Chapter 7 Noah
Noah
Two months.
That’s how long I’ve been living in this house that feels more like a paradox than a home. The Sin Bin is always alive—someone yelling from the hallway, music thudding somewhere, someone laughing too loudly. But somehow, I’ve never felt more alone.
Two months of pretending that everything is fine, that I belong here, and that the silence between me and Damien doesn’t hang heavy at all. Two months of walking past him in the kitchen and ignoring the ache in my chest when he looks right through me.
We don’t talk at all. Not since the day I arrived and saw him for the first time in four years. Not since I realized I still haven’t learned to stop loving him. I know he’s avoiding me. Hell, I’m avoiding him, too, but that doesn’t make things easier.
I’ve had my phone in my hand multiple times with my thumb hovering over either my mother’s or father’s number, thinking I should just leave. It would be easier to take another gap year in Milan or go back to training with my father.
He offered before I even packed for Blackthorne, saying I could spend the year living with him in California, helping him with his private coaching business.
He mentioned getting me closer to the circuits he still dominates, even in retirement.
He called it an “opportunity,” the same word he uses when he wants something to sound selfless, but it isn’t.
Last year, I worked with my mother. The modelling agency, the brand shoots, the endless events where I had to smile for cameras that felt more invasive than affectionate.
Every photo was perfect, and every version of me was someone I didn’t recognize. My mother called it art; I called it exhausting.
This year, I wanted something different. Somewhere that I didn’t always have to perform. I didn’t realize the Sin Bin would be its own kind of stage.
It’s not that they’re bad guys. They’re just…
larger than life. Loud—unapologetically so—and highly competitive.
They live and breathe the confidence I no longer have.
Every day feels as though I’m in a play I’m understudying for, never sure which parts I’m supposed to act out.
So much for not having to perform, I guess.
Killian is the house’s reluctant parental figure; the one who cooks, schedules the cleaners, and threatens to kick everyone out when they act like feral children. Roman’s quiet and terrifyingly observant. Apparently, he used to get into a lot of fights, but I honestly can't see it.
Luca’s a walking spotlight—always surrounded by people but preferring the company of his boyfriend, Sage. Thorn and Ryan are twin chaos incarnate—both addicted to pushing buttons just to see what happens.
Julian and Eli are worse together than apart, and they’re always in each other’s business. Adrian and Liam stay out of most of it, but when they speak, people listen.
And then there’s Damien. He’s hardly ever home, but I hear the way they talk about him around the table when he’s not here… and it fucking hurts to know what everyone suspects he's up to when he's not home.
I drag a hand through my hair, pushing the blue strands out of my face. I should probably touch up the color again, even though I know it’ll be useless now that I’m in a pool most of the time.
A bass-heavy beat pulses through the house, vibrating the windows, and I sigh, remembering there’s a party happening tonight.
Killian’s rule, apparently—a big one once a month.
A Sin Bin tradition that’s supposed to “keep morale high,” which I’m pretty sure is code for an excuse to get drunk and make bad decisions.
As one does.
I tried to get out of it again, but Ryan wasn’t having it. “Mandatory attendance, Adams. You live here now, that means you show up.”
I groaned and threw one of my pillows at him. “You can’t make me.”
“I can and I will,” he’d said, catching the pillow easily. “If you don’t come down, I’ll tell Killian you threw out his lasagna last week.”
That wasn’t just a threat; that was a goddamn death sentence.
So now, here I am, standing in front of my mirror, hating every second of it. I tug at the sleeves of my black shirt and adjust the belt on my jeans, even though I don’t need a belt.
“You’re fine. You look fine. You look approachable and normal. No one will think you’re weird,” I murmur to myself, but the reflection staring back at me looks too much like someone trying to disappear.
There’s a knock on my door. “Don’t even think about pretending you’re asleep,” Ryan calls from the other side.
I groan. “You could at least let me suffer in peace.”
He pushes the door open and steps in without waiting for permission. He’s dressed up, for once—dark jeans, gray T-shirt tight over his chest, curls hanging loose over his shoulders. “You ready?”
