He pauses, and for a second, I expect him to brush me off, to pretend it never happened. But then, all at once, he walks up to me, leans in and presses his lips to my cheek—soft, lingering just long enough to make my skin burn. When he pulls back, he meets my eyes, steady and certain in a way I’ve never seen before.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Mien,” he says again. “I promise.”
I stand there, stunned, as he gets into his car, closes the door, and pulls away, away, leaving me with the ghost of his mouth on my skin and the hope in his voice ringing in my ears.
Damien
Ipacemyroomuntil the floorboards creak beneath my feet and the walls start to close in.
I can’t sit.
I can’t think.
I can’t do anything except replay every second of that shoot—the heat in Noah’s eyes, the way his voice went rough when he called my name, the impossible softness of his mouth pressed to my cheek.
My heart’s been thundering like I just finished a playoff game. I keep touching my jaw, checking for proof he was really there, that it wasn’t some fever dream cooked up by four years of longing.
He wants me, too. There’s no way I could’ve misread that look—shy yet daring, as if he were seeing me and asking me to see him in return. I can feel it vibrating under my skin, all the words I never said, all the chances I wasted trying to be good and safe and never enough.
I stop pacing and brace my hands on the dresser, head dropping forward.
Four years ago, I left without a word because I thought loving him meant sacrificing myself. I thought it meant disappearing so he could have the future his father threatened to rip away. I thought I was being noble. Protective. I never stopped to consider that maybe I was just a coward hiding behind good intentions.
I spend the next hour spiraling—pacing, lying down, sitting up, glancing at my phone, reading over old texts until my eyes sting. I try telling myself to wait, to give him space. But hope is a wild thing in my chest, making patience impossible. I could wait four more years, and it wouldn’t make a damn bit of difference. I’d still want him this badly.
By the time the clock hits midnight, I’m staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched, and my hands are shaking from holding back.
Fuck it. I can’t let this slip through my fingers again.
My brain starts listing reasons not to do this. He might be asleep, might freak out, or he might not want this after all. He might tell me it’s too late. His dad might still have power. I might blow up whatever fragile peace he’s built for himself.
Then I remember the way his eyes softened when he said I did nothing wrong.
I grab my hoodie and keys. “Fuck it,” I say out loud this time, and it’s a decision instead of a surrender.
The drive to Noah’s apartment feels unreal, streetlights blurring past as my thoughts race ahead of the car. I don’t rehearse what I’m going to say. I don’t plan it out. If I do, I know I’ll talk myself out of it. I’ll convince myself there’s still time, that morning would be better, safer, more reasonable.
But I don’t want to be reasonable anymore; I want to be honest about everything.
I park at the curb and jog to his apartment, not bothering with texts. If he’s asleep, I’ll wait. If he doesn’t want to see me—god, if he tells me to fuck off—I’ll survive it. But I’m not letting silence be the last word again.
I stand in front of his door, my heart jackhammering, and force myself to breathe. My knuckles are white where I ball my hands into fists. I almost chicken out, but then I knock—two quick raps, then silence and another two—same as always.
It takes a minute before I hear movement inside—bare feet on hardwood, a clatter, maybe a muffled curse. The chain scrapes back, and the door swings open.
Noah stands there in soft sweats and a worn T-shirt. He blinks when he sees me, eyes widening, mouth parting in shock. “Damien? What are you—What are you doing here?”
I can’t help it—I drink him in. Every detail, every piece of him I’ve missed so fucking much in the years we were apart. My nerves are wrecked, my palms slick, but I step forward before I can lose my nerve.
“I’m here because I’m an idiot,” say, my voice steady despite the way my heart is trying to claw its way out of my chest. “And because I’m done pretending I don’t know what that look meant.”
He swallows, color blooming high on his cheeks. “What look?”
“The one you gave me at the pond,” I say quietly. “The one you gave me when you kissed my cheek. The one you’ve been giving me since before I left, when I was too blind to see it.”
He opens his mouth, then closes it again, clearly overwhelmed. “Damien, I—”
“I came to do something I should’ve done four years ago,” I interrupt, stepping fully into his space. I don’t touch him yet, but I give him the choice to move back. “And if you tell me to leave, I will. I swear it, Blue. But I need to say this out loud, or it’s going to eat me alive.”
