Chapter 13 Noah
Noah
The silence is different here.
It’s not the kind that waits, pressing into your chest until you have no choice but to fill it with noise. No, this silence is… gentle.
The walls of the apartment are still somewhat bare, but the furniture is soft and welcoming. Whoever lived here last had decent taste—or maybe the leasing office just knew how to stage comfort. Either way, its something I can shape and make mine.
I’ve unpacked most of my things, stacked my books on the small shelf beside the armchair, and set up my equipment in the corner of the bedroom. The kitchen’s full—groceries delivered right on time, and I labeled everything in the fridge like I always used to do back home.
Because I need the labels. I need the order. I need the control.
And now… now, I have it.
My body is warm and loose as I step out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.
It’s nice not having to worry about someone knocking on the door or yelling down the hallway.
There’s no footsteps echoing through hallways, no overlapping conversations about team drills or weekend plans, or Killian yelling at someone to turn down the music.
There’s no Damien. That last thought sits a little heavier than I expect it to, and I close my eyes, exhale, and push it down.
Not everything has to be so loud all the time.
Not every goodbye is forever.
The floor is warm under my feet as I cross the hall to the bedroom. There’s a full-length mirror on the closet door, and the lighting in here’s softer than the overheads in the Sin Bin. I towel off, skin flushed and pink from the heat, and open the closet with careful fingers.
The top shelf holds two gray boxes I brought with me, carefully hidden between things I knew wouldn’t get jostled much in the move.
I stand there in my towel for a moment, chest tight, heart already beating faster even though no one’s here to see me.
No one will walk in. No one will laugh, wrinkle their nose, or ask me why.
I reach for one of the boxes and pull it down gently, setting it on the edge of the bed. The lid comes off easily. My fingers hover over the contents for a second before I touch them.
The bralette is black lace, soft to the touch, and delicate but not flimsy. The panties match—intricate, pretty, and completely different from the practical cotton briefs stacked in my drawer. These aren’t practical. They’re not made for anyone else’s gaze. They’re made for me.
I sit on the edge of the bed and run my fingers along the lace.
There’s still that whisper of shame in the back of my mind.
The one that echoes in my mother’s voice: What would people think?
That’s not normal, Noah. That’s not right.
But it’s easier to ignore in this apartment where her voice doesn’t reach.
I pull down the second box with both hands, carry it to the bed, and place it beside the opened one.
My fingers hesitate at the edge, the lid smooth under my palms. I already know what’s inside.
I remember the order confirmation email, the shipping delay that nearly made me cancel, the way my heart leapt the day they arrived, and I had to pretend the delivery was for something else.
I remember peeling the tissue paper back as if it were something sacred.
I open the box now with that same reverence.
Black patent leather, pointed toe, red sole.
Five-inch stiletto. My mother wouldn’t accept anything less than Louboutin.
She always said if you couldn’t afford the best, you shouldn’t bother at all.
I twisted that lesson into something else.
Because when I bought these, I bought them for the boy she never wanted, not for the one she tried to mold.
I brush my fingers across the pointed toe of one heel, then slide my hand underneath and lift it out.
They’re beautiful. Expensive, decadent, and absurdly impractical for someone who spends most of their time in hoodies and sneakers, hiding behind a camera.
But when I bought them, I wasn’t thinking about practicality.
I was thinking about the way they would make me feel.
I dress slowly, being careful with each item. The lace stretches, warms against my skin, and I smooth it over my hips and chest, adjusting until everything fits just right. The bralette isn’t padded; it doesn’t try to be anything it’s not. It’s not about pretending. It’s just about… feeling right.
Then I sit, lift one foot, and guide it into the heel.
The arch of it fits perfectly, and I get that giddy feeling when I stretch out my leg and see how gorgeous it makes my leg look.
I slide the second one on and stand carefully, remembering everything I learned from watching my mother’s models in Milan.
I cross the bedroom on slow steps, listening to the faint click of the heels against the floorboards, and something inside me unlocks.
I don’t look in the mirror yet. I don’t know why, but I need a second. When I feel brave again after a few deep breaths, I step back and face the mirror.