“No,” I mutter.
He grins. “Good. Let’s go.”
“I hate you.”
“Love you too, Adams,” he says, slinging an arm over my shoulders and steering me toward the door. “Now, come on. You do not want to miss the kind of chaos happening downstairs.”
“I really do,” I grumble, and he laughs, the sound echoing off the walls as we make our way downstairs. The music gets louder with every step, and by the time we hit the landing, I can feel the bass in my ribs.
The living room has been transformed—lights dimmed, red solo cups everywhere, people already dancing or sprawled out on couches. But even with so many people packed in the place, my eyes immediately zero in on Damien.
He’s standing near the back of the room, beer in hand, talking to Thorn and Eli. He’s wearing a dark blue shirt, black cargo shorts, and a backward cap. He smiles at something Thorn says, and I swear my heart forgets to beat for a full second.
It’s still the same pull. The gravity hasn’t faded, not even after all this time. It’s the same ache, the same quiet hunger I’ve been trying to kill since he left.
Ryan squeezes my shoulder and leans in close to my ear. “You okay?”
“I will be,” I answer, forcing a smile.
He gives me a look but doesn’t press. “You need a drink.”
“I need to leave.”
He laughs again and steers me toward the kitchen. “You’ll be fine. Stick with me.”
I nod, because arguing will just make him more persistent. We weave through the crowd, stopping occasionally as he introduces me to people whose names I immediately forget. When we get to the kitchen, Ryan shoves a cup into my hand, and I drink without thinking.
Big mistake. It’s stronger than I expected, and my throat burns as I cough through it. “You asshole,” I wheeze.
Ryan grins, and I swear I’m going to punch him. “You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t want to,” I breathe, coughing again. “Fuck, that’s terrible.”
“Too bad, it’s tradition.”
I roll my eyes and glance back toward the corner where Damien’s still standing. This time, though, he has his arm wrapped around some girl’s waist.
She’s tall, pretty, and laughing too loudly, as if she wants everyone to know she’s with him. Her long nails trail up his chest as she says something into his ear, and he leans in. He’s not close enough to kiss her, but close enough that my stomach knots.
I look away before I can catalogue it further. Before I memorize the way his fingers rest on her hip. Before I start making comparisons I shouldn’t make—comparisons between her and me, or between the people he touches… and the one he doesn’t even look at.
Ryan notices. Of course he does. He’s a crow when it comes to tension—sharp-eyed and always circling. “You two still not talking?”
I shake my head. “No, but I think it’s better this way. Easier for him, I guess.”
I busy myself with my cup, even though the taste still lingers wrong on my tongue.
The house feels too full and too loud. My brain’s already starting to hum from the noise, the flashing lights, the way every conversation seems to blend into one overwhelming mess of sensory overload. I know this about myself.
I need space. Predictability. I hate the feel of people brushing past me without apologizing, or the heat of too many bodies in a space that’s too tight. I hate the smell of cheap vodka mixed with cologne. I hate the chaos.
And I hate that I’m still here.
Ryan opens his mouth, probably to say something annoying and heartfelt, but he must see something in my face that makes him stop. He takes a breath, then jerks his chin toward the back of the kitchen.
“Come with me.”
“I’m really not in the mood to—”
“Not a suggestion.”
Before I can argue, he grabs my wrist and pulls me away from the noise and the stupid red lights and the burn in my throat that has nothing to do with the drink. I think about fighting him off, but the alternative is going back upstairs to spiral alone, and I’ve done that too many times already.
He leads me around the corner, through the back of the kitchen, toward the far end of the island where I can’t see out into the living room. Two guys are sitting there, perched comfortably on the marble island—Sage Blackwell and Nate Carter.
Nate is dressed in some ridiculous oversized black mesh shirt and black ripped jeans, platform boots kicked up on a barstool, chewing on a red lollipop.
His nails are painted black, and his eyeliner is probably better than mine ever has been, the cat-eye making his Korean features pop.
He’s lounging against Sage, who is busy talking with his hands.
