Chapter 12 Damien
Damien
The ball arcs through the air, smooth and perfect, and hits the backboard with a satisfying smack before sinking into the net. I don’t even watch it fall. My mind’s been elsewhere since we got out here—muscle memory doing all the work.
Adrian’s sweating through his sleeveless tee, focused and competitive, but not enough to trash-talk like he usually would. Maybe he senses something off about me today. Maybe it’s that obvious.
I wipe my palms on my shorts, catch the rebound, and dribble once before going for another shot. It misses this time, bouncing off the rim and spinning wide, smacking the side of the court with a hollow, rubbery slap. I don’t bother going after it.
Adrian grunts behind me, red hair plastered to his forehead. “You okay, man? You’re missing every second shot.”
I squint into the sky and shake my head. “Just tired.”
“Bullshit,” he mutters, moving to retrieve the ball. “You haven’t missed a free throw in, like, two years. What happened?”
We’re both halfway toward the half-court line when the back door slams open with a sharp crack, loud enough to stop us cold.
Ryan storms out with the grace of a fucking thundercloud, shoulders squared, jaw locked. “?Qué carajos tú le dijiste?”
I blink at his rapid-fire Spanish, something he only really slips into when he’s pissed off, then he walks right up to me and shoves my chest. “What? Say to who?”
“Noah,” Ryan snaps, shoving me again, this time with more force. “What did you say to Noah?”
Adrian steps between us, ready to break up a fight, but I hold up a hand and stop him. I’m not going to swing. I just want to understand. “What the fuck are you talking about, Ry?”
Ryan glares at me, eyes blazing. “Don’t play dumb, Damien. He told me you two had a “moment” a few days ago, or whatever. Now I find him upstairs packing. He’s spoken to Kill about moving out, saying he signed a lease on an apartment and is leaving today.”
I stare at him, but the words don’t compute. I look past him toward the house, then back at him as my stomach drops.
“What are you talking about? We talked the night of the party, that’s it. We didn’t even—” I run a hand through my hair, trying to catch up. “We didn’t fight, Ryan. I swear. We cleared things—”
“Then why is he leaving?”
I don’t have an answer to that at all.
Before Ryan can say another word or accuse me of something else, I’m already moving. My sneakers slam against the court and up the back steps as I rush into the house.
My lungs feel too tight. I barely register the blur of guys in the kitchen or the TV’s drone from the living room as I take the stairs two at a time, the thud of each footfall rising in my ears.
Noah’s door is half-open, and I can see him inside, already packing.
He’s folding a hoodie and tucking it into the suitcase on his bed.
There’s a stack of neatly folded clothes beside it, his headphones, and a set of cables wound with obsessive precision.
Everything about it is so painfully Noah that my chest aches.
My throat closes up as I speak. “Noah?”
He jumps, startled, the tension in his shoulders visible even through the fabric of his shirt. His hand freezes on the suitcase, but he doesn’t look at me right away.
“What’s going on?” I ask, stepping all the way into the room. “Ryan said you’re moving out.”
Noah finally turns to look at me and I can tell he’s already put the mask back on. The one he used to wear at galas when his mom paraded him around like a showpiece. I hate that he’s wearing it now, here, with me.
“I was always going to,” he says simply.
“But…” My chest tightens. I swallow around it, voice coming out ragged. “You didn’t say anything. I thought…”
He offers me a barely there smile. “That us talking changed everything?” He plays with the zipper of his suitcase but doesn’t close it yet.
“This was never going to be permanent. Ryan did me a favor letting me stay, but I can’t do this forever.
It’s too loud, there’s too many people and too many things I can’t control.
I thought I could handle it longer, but I was wrong. ”
I move closer—helpless against the pull—and almost reach for him before I remember myself and stop. “Is it because of me?”
He meets my eyes for a second, and for the briefest moment, I see the real Noah—fear and hope twisted together. “No,” he says, and his voice is gentle. “It’s not you. It’s not anyone. This isn’t me running away.”
