Noah’s standing there, shoulders hunched, confusion clear in every line of his body. The adrenaline’s worn off, and now he just looks young and wrung out, eyes darting between Killian and the place where his father’s car disappeared.
“What just happened?” he whispers, as if he doesn’t quite trust that it’s over.
I pull Noah a little closer, my hand splayed across his back. “You did it,” I murmur, letting him feel every bit of pride in the words. “You stood up to him, Noah. That was you. You didn’t let him take your voice this time.”
But even as I say it, Noah’s eyes are still glued to Killian. “Who is Monica?” he asks.
Killian glances around, makes sure the lot is empty except for us, then gives a little shrug. “An old friend of your father’s; someone he’d rather the world forget about. You don’t need to worry about him showing up here again.” His gaze softens, just a little. “You did good, Adams. Braver than most grown men I know.”
Noah swallows, his lips parting and closing again, the words jammed somewhere in his throat. His shoulders shake, and I can feel the tremor still running through him. The adrenaline, the fear, the victory—everything is tangled up together.
He leans into me, letting himself fold against my side. For a second, I feel the way his breath shudders in his chest, and I tuck my chin over his head, keeping him close.
Ryan shakes his head in awe, letting out a slow whistle. “Damn, Kill. I don’t know what you’ve got on that man, but that was some mafia boss shit.”
Killian’s mouth curves in a sly smile, tucking his hands back into his pockets. “What can I say? I’m Killian King,” he says with a wink, then he turns to Noah, “He’s not going to bother you again. If he tries, you let me know. I’ll handle it.”
Noah swallows hard, glancing up at Killian with something like gratitude mixed with residual fear. “Thank you,” he manages, voice hoarse.
Killian gives him a nod, then he looks at me, a flicker of warmth crossing his face. “Take him home, Moore. And keep an eye out, yeah?”
I wrap an arm around Noah, pulling him in. His head drops against my shoulder, and I feel him shudder, letting the weight of the night bleed out, finally, now that the threat is gone.
“You really do have dirt on everybody, don’t you?” Sage says, completely breaking the moment.
Killian just shrugs, half a smile playing at his lips. “Goodnight, boys,” he says, and walks back toward his SUV.
Noah
Iwakebeforethesun’s fully out, some ingrained part of me still convinced I have to be ready for the water, for the day to start, whether I want it or not. It takes a moment to remember that’s not true anymore—there’s no training, no meet, no schedule except my own. The bed is warm, sheets tangled around my legs, the lingering press of Damien’s arm where it curls over my waist.
His breathing is slow, still deep in sleep, lashes a smudge against his cheeks. I don’t want to wake him, not after everything. There’s a peacefulness in him when he sleeps, where he finally lets go of all the burdens he carries for everyone else. I can’t bring myself to steal that from him.
So, I slide out from beneath his arm, careful not to jostle him. My legs are stiff when I stand, my body still processing the emotional hangover from telling my father I’m done. I meant every word. I’m not going back to Blackthorne. I’m not putting myself through the constant pressure of the swim team, themeets, the comments, the feeling that no matter what I do, it’ll never be enough.
Padding across the room in one of Damien’s oversized shirts, I grab my backpack and head downstairs. The house is dead silent, which isn’t surprising. It’s Saturday; it’s the one morning a week when the house breathes out, everyone lost in their own beds, their own hangovers, their own rare, needed sleep.
The kitchen’s dim when I step in, soft light filtering through the blinds and painting pale lines across the floor. I switch on the coffee machine—the familiar sound is a comfort. There’s something soothing about moving through the steps: grabbing the bread, sliding two slices into the toaster, pulling my weekly pill container out of the front pocket of my backpack.
It’s a quiet kind of victory, laying the container out on the counter, flipping open the section for Saturday. I butter my toast when it pops, and after eating the first slice, I take my meds. It’s not a big meal, nothing fancy, but it’s mine. I do it on my own, I control it, and I feel a little more like myself with each small step.
I haven’t looked at my phone in four days, and I don’t really want to. Whatever calls and texts are waiting for me—from my mother, my coaches, my teammates—they can stay unread. The decision’s already made. I’m not going back to the version of myself I kept trying to mold into what they wanted.
I want to heal in peace, without being forced to prove myself every hour of every day. I don’t know what that would look like—who I’d be, if I’m not “Noah Adams: swimmer, scholar, future Olympian.” I just know I can’t keep living for everyone else, not after what happened. I’m going to start over, and it’s going to be for me this time.
I rinse my plate, dry my hands on a dish towel, and make my way outside, mug in hand. The air is fresh, not cool enough that I wish I’d grabbed a hoodie, but the taste of it is clean. The lawn stretches wide and perfect, dew glittering on the grass, ripplesspreading across the pool's surface. For once, my thoughts aren’t racing. They’re just… quiet.
I freeze when I spot Killian near the far railing, one hand scrubbing at the back of his neck as he paces. He’s on his phone, but he’s not barking orders—he’s pleading, a note of desperation in his voice I’ve never heard before.
“You know that’s not what I meant, I—please don’t do this—” Killian’s voice cracks. “No, fuck, don’t hang up, just listen to me for once! I’m doing everything I can, but if it gets out—” He cuts off, voice tight with something I don’t often hear from him: fear. “Just… please. Don’t make me beg, Angel. You said you understood.”
He’s silent for a long moment, listening, then walks quickly around the side of the house, the cigarette burning bright between his fingers, the phone still pressed to his ear. I don’t think he even noticed me standing here.
I sit on the porch swing, letting my feet skim the floor, turning Killian’s words over in my head. Angel. A secret. The rare sound of desperation from a guy who’s untouchable. I wonder who he was talking to, what it would take to make someone like him beg. But the mystery is almost comforting, in a way—proof that even the strongest people carry their own battles. Maybe that’s all any of us are doing.
I shake off the thought and exhale, curling my feet up beneath me, coffee steaming in my hands. The yard is empty except for a few crows picking at something by the fence, the air sharp and full of the promise of a new day. I let myself breathe, just for a minute. Just to remember that I’m allowed to exist without rushing off to the next thing.
Then I hear footsteps thundering down the stairs inside. “Noah!”
