Ryan exhales through his nose and drags a hand down his face, the silk bonnet slipping to one side before he readjusts it with a flick. “You were a mess because you left him.”
I let the words settle over me, my mouth tightening as I stare at the worn wood grain of the floor. I rock forward slightly, elbows pressing harder into my thighs. “I don’t know how to fix it.”
“Then don’t try to fix it,” he says immediately, as if he’s been waiting for that exact excuse. “Just be honest and tell him the truth. Stop thinking you gotta be perfect to deserve him. He never asked you to be.”
“I’m scared it’ll wreck him,” I admit, my voice breaking. “That hearing what his dad did will rip open something I can’t close.”
Ryan sighs. “Or maybe,” he says quietly, “it’ll finally give him the closure he’s been needing for four fucking years. You think he hasn’t been sitting with questions every single day since you left? You think the not knowing hasn’t hurt him worse?”
I let that settle. I think about Noah, asleep on my lap, soft and trusting, and brave enough to start over on his own. I think about how much I want to be beside him, no lies, no more half-truths, just the goddamn truth for once.
“What if he hates me?” I ask, voice barely more than a whisper.
Ryan’s reply is immediate. “Then at least he’ll be hating the right version of you.”
I close my eyes, feeling the weight of four years finally shifting a little. Ryan pats the mattress beside him, scooting over a bit and tossing one of his pillows toward the other end. “Come on. Stay here tonight. You look close to collapsing.”
I glance toward the door while trying to talk myself out of it, then sigh and gesture half-heartedly. “I should probably let you sleep.”
Ryan barks out a laugh, throwing his head back against the wall. “D, you just dropped a fucking trauma bomb on me. You’re not going anywhere.”
A real smile tugs at my lips, reluctant but honest. I kick off my shoes, leaving them in a pile near the foot of the bed, and climb in beside him. As I settle in, the weight in my chest doesn’t vanish, but it’s lighter somehow. Ryan flips off the bedside lamp, and the room sinks into darkness.
“You know,” he murmurs after a few minutes, voice quiet and way too smug, “you’re gonna have to stop calling him your stepbrother if you’re gonna try and fuck him.”
I groan into the pillow, then grab the second one he gave me and throw it in his direction. It lands somewhere near his shoulder with a muffled thump. “You’re a shit fucking therapist.”
“Too soon?” he asks with a grin I can practically hear in the dark.
“Way too soon,” I mutter, flopping onto my back, but I’m smiling. Really smiling. And it’s the first time all damn day that it doesn’t feel like my chest is splitting open to do it.
Noah
WhenIwake,thelight in my room is softer than it should be. I blink a few times, brain sluggish and body heavier than usual. I didn’t just sleep—I crashed. My limbs ache in that post-swim way, where you’ve pushed past what you should’ve.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, squinting at the lazy spin of the fan blades. My throat hurts, and my tongue feels is as dry as sandpaper against the roof of my mouth.
The memories of last night start to creep back in, and for a few seconds, I lie still, trying to put the pieces together. The last things I remember are the two of us on the couch, Damien’s arm stretched along the back, his laughter vibrating through the cushions, and the light from the TV flickering over both of us.
I remember the show, the way we made fun of the ridiculous characters, Damien’s commentary getting softer the longer we watched. I remember the feel of him beside me, and how safe that felt—so much safer than I want to admit. After that,though… nothing. A blank space. I don’t even remember getting into bed or saying goodbye to Damien.
A surge of embarrassment ripples up my neck. Did I fall asleep on him? I try to retrace the night in my head. The TV. The smell of takeout. My body melting into his, fighting sleep and losing. Did I say something? Did I move? Oh, god, did I drool on him?
The horror of not knowing hits me full-force, and I rub my hands over my face, trying to chase it away. I hate losing control of my own awareness, especially in front of someone who already saw too much of me before I learned how to hide it. I look around my room: the curtains are drawn, and the sheets are a little messy, but nothing’s out of place except for me.
Reaching for my phone, I unlock it and swipe down the notifications.
Nothing.
No texts from Damien. No unread messages. Just the usual swim team update emails and a couple of social media notifications I won’t check. My chest tightens stupidly at the absence of his name. I don’t know what I was expecting—a “good morning”? A “hey, you fell asleep on me, by the way”?
No, that’s not fair. He probably didn’t want to wake me. That’s… considerate. Still, the absence needles me.
I turn the phone screen off and set it back down, trying not to spiral the way I always do when something’s unclear.
Breathe, Noah. Just… breathe.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes again, forcing myself to take slow, even breaths. The routine grounds me—five counts in, five counts out, again and again until my pulse starts to level out. It’s early. There’s no reason for him to have texted. He just went home—like he should have—because I was already half gone, sleep pulling me under before I could even say goodbye.