“Then why, Blue?” I can’t stop the way my voice cracks on that nickname, or how desperate I sound.
“Because for the first time in my life, I have the money, the legal autonomy, and the freedom to be on my own. I don’t want the monthly parties or constantly worrying about whether I’m offending someone by skipping dinner because I’m not hungry.
I can’t keep pretending I’m okay being around ten athletes every single day while I’m still figuring out who I am. ”
He lifts his eyes to mine when I don’t say anything. There’s a hollowness in my chest, the kind that only comes when you realize you’re about to lose something you just got back.
“I want to know how it feels to make a choice without checking if my dad would approve. I want to eat dinner standing over the sink. Or sit on the floor and organize my books by the color of the spine without someone asking why or telling me I’m weird.
I want to be alone for a little while and not feel like that’s a sin. ”
I nod slowly, every word hitting me harder than the last. I understand—I do. That’s the worst part. I want to beg him to stay, but I know what it means to crave a space that’s yours and only yours. “Where are you moving to?”
He shrugs, almost sheepish. “Found a little apartment close to campus. It’s small and quiet. I used part of the trust my grandfather left to cover the deposit.”
“Can I see it?” The question is out before I think, and I want to fucking punch myself for my hastiness.
Noah blinks at that, looking surprised. “You want to?”
“I want to know where you are,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my hands shake. “I want to know I could find you if I had to. That I’m not losing you again.”
He’s silent, the hush in the room swallowing us whole. Then he smiles so wide, it punches me in the heart. “You have my number, Mien. Use it.”
The sound of him saying that nickname almost undoes me.
I can’t speak for a second after hearing him call me that again.
I just stand there, taking in the soft finality of it.
The way he’s already pulled away—not from me, not really—but from the version of him that used to bend to everyone else’s rhythms. And maybe that’s what’s messing with my chest. Because I want him free.
I want him to be happy. I just don’t want that happiness to exist without me in it.
“I’ll send you the address,” he says, zipping another suitcase shut. “I don’t expect you to visit, though. So don’t feel too bad if you’re not able to.”
I want to tell him I’ll use it, that I’ll text or call or come around whenever he needs me. But I don’t want to make a promise I’m scared I won’t keep, not when he’s already pulling away.
So I don’t say any of it. My words right now would only be a guilt trip and I want him to make choices for himself. I simply watch him close the case on four years of silence and everything we didn’t say. And I know deep down that this isn’t goodbye, but it still fucking feels like it.
I leave him to finish the last of his packing and walk out of his bedroom.
The door clicks shut behind me, but the weight of it follows me all the way back outside.
My shoulders feel heavier than when I walked in—the silence in Noah’s room still stuck in my ribs somewhere.
I step back onto the deck, blinking against the shift from indoor light to late afternoon glare.
Ryan is pacing further down the deck, arms crossed, and probably waiting for me to deliver bad news. Adrian’s leaning against the rail, watching both of us with that quiet, assessing look he always wears when shit’s about to go sideways.
I lift my hands before Ryan can say anything. “I talked to him. He’s not upset, and he’s not leaving because of me.”
Ryan’s scowl doesn’t budge. “Yeah? What did you say this time, Damien? Offer to kiss it better?”
“Jesus,” Adrian mutters under his breath, but I shake my head and close the space between us.
“I didn’t say anything to make him leave. I didn’t even know he was thinking about it. He told me this was always the plan.”
Ryan doesn’t look convinced. He stares at me—still trying to decide whether to punch me or just keep hating me from a distance.
“He wants to live on his own,” I explain. “Not because of me, and not because of anything we did. He said it’s something he’s never had—independence. Being alone and making his own decisions without worrying what other people will think.”
Ryan scoffs, muttering something under his breath as he kicks at a loose plank on the deck. “That’s bullshit. This place has space. It’s not like we’re breathing down his neck every second. He’s got his own room, his own schedule—”
“It’s not about us,” I say, a little sharper than I mean to, but Ryan’s frustration is lighting a fuse I’ve been trying to smother since the second he shoved me earlier.
