I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “They’re Damien’s; he’s got the best hands,” I say, unlocking my phone to show them. “And they’re mine.”
Sage’s eyes go shiny, but he wipes at them fast, turning his sniffle into a snort. “Aww, you’re so whipped. I love it; it’s disgusting.”
Nate’s smile is softer now. “Good. About time you got a little happiness. You deserve it.”
Later, when they’ve both left with promises of making this a monthly thing, I watch the city lights outside my window.Damien’s hoodie is wrapped around me, the smell of cinnamon and clean laundry grounding me in the moment, when I decide to take their advice and be brave.
Noah
Ikeepthinkingaboutwhen Damien called me brave enough to be open with him. I’ve never been brave a day in my life, not really, not where it counts. But tonight, it doesn’t feel impossible.
Tonight, with the memory of him still fresh on my skin, I want to see how brave I can be.
I check the time—3:14 a.m. No way Damien’s awake. Even on game nights, he sleeps as if someone drugged him, and the house is always dead quiet by now, athletes scattered in rooms behind thick, expensive doors, blackout curtains drawn against the city.
There’s a risk to what I’m about to do, but it doesn’t feel terrifying in the way I expected. It feels like taking a deep breath and letting go.
I want Damien to see all of me—not just the parts that are soft and easy and safe. The parts that are risky, strange, and beautiful, even if my hands shake while I show them. There’s akey sitting in my backpack, tucked beneath my wallet, given to me by Damien weeks ago with a smirk and a muttered “just in case.” His version of subtle is terrible, but it’s good enough.
The city outside is quiet as I lock my apartment, hoodie over my shoulders, backpack slung across my body. The drive to The Sin Bin is quick, anticipation sitting low in my gut. The house is a looming shape in the dark, windows glowing faintly, the front porch lit with a yellow bulb.
I unlock the door and punch in the alarm code, heart hammering, as I slip inside, closing the door as quietly as I can. My nerves sing as I pad upstairs, past the framed photos, the trophies and game balls, all the evidence of the chaos that lives here.
Damien’s door is closed but not locked. I turn the handle and slip inside, locking the door behind me. The curtains are half-drawn, moonlight sliding over the familiar mess: shoes in a pile, books stacked beside the bed, hoodie tossed over the back of his chair.
He’s sprawled in the center of his mattress, limbs tangled in the blanket, mouth soft in sleep, hair mussed and wild. He looks less like the guy everyone on campus idolizes and more like the boy I fell in love with all that time ago, when I was still learning the shape of my own want.
I drop my hoodie to the floor, then tug my shirt over my head, careful not to catch it on the thin black lace bralette I picked out just for this. My hands are steady now as I strip off my jeans and socks, then wriggle out of my boxers, swapping them for the jockstrap I bought weeks ago but never had the guts to wear.
Then I reach for the slip chain choker I’ve kept hidden at the back of my drawer, the one I never thought I’d actually put on. It’s heavier than it looks, made of silver-toned chain that threads through matching heart-shaped O-rings. I slip it around myneck, threading one heart through the other and letting it settle high against my throat.
I check myself in the mirror over his dresser—a flush blooming high on my cheeks, hair a riot of blue, lashes dark around my eyes.
I look nervous, yeah, but also… pretty. Hot, even. The type of guy who could break hearts if he wanted. The type of guy Damien Moore might lose his mind over.
I tiptoe to the bed, one knee sinking into the mattress, then the other. I straddle his waist, breath catching when I see just how deeply asleep he is. The urge to wake him gently, to give him a memory he’ll never forget, overrides every doubt.
I lean in, mouth close to his ear, and whisper, “Rise and shine, superstar.”
Damien stirs but doesn’t open his eyes, lips quirking at the sound of my voice. I press a slow kiss to his cheek, then to the edge of his jaw, nuzzling the stubble there, and breathing him in—cinnamon, soap, and that spicy cologne I love so much.
He lets out a sleepy groan and turns his face instinctively toward my mouth, seeking out the contact even in dreams. “Hmmm… Blue…” He murmurs, and my pulse stutters at how natural it feels.
I kiss his neck, soft and teasing, mouthing at the spot below his ear, whispering, “C’mon, Damien. I snuck in just for you.”
He groans deeply this time, and his hand comes up to grip my thigh automatically, possessive even in sleep. “S’too early,” he mumbles, not quite awake yet.
I nudge him again, pressing my hips down a little, rolling slowly. He’s half-hard already, and the feel of me on top of him finally pulls him up from the depths.
Damien’s eyes flutter open, unfocused at first. He blinks, confusion crossing his face, then his nose twitches, browfurrowing. “Noah?” His voice is rough with sleep, but he inhales again, and I see the moment he knows it’s me.
His eyes widen, pupils blown, and he jerks fully awake beneath me. “What the actual—” He can’t even finish the sentence, just lets his eyes roam over me, stunned and hungry, lips parted. “Holy shit, Blue.”
The way he says it makes my stomach flip. I let my knees settle wider, bracketing his hips, and lean down, kissing him again, open-mouthed, tasting sleep and surprise. His hands slide up my back, fingertips finding the edge of the bralette, tracing the straps. I break off the kiss but keep my mouth on his, whispering, “You said you liked surprises.”
He laughs, the sound rough, caught between disbelief and arousal. “Not at four in the fucking morning, I didn’t.”
I smile into the kiss, tugging his bottom lip gently with my teeth. “Liar,” I murmur. “You love it.”
