Picking up another shirt, I start folding and lining up ones I never wear. Pretending the order will fix something inside me. But Ryan doesn’t let me push this aside.
“You still feel it, don’t you?”
The silence that follows is heavy enough to choke me, and my hands pause mid-fold. I don’t want to answer, but the words slip out anyway. “Of course, I do.”
Ryan exhales slowly. “Then why the fuck are you so mad at me? Because I gave you something you wanted?”
My laugh is humorless, and I turn to face him again. “Wanted? You think I wanted this? To live under the same roof as him? To see him every goddamn day and remember every single thing I spent four years trying to bury? That’s what you call something Iwanted?”
He watches me, calm in a way that makes me want to shake him. “You wantedhim, Noah.”
“I can’t have him,” I snap, louder than I meant to. My chest heaves with every breath I’m trying to pull in, and I turn away, pressing the heels of my palms to my eyes. “I’ll never be able to have him.”
Ryan is quiet for a moment, then asks gently, “Does that stop you from loving him?”
The question slices me open, and he knows it. “No, but what good does it do me to feel this way about someone I can’t touch? To want someone who’ll never—” I stop myself from finishing that sentence and shake my head. “I can’t, Ryan. Not with him. Not now, not ever.”
He gets up and walks over to me, placing his hand on my shoulder, squeezing once. “You don’t have to say anything, but stop punishing yourself for wanting him. You’re not wrong for it, you never were.”
I bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to stop myself from unravelling. “You don’t get it. He’s Damien. He’s—” I sink onto the edge of my bed, burying my face in my hands. “I can’t do this again, Ry. I can’t live here with him again and pretend I’m fine after he just left and went no contact. It’ll kill me.”
Ryan comes to sit beside me, bumping his shoulder against mine. “Or, it’ll save you.”
I lift my head and meet his eyes, noting that there’s no amusement playing in them. “You don’t know that.”
“Maybe not,” he admits with a shrug. “But I know one thing: you’re not over him, and he definitely feels something for you.And as much as you hate me for it, maybe it’s time you both stopped running from it.”
My throat tightens, and I’m unable to form words to respond to that. Damien feels nothing for me. Someone who can cut you out of their lives as easily as he did with me doesn’t care about anyone but himself.
But that doesn’t make it easier. It just hurts more.
I lean back on my hands, staring at the ceiling, and let out a shaky laugh. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
Ryan grins, bumping my shoulder again. “Yeah, but I’m also your best friend, and someday you’ll thank me for this.”
I shake my head, smiling despite the ache in my chest. “Don’t hold your breath.”
He laughs, the sound easy, warm, and familiar. But it doesn’t change a damn thing. No matter how much I want to pretend, the truth doesn’t change.
I’m still in love with Damien Moore, and I’m not sure how I’m going to survive losing him this time.
Noah
BythetimeIfinish unpacking, my drawers are neatly stacked, and my shirts are aligned in color order beside my hoodies. It’s busywork—a way to keep my hands occupied while my brain tries to calm down.
The truth is, nothing feels settled, not with Damien only a hallway away. Not with the sound of his voice echoing in my head, calling me that stupid nickname.
I still don’t fully know why he started calling me Blue, and he never explained it, either. I wonder if it has something to do with my heterochromia—the one thing I loathe about myself is my mismatched brown and blue eyes.
Ryan is still sprawled across my bed, scrolling on his phone. Every few minutes, he gives me a look that says he’s waiting for me to lose my shit, but I ignore him. When I finally close the last drawer, he stretches, kicks his feet off the bed, and claps his hands together.
“Alright, Adams,” he says with a shit-eating grin. “Time for the real fun. You gotta meet the rest of the guys.”
I freeze halfway to my desk chair. “Now?”
“Yeah, now. The guys are all waiting to meet you downstairs. Killian made his famous stir-fry, and you do not turn down Killian’s cooking. That’s like spitting in the face of God.”
I snort, rubbing at my jaw. “Pretty sure God doesn’t cook.”