Sage’s features are the complete opposite of Nate’s. Where Nate has shoulder-length straight black hair, Sage has long, wavy blond hair. Where Nate has the lightest green eyes that I’ve ever seen, Sage has brown eyes hidden behind wire-rimmed glasses.
I know of them. Everyone at Blackthorne does.
Sage is Luca’s chaos goblin of a boyfriend, unapologetic and terrifyingly honest. Nate is Liam’s—god, I don’t even know if boyfriend is the right word for how intense they seem with each other.
I’ve never had a full conversation with either of them, mainly because the thought of speaking to anyone who always looks so comfortable in their own skin makes my chest tighten.
They both glance up as we approach, Ryan dragging me behind him as if I’m a kid in trouble.
“Hey,” Ryan says casually. “I’m dropping him off.”
Sage blinks, then narrows his eyes at me. “Who, Bluebird?”
“His name’s Noah,” Ryan deadpans.
“Yeah, I know. Swimmer. Room gremlin. Speaks once a week unless threatened. Why is he being dropped off?”
“Because he needs a break before he combusts,” Ryan answers before I can protest.
“I’m right here, you know,” I mutter under my breath.
Ryan slides another drink over to me—this one harmless, something fruity—and nudges my side. “Just hang out here for a bit. Sage’ll distract you, and Nate will glare at anyone who gets too close.”
“Sounds about right,” Nate agrees.
“Do you… want me to talk, or…?” I glance between them, unsure of the social contract here. “I’m not great at this kind of thing.”
Sage waves a hand. “Nah. You’re cute and sad. That’s enough for tonight.”
I don’t know whether to be offended or grateful. When I glance over at Sage, and the look on his face tells me he’s not making a joke at my expense.
Ryan grins. “See? Perfect fit. Now go sit down and let people like you.”
I hesitate, then slowly step forward and hoist myself onto the counter beside Sage.
The space is warm from the oven being on earlier, and the kitchen’s slightly quieter than the rest of the house, which helps.
Ryan walks away, and I glance back toward the living room where the music is thumping, and people are shouting over each other, but at least I don’t see him.
“So,” Sage says, kicking his feet lazily. “Tell me about your last nervous breakdown.”
“Oh, my god,” I say flatly.
Nate snorts while Sage simply shrugs. “Look, you can either suffer alone in a corner, or you can suffer near me. And I’m delightful, so really, it’s a win.”
I exhale slowly and let my hands settle in my lap, fingers picking at the hem of my sleeve. “You want the truth, Bluebird?” Sage suddenly asks.
“Not really, but I don’t think that’s ever stopped you before.”
He grins. “Exactly. So here it is. Everyone in this house is messy. Everyone. You’re not the weird one, you’re not the broken one, and you’re not the one who doesn’t fit.”
I blink at that, wondering how he knows what I’m feeling right now. “You don’t even know me.”
“Don’t need to. I know that look,” Sage says with a shrug. “You don’t have to perform here. That’s the rule. Not everyone says it out loud, but it’s real. You wanna be quiet, be quiet. You wanna exist without making sense? Cool. No one in this house is as pulled together as they pretend to be.”
Nate leans back, propping a foot against one of the cabinet doors. “You want to talk, we’re here. You want to sit in silence, that’s fine too.”
Something about the way he says it—calm, low, without pressure—makes it easier to breathe. I don’t feel like I’m being watched or studied.
There’s a lull in the conversation, but for once it’s not awkward.
I don’t feel the immediate need to fill it.
I let myself just sit there, legs swinging slightly off the edge of the counter, eyes fixed on the glowing under-cabinet lights.
The house feels different from this corner. Softer. Less threatening.
Eventually, I say, “Thanks. For not… making it weird.”
Sage shrugs. “We’re all a little weird. Comes with the territory.”
I don’t know what to say to that. So, I don’t say anything at all. I just sit there, surrounded by two people I barely know, and feel the pressure in my chest loosen just a little. Not gone. Not even close. But not crushing either.
Two months, and I’m still exactly where I’ve always been—heartsick and entirely out of place.