I force my voice lower. “He’s never lived alone, Ry.
Not without his parents hovering or feeling like he has to keep up appearances.
This place might be home to us, but to Noah, it’s still a performance.
Every dinner, every party—he’s been pretending. ”
Adrian shifts on his feet, arms folded across his chest. “You’re saying he’s been faking it the whole time?”
“Not faking, masking,” I correct. “He’s been trying to make it work because he didn’t want to disappoint anyone. But that kind of pretending… it wears you down.”
Ryan’s jaw tics. He looks down, then back up at me, his expression still twisted with frustration, but there’s something softer flickering behind his eyes now. Something unsettled. “So, what? He goes off to live alone, and what—just spirals by himself in a tiny apartment? That’s supposed to help?”
“I think it might.” I run a hand through my hair, still a little breathless from the conversation upstairs.
“Look, I’m not too stoked about it either, but I get it.
He needs to figure out who he is when he’s not trying to be what he thinks we expect.
He wants silence and control. To wake up and not have a calendar shoved in his face or Killian asking if we want pancakes or eggs for breakfast.”
Adrian snorts. “Killian’s food is half the reason I stay.”
Ryan doesn’t laugh. He folds his arms again and looks out at the perfectly manicured yard. “I still don’t like it.”
“You don’t have to,” I say gently. “You just have to trust him, and trust that if something goes wrong, he’ll call.”
He shakes his head, jaw working overtime. “He doesn’t call people when things go wrong, D. That’s the whole problem.”
I don’t argue, because he’s right. That part of Noah hasn’t changed.
Even when we were younger, Noah held everything in until it cracked.
He didn’t cry when his mom left. He didn’t cry when his father told him photography was a joke.
He cried when he broke a camera lens. When his hamster died.
Things that looked small but were really the final breaks in a long series of dents.
And maybe that’s what this move is. Not a spiral or a breakdown. Just a quiet step toward himself.
I lean against the deck rail, folding my arms and watching Ryan out of the corner of my eye. The weight between us has been there since the punch in the locker room. I haven’t had the balls to confront it until now, but seeing Ryan this worked up over Noah... I can’t leave it alone anymore.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
Ryan glances at me, startled. “For what?”
“For being a shitty friend.”
He frowns. “Damien—”
“No, let me say it.” I straighten fully, meeting his eyes. “I’m sorry for punching you. I’m sorry for everything that came before it, too. The silence. The avoiding. The pretending like none of it mattered when it did. I messed up. And I miss you.”
Ryan goes still. The muscle in his jaw flexes again, and for a second, I think he’s gonna make a joke or deflect. But he doesn’t.
“I missed you too, man,” he mutters, glancing away. “Even when I hated your guts, I missed you.”
“I deserved the hate.”
“Yeah, you did.” He looks back at me, but his glare is softer now. “You hurt Noah so fucking much, and I thought… I thought if I got you two in one room, that you might talk it out. But it’s been nearly three months, and you both still live past each other.”
I let out a long sigh. “I know, but I’m trying here, Ry. I’m trying to make up for what I did, and to one day hopefully tell him why I left.”
Ryan doesn’t say anything at first. His gaze drops to the grass once more, but he doesn’t turn away again. “You really think he’ll be okay on his own?”
“I do,” I say. “He’s scared, but he’s also… ready. And we’re still here. All he has to do is pick up the phone.”
Ryan exhales through his nose and nods slowly. “Yeah. Okay. But I’m still showing up unannounced if I don’t hear from him in a week.”
“Same,” I say.
Ryan finally cracks a smile, and the tension that’s been sitting between my ribs for days starts to loosen.
I glance up at the house. A window on the second floor creaks open, and a breeze lifts the curtain. Probably Noah, airing out the space before he heads out. My chest aches again, that quiet kind of ache you don’t know how to name.
He’s not leaving to get away from us; he’s leaving to find something we can’t give him.
It sucks, but… I would do anything for him. Even lose him so he can find himself again.