Chapter 1
Noah
The one thing no one tells you about perfection is how much of yourself you lose in pursuit of it.
Goal weight. Best scores. Fastest. Better. Best.
Perfection isn’t a goal. It’s a punishment I’ve been chasing since the day I learned to hold my breath underwater longer than the other kids. My father said I had the bones of a champion, while my mother said I had the face of a star.
Neither of them asked whether I wanted to be either of those things—they just handed me the mold and told me to fit into it. No room for softness. No room for failure.
No room for me.
So, I broke off pieces of myself. Little ones, at first. The appetite, the weight, the attitude.
Then the bigger ones—the dreams I never said aloud.
The parts of me that didn’t fit into the son I was supposed to be: swimmer and supermodel prodigy.
I shaved myself down until I could pass inspection, until nobody could see the mess underneath.
Only two people knew me best, and one of them I’m about to see for the first time in years.
Ryan Torres.
He’s been my best friend since the first year of high school and has become the only person who’s ever seen me without the mask.
And that’s precisely why I trusted him when he told me living here would be perfect, even if the housing was temporary.
That it would be a fresh start and a place I could just be Noah again.
Whatever the hell that means.
As I near the place he called the Sin Bin, I tell myself that I’m ready for this. That there hasn’t been a gnawing pit in my stomach since I got back from my father’s training camp in California. That this swimming scholarship is an accomplishment, not a prison sentence.
But as I turn into a long-ass driveway, any trace of that internal illusion dies a quick death.
I expected a house. Maybe a nicer one than your average college guy crash pad, but still—walls, a roof, and the smells of Axe body spray and microwave popcorn.
What I did not expect was a goddamn mansion.
Three stories tall, tinted windows, black stone exterior, manicured lawns, and… is that a goddamn fountain?!
“Holy shit,” I mutter to myself, cutting the engine as I stare up at the place. “Ryan, what the hell did you sign me up for?”
This looks like a place that belongs to someone with a trust fund and a private jet, not a bunch of college athletes. This is private-school rich. Legacy rich. The kind of place I wanted to get away from.
The front door swings open before I can second-guess or make a run for it.
Ryan steps out with that same easy grin he’s had since high school.
That grin got us into trouble, got us out of trouble, and somehow made everything in between a little more bearable.
His dark curls are tied up, and he’s wearing a sleeveless red hoodie, and black basketball shorts.
He jogs down the stone steps and toward the car before I even open the door, and I’m out a second later, pulling my hoodie tighter over my frame. The sun is too bright, the air too warm, but my skin still prickles the second I step outside.
“Noah!” he shouts, waving both arms like a maniac. “About damn time, bro. I thought you crashed or chickened out.”
“I didn’t chicken out, jackass. GPS sent me around the lake. Twice. Also—” I gesture to the massive house. “—you forgot to mention you’re living in a damn palace. This place has a chandelier in the window, Ryan.”
“Welcome to the Sin Bin: home of bad decisions, elite athletes, and questionable life choices,” he says with a grin. “Told you it was a good deal.”
“A good deal?” I raise a brow as he pulls me into a tight hug, which I return, even if I’m still in shock. “You neglected to mention the rent comes with its own private zip code.”
He laughs and pulls back to look at me. “Killian King owns it, and we don’t pay for shit. Athletes only, so you qualify.”
I roll my eyes, but the smile pulling at my mouth is genuine this time, and I can’t help it. Ryan’s the only one who stuck around when I stopped trying to be the version of myself that looked good in my dad’s holiday card.
“Killian King? Is his dad that senator—”
“Yeah, that asshole,” Ryan says, before gesturing to my bags. “Ready?”
I’m not. I haven’t been ready since I packed my things and left my dad’s place. But I nod anyway. “Yeah, just let me—”
“Hey, Blue.”
Two words, that’s all it takes for every thought in my head to slam to a halt like a needle scratching across vinyl. I know that voice; I could pick it out in a crowd even after years of silence.
I don’t turn right away. I can’t. I just stare at Ryan, wide-eyed and betrayed, as he grins. “You son of a bitch,” I hiss.
His smug little smirk is the confirmation I don’t need but already expect. “Surprise?”
“You’re dead to me, Torres,” I mutter under my breath, glaring at him, but he just laughs.
