It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just… start the day. Routine helps.
I pad out to the kitchen, eyes scanning for any sign of Damien—dirty mug, extra pair of shoes, note on the counter. But there’s nothing. Glancing at the clock on my microwave, I realize it’s later than I thought—almost eight thirty. I should be hungry, but my stomach’s in knots.
I flip the switch on the kettle, listening to the faint whir and click as it heats. I grab a cup from the mugs lined up beside the sink and measure out the coffee grounds precisely. The familiar smell fills the air, rich and earthy, the comfort of routine pressing back against the panic.
It’s only as I’m moving to the fridge for the creamer that I see a splash of bright color against the plain white. A yellow sticky note. Damien’s handwriting, slanted and bold, is unmistakable even at a glance. I stare at it for a long second before I pluck it off, the edges fluttering as I peel it back.
I’ve reread it three times before I realize I’m smiling like an idiot in the middle of my kitchen. The ink is dark, a little smudged in places. The words aren’t flowery or dramatic, but they feel big. Bigger than the silence on my phone. Bigger than the years between us.
My cheeks burn, and my chest feels warm in that soft, unsteady way it used to before everything went to hell. Suddenly, I’m sixteen again, sitting on the roof with Damien, pretending we’re just stepbrothers, pretending I didn’t want more.
I fold the note and slip it into the side pocket of my hoodie, where no one else will see it. The smile on my face lingers, even as I pour my coffee and lean against the counter with the warmth seeping into my palms.
There are no classes for me today, but that doesn’t mean it’s a break. I’ve got a five-hour swim practice scheduled with Coach at noon, to prep for the meet next Friday. I should be excited. I’m one of the top-ranked swimmers in my division. The scouts arewatching me. The training is working. My body is stronger than it’s ever been.
And yet…
Somewhere deep down, I still wonder if I’m doing this for me, or if I’ve just been doing it so long, I don’t know how to stop. I take another sip of coffee and exhale slowly.
Leaving the sport feels impossible. It’s not just my life—it’s the only version of life I’ve been allowed. The rules are simple in the water: you win, or you don’t. You push, or you sink.
There’s no guesswork, no ambiguity, no trying to interpret people’s tone or facial expressions. There’s especially no wondering whether or not falling asleep on someone means you crossed a line.
In the water, I know who I am: Noah Adams, Olympic hopeful. Noah Adams, the kid with the fastest underwater turns and the worst social battery.
Out of the water, I’m still learning.
I grab my phone again, staring down at the blank message screen. The little typing bubble blinks at me, mocking my hesitation. But then I remember the note in my pocket. I remember the soft way he said my name last night, and the warmth in his eyes when he said,“I’d still steal them, by the way… If you’d let me.”
I don’t overthink it this time. I type before my brain can talk me out of it.
Me: Morning, Mien. Thanks for carrying me to bed. And for making sure I was safe. You didn’t have to. But I’m glad you did.
Then I hit send, set the phone down, and finish my coffee slowly, letting the quiet wrap around me. The note is still in my pocket. The day is still ahead of me. Practice will come and go. But for the first time in a while, I don’t dread it.
After breakfast and my meds, I finish getting ready in silence, tying my shoes with careful knots, looping my headphonesaround my neck, and packing my bag with the precision of someone who finds comfort in order. I check the fridge again, grab a protein bar for the road, and glance once more at the spot where the note was pinned.
The whale magnet is still there. Crooked, slightly chipped.
I smile again and walk out the door, hoodie tugged up over my head, heart lighter than it has any right to be.
Damien
Ihaven’tseenNoahsince he came back from his swim meet on Sunday. We’ve texted, yeah, but we haven’t really been alone together again. It’s not for lack of trying, though. His practice sessions have been longer, and Coach has been on our asses since preseason. We’ve both been too tired, and I get it.
That’s why, when I see Noah standing in the kitchen doorway—camera in his hands, strap looped around his wrist, and cheeks pink—my heart fucking soars. Ryan and Roman are currently in a heated debate about whether pineapple and banana go on pizza, but their voices get drowned out at the sight of him.
“Hey,” he says softly.
I turn around to face him completely, wiping my hands on a dish towel as I walk toward him. “Hey, Blue. You good?”
He nods, then hesitates, shifting from one foot to another. I recognize that look. It’s the same one he used to get when we were kids, and he wanted to ask something he thought might be stupid or inconvenient. Even when it never was.
So, I move even closer, blocking the other guys from seeing him, so he can feel comfortable talking. “Can I… uhm,” he starts, then clears his throat. “Can I go to the pond? The light’s really nice right now, and I wanna take some photos…”
His eyes dart away from mine, and my chest tightens for reasons I don’t let myself unpack. “Yeah, of course. You don’t have to ask—”
“No, it’s just…” he interjects, biting his bottom lip and looking so fucking adorable. “I thought maybe, I mean, if you’re not busy, could you come, too? I wanted to try some portraits, if you’re okay with that.”