The person looking back at me doesn’t look ashamed tonight.
Not under the warm glow of the bedside lamp or the silver wash of moonlight coming through the window.
My hair’s still damp, curling slightly at the ends.
The bralette is sheer enough that I can see the soft lines of my chest, the curve of my collarbone.
The panties hug me just right, smooth and beautiful.
My throat gets tight before I feel the sting behind my eyes. The first tear slips down without warning, then another. I don’t wipe them away because for the first time in forever, I feel like me.
Not the quiet boy in the shadow of an Olympic father or the echo of a supermodel mother’s disappointment. I’m not a house guest. I’m not just Damien’s ex-stepbrother.
I’m… Just me.
Noah.
Soft and strong, still learning to ask for and take what he wants.
I press my palm to my chest over the lace, over the place where I know my heart’s still learning how to slow down, how to beat softer when it’s safe.
It’s not sadness causing these tears to fall, it’s relief.
This is the first time I’ve worn this without worrying about whether someone might find out. Without checking the locks. Without keeping my robe within arm’s reach just in case. This is the first time I’ve looked at myself without judgment clinging to every line of my body.
I want this softness. I want to feel beautiful. Not hot, not desirable, not even sexy—just beautiful.
Something in me wonders what Damien would say if he saw me now. If he’d still call me Blue. If he’d still look at me like I mattered. I wonder if anyone ever will.
But I’m not scared of that thought tonight because I do matter. Even if I’m alone. Even if no one ever sees me this way. I matter. I’m here. And for the first time in a long time, I feel comfortable in my own skin, even as the tears don’t stop.
I slip off the heels and lie back on the bed, still in my lace, with the ceiling fan spinning slowly. I stare up at it, blinking back more tears, but they’re quieter now. Just the kind that come when you’ve held something in for too long and it finally slips out.
“You’re okay.” My voice shakes as I whisper into the empty room, but I say it again. “You’re okay. You’re safe.”
No one answers, and that’s okay, too.
I roll to my side and curl around a pillow. My fingertips brush the lace at my ribs, and I close my eyes.
One Month Later
I haul myself out of the pool, my shoulders ache, and my lungs are still burning from the last set. The water clings to my skin, and I tug my cap off with a slow drag, shaking the water from my ears.
Dual meets start next week, which means practices have dropped into something just short of cruel, since Coach believes pain builds character.
After a shower, I towel off, get dressed without rushing, and slide my camera bag over my shoulder before leaving.
There’s still half the day ahead, but I’ve got a photography project due next week, and I haven’t shot a single frame.
Technically, I have frames. They’re just not ones I want to submit.
There’s a difference between ticking a box and capturing something real, and I’m not in the mood to turn in garbage just because I’m tired.
The forest trail behind the campus has always been quiet this time of day. Most students avoid it unless it’s fall and they’re chasing golden leaves and Instagram-worthy lighting.
But I know the curve of the trees here better than most. I’ve walked this trail enough times in silence that the sounds—distant birdsong, the crunch of gravel, the rustle of wind-touched branches—have become familiar comforts.
The first thirty minutes are just light studies.
Trees against the sky, sunlight streaming through broken branches, the curve of moss along the bottom of a fallen trunk.
My camera is a natural extension of my hand.
I stop often, adjust the angle, and crouch for depth.
I like it better when things don’t talk back.
When I can frame them the way I see them, not the way they want to be seen.
I’m half focused on a cluster of mushrooms growing along the side of an old oak when a twig snaps behind me. My spine straightens instinctively, and I glance over my shoulder.
It’s Adrian.
He’s in a dark hoodie with the hood down, curls messy and windblown, green eyes shadowed under the low light breaking through the canopy. He stops when he sees me, probably hadn’t expected anyone out here either.
“Hey,” I say, voice quiet out of habit.
He nods once. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”
“You didn’t.”
He looks unconvinced, but steps off the path to give me space.
“What are you doing out here?” I ask, lowering my camera slightly but keeping my finger close to the shutter.
“Just needed some quiet,” he says after a pause. “I had a rough day.”