The doctor—Killian’s cousin, calm and professional, and far too used to this kind of thing—had recommended inpatient care. A clinic where Noah would be under observation and have structure and safety.
“He’s medically stable for now,” he’d said gently. “But relapses such as this don’t come out of nowhere. Something happened to trigger this. If it happens again, it could be worse.”
I’d nodded, listened, and thanked him. Then I’d refused.
It wasn’t because I don’t understand how serious this is, or that I’m in denial about how bad it got or could still get. But I know my Blue. I know what a hospital room would do to him. The lights, the smells, and the lack of control. The feeling of being watched, evaluated, and stripped down to charts, vitals, and intake forms.
I know how he shuts down when too many eyes are on him, how being trapped makes his mind spiral faster instead of slowing down.
Not only that, but I know his father. I know exactly what Lionel Adams would do if Noah vanished into a clinic. He’d frame it as weakness or failure. He’d treat it as something to hide, control, and punish. He’d use it, twist it, and hold it over Noah’s head until my boy broke all over again.
So, I made the call. Nate was furious, but he did his job anyway, hands steady as he checked vitals and replaced fluids, muttering threats under his breath about what he’d do if he ever got Noah’s father alone. And the doctor agreed, reluctantly, with strict conditions and follow-ups, and a very clear warning that this wasn’t a long-term solution.
Now, it’s just him and me.
He looks breakable, but he’s always looked that way to me—too fragile for this world, too bright, too strange, too much and never enough for people who don’t know how to love someone like him. But I do. I fucking know how to love him, but I’m terrified that even my love isn’t enough to keep him here.
I know that people say eating disorders are a girl’s problem, that men should toughen up, move on, “man up.” I know the statistics, read the pamphlets, watched the documentaries, and seen the damage and the aftermath.
But if that were true, then none of this would hurt the way it does.
It wouldn’t hollow out my chest watching the person I love disappear into patterns that were never about vanity or weakness, but about control, fear, and survival.
If it were a “girl’s problem,” then I wouldn’t see the same signs in teammates who punish their bodies in quieter ways—overtraining, cutting weight, ignoring injuries until something snaps.
I wouldn’t recognize the way discipline turns into obsession, the way praise becomes a trap, the way self-worth gets measured in numbers on a scale instead of breaths. I wouldn’t see how easy it is for a boy to learn that hunger is strength and silence is virtue.
But I do see it. I see it in Noah, clear as day.
A part of me wants to wake him up, to tell him I’m here, to beg him not to go anywhere I can’t follow. But another part knowshe needs this sleep. He needs to rest, needs to heal in whatever small way he can.
I reach up and brush my thumb lightly over the back of Noah’s hand, grounding myself in the reality of him. “Blue,” I whisper, swallowing hard, and blinking against the burn. “You scared the shit out of me. Do you know that? I thought I was too late. I thought I walked in after—” I break off, jaw clenching so tightly it hurts. “I can’t do that again. I can’t.”
Nothing.
My chest tightens, panic clawing up my throat. I lean closer, as if proximity might make the difference. “Come on, baby,” I murmur. “I need those beautiful eyes. I need you to look at me.”
I lean my forehead against the edge of the mattress, my grip tightening around his fingers. “You were doing so well. You were trying and letting yourself exist without punishment. I saw it, Noah. I know you weren’t faking it. So, something happened, and I swear to you, I’m going to find out what. Nobody gets to do this to you. Nobody.”
Anger surges violently in my chest, hot enough that I have to breathe through it. I picture Lionel Adams’ face, the smug certainty, the casual cruelty of his words, the way he talks about his son like a possession that malfunctioned. The hand not holding Noah’s curls into a fist for a second before I force them to relax, afraid of how badly I want to hit something.
“I should’ve been there,” I say, voice breaking again. “I’m so fucking sorry, Blue. I should’ve protected you better. I should’ve seen it coming. I should’ve—”
I suck in a breath and bring his hand up, pressing my mouth to his knuckles. My lips linger there desperately, pouring everything I feel into that one point of contact.
I think about the way he laughs when he forgets to be careful. The way he gets bossy when he’s behind a camera. The way he curls into me at night, like my body is the only safe place in theworld. The way he trusts me, and how fucking rare and precious that is.
“I love you,” I tell him, because it’s the only truth I have left. “I’ll do whatever it takes. Therapy. Structure. Mealtimes. Sitting on the floor with you if that’s what you need. I don’t care how slow the process is, and I don’t care how hard it gets. You don’t have to be strong right now. That’s my job.” I lean in again, pressing my forehead gently to his arm, breathing him in. “But you gotta stay,” I whisper. “You gotta stay and fight, baby.”
I feel a faint squeeze around my fingers, and my head snaps up so quickly that I feel a sharp twinge in my neck. “Noah?” My voice cracks on his name, hope crashing into my chest so frantically it almost knocks the air out of me. “Hey—hey, baby, I’m here.”
His lashes flutter, and his brow creases faintly, but those fucking beautiful, mismatched eyes are looking at me. Heavy-lidded and confused, but he’s looking at me.
“Mien?” His voice is dry, rasping from disuse and dehydration, but it’s him—real, present,here.
Relief surges through me so fast I nearly choke on it. My hand trembles as I cradle his cheek, thumb sweeping along the delicate skin under his eye. “Hey, Blue. You’re okay, you’re safe.”
He blinks at me as if he’s trying to piece the last few hours together, and he swallows hard. “Water…pl..ease.”
