the doorframe, dropping my bag in the hallway. “You got a second?”
He sits up a little when he sees me. “What’s up? You’re either drunk, or you’re about to tell me something you’d rather I forget in the morning.”
I close the door behind me and take in the familiar chaos of Ryan’s room—sneakers, hoodies, empty water bottles, and crumpled playbooks. He sits up a little and fixes me with the kind of look that says he knows I’m about to make him a co-conspirator, whether he likes it or not.
His smirk falters at the look on my face. “Okay, not joking. What happened?”
I don’t sit right away. I walk to the window, stare out at the streetlamp glowing through the trees, and shove my hands deep into the pockets of my hoodie. “I’m in love with him, Ry.”
Ryan doesn’t pretend not to know who I’m talking about. “You finally figured it out?”
I choke on a laugh and look over my shoulder. “No, just the first time I admitted it out loud. The problem is, I never fucking stopped. Not when I left, not when I was hooking up with half the campus trying to prove I was fine. None of it worked because it’s always been him.”
His eyes soften, and he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “Damien…”
I sink down onto the edge of his bed, hands fisting in my lap. “He deserves someone better,” I mutter. “Someone who didn’t leave. Someone who didn’t spend four years pretending it didn’t hurt. But I can’t stop loving him. I tried.”
Ryan is quiet for a minute, and that alone makes my throat tighter than it should be. Because Ryan Torres is never quiet. He’s the king of running his mouth—always the first to roast me, tease me, slap me on the back of the head, and call me a dumbass when I deserve it.
“Okay,” he says finally. “So you’re in love with Noah. That part checks out. You’ve been in love with him since we were sixteen;nada nuevo.”