I sigh and turn slowly, and there he is—leaning against the front porch column, unaware that he just stepped out of my old daydreams and into my worst nightmare.
Damien fucking Moore.
Every inch of him is worse than I remember. Taller, broader, all sharp edges and newly inked skin wrapped in a black tank top that clings to his chest. He’s wearing a backward cap, dark hair curling around his ears, with a water bottle in one hand and a smile that makes my knees feel unreliable.
But those eyes—those fucking brown eyes—pin me in place.
I forget how to breathe, and my fingers tremble. So, I tuck them into the sleeves of my hoodie and pretend I didn’t just get sucker-punched by the ghost of every goddamn feeling I thought I’d buried.
The past four years collapse in on themselves with just one look.
Four years of silence, of unanswered texts, of pretending I didn’t check his social media every few months just to make sure he was still alive.
Now he’s standing there, casual as anything, smiling at me as if he didn’t break every part of me the year he left.
I want to run. I want to scream. I want to throw my bags in the car and reverse out of this driveway like a man possessed. But instead, I stand there, frozen and hating how much I still love the sound of that nickname when he says it. “You live here, too?”
“Yeah,” Damien says simply. “Been here a couple of years. Got recruited early.”
My stomach twists. “Right. Of course. You’re…good at what you do.”
I want to scream into the nearest tree. That’s what I came up with? You’re good at what you do? Jesus, Noah.
He doesn’t tease me for it, though. Just gives me that long, weighted stare I remember too well.
The kind that used to make me forget what air felt like in my lungs.
The kind that made me wonder what it would feel to kiss him just once, just to see if it would ruin everything or fix something inside me.
Ryan clears his throat dramatically. “So, I’ll get your bags. You two can keep… staring at each other or whatever the hell this is.”
He disappears before I can hit him, leaving me with nothing but my duffel bag, my burning face, and the boy I’ve been in love with for more years than I’m willing to admit. Damien hasn’t moved. Neither have I.
I can’t decide whether to run or punch him. My heart is sprinting, my lungs burn like I’ve been underwater too long again, and his gaze is a vise on my chest.
“I didn’t know you were here,” I say, finally finding my voice. “Ryan failed to mention that part.”
He shrugs. “Guess he wanted a front-row seat to the reunion.”
“I’m not here for a reunion, Damien.”
Damien’s eyes narrow just slightly at the tone of my voice. “Still dramatic, huh?”
“Still a dick, huh?” I shoot back before I can stop myself.
His mouth quirks, but not into a smile, and he pushes off the column and steps down toward me. “You dyed your hair again,” he says, eyes drifting up to my hair, then back to my eyes. “Blue always suited you.”
I swallow hard and look away, scuffing my sneaker against the gravel and trying not to show how much his words hit. “It’s my thing.”
Kill me, please.
“Hmmm.” His gaze drops to my neck, then slowly trails down, lingering for a beat too long before returning to my face. “Still suits you.”
I hate how warm that makes me feel. I hate that I still want to hear him say more. I hate him.
I miss him.
And I’m pretty sure that’s going to be a problem.
We stare at each other, time stretching and fraying between us. Eventually, I break the silence. “Well, I guess we’re housemates again.”
“Guess so,” he says, then he gives me that smile that I used to love and hate in equal measure. “It’s good to see you again, Blue.”
I wish he hadn’t said it like that because I can still feel the echo of how it used to feel when he called me Blue in that low timbre.
The way it sounded when no one else was around, when we’d sneak into the kitchen at 2 a.m. for cereal and talk about things we weren’t supposed to.
When he’d ruffle my hair just to piss me off, and I’d roll my eyes to hide how much I liked it.
“I need to get inside,” I say, barely managing to speak. “Ryan’s probably already told everyone I’m a trainwreck.”
Damien nods and takes a step toward me, and I freeze at the familiar scent of spicy cologne and cinnamon gum. “Let me help with your things—”
I shake my head. “Don’t. Please.”
He backs off instantly, eyes wide and hands raised. “Okay.”
I walk past him before I do something stupid. Like look back, or fall into those arms that I imagine would still feel safe. I’m not going to survive living under the same roof as Damien Moore. Not when I never stopped loving him.
He has no idea just how much it still fucking hurts.