Chapter 14 Damien #2
We stay like that for a while longer, the hum of the overhead light and the distant sound of music upstairs the only noises in the room. I don’t know if anything’s changed, but the ache in my chest feels a little more bearable now.
I glance sideways at Luca, not realizing how much I actually needed a friend to talk to. Someone who, up until a year ago, was hiding a big secret of his own. “Thanks, man.”
Luca nods, grinning as he grabs his towel off the bench. “Anytime. Just don’t make me hold that bag again unless I get hazard pay,” he says, clapping me on the back before heading for the door. “You’ll figure it out, Moore.”
I nod, even if I don’t believe it yet.
Because if I don’t hold onto that, what else is there?
When I make it back up to my room, my legs are shaking, and my shirt’s clinging to my skin in patches, half-dried sweat still sticking in places I’ll regret if I don’t shower soon.
The ache in my arms is manageable—familiar even—but it’s nothing compared to the grinding under my ribs.
The kind that comes with seeing something you shouldn’t have seen and knowing it’s no one’s fault but your own for it hurting so goddamn much.
I sit on the edge of my bed, phone in my hand, thumb hovering over Noah’s name.
It’s not that I don’t have the words. I do.
I’ve drafted them in my head a dozen different ways: Hey, how’s it going?
, or Settling in alright? Or even something as stupid as You still hate Mondays?
None of them feels right. They all sound like cowardice dressed up as meaningless small talk.
I blow out a slow breath through my nose and stare at the screen, almost talking myself out of it twice. Then I remember the look on his face earlier. The sound of his laugh. The way his eyes creased at the corners.
So, I type.
Me: Hey, Blue.
I hesitate a second before hitting send, then I toss the phone onto the comforter.
I get up, strip off my shirt, and let the sweat-slicked fabric hit the floor before I head to the shower.
I keep it quick, just enough to wash the grime of the day off.
I leave the water cold, because it grounds me.
Wakes me up in places I’ve been too numb to feel.
When I come back, towel around my shoulders and hair still damp, the message light is on. One new text.
Noah: Didn’t expect to hear from you a whole month later.
I stare at the words, heart thumping once, then settling into a dull, steady rhythm. He’s being snarky, that’s good.
Me: Yeah, I figured. Wasn’t sure if I should say anything.
There’s a pause. Three blinking dots appear. Then disappear. Then appear again.
Noah: It’s okay. Just surprised, that’s all. How are you?
I sit down, towel forgotten, the edge of my mattress dipping under my weight. My fingers hover, then move fast.
Me: Been better. Had a rough day. You?
A minute goes by before he answers.
Noah: Same. Long day. Trying not to burn dinner right now lol.
That makes me smile. I can picture it—Noah in the kitchen, probably with music playing, sleeves pushed up, something simple simmering on the stove while his laptop glows from the counter. I don’t shove it out.
Me: What are you making?
There’s a pause before a little audio notification pops up. A voice message.
I hesitate for half a second before hitting play.
His voice comes through a little muffled as if the phone has been set on the counter. There’s clattering in the background—pans, maybe something boiling.
“Uh, chicken stir fry, I think? Unless I burn it, then it’s just going to be pasta and shame. Sorry for the voice message, but my hands are full. Also, hi.” There’s a pause, then a soft sigh. “It’s good to hear from you, Mien.”
I replay it twice just to hear the warmth tucked into the edges of his voice when he calls me Mien. He doesn’t sound mad, or even wary. I thumb out a quick reply.
Me: You going all gourmet on me, Blue?
Another voice message buzzes in, and I hit play immediately.
“Excuse you, I’ll have you know I make a mean stir fry when I’m not being judged by tall, tattooed basketball players who disappear for four years.”
That one stings a little, but his tone isn’t sharp. It’s light and almost teasing. Perhaps the anger has dulled with time. Or maybe he just doesn’t want to reopen old wounds tonight. Either way, I take it.
Me: Tall and tattooed, huh? Sounds hot.
The next one is quieter, but I can hear him snort under his breath before he talks. “Don’t make me laugh, I’ll drop the pan.”
I smile at the screen like a fucking idiot, sinking deeper into the bed. I don’t remember the last time I felt this relaxed. Not even earlier in the gym with Luca. There’s something about Noah’s voice that disarms me. Always has.
Me: How’s the new place? You settled in okay?
There’s a longer pause before the next voice message comes through.
“Yeah. Mostly. I still haven’t figured out where I want my new desk, and I’ve been putting it off because I’m indecisive and it’s not like anyone else sees it.
But it’s nice. Big closet. Good light. And the walls aren’t paper-thin, so I don’t have to hear Roman’s playlist at 3 a.m., which is a win. ”
I snort at that, because yeah, Roman has shit taste in music.
Me: You say that like hearing Nickelback at full volume isn’t a spiritual experience.
His next voice message comes with the sound of him laughing, and my heart fucking skips a beat.
“He really was listening to Nickelback my last night there, wasn’t he? I thought I dreamt that.”
Me: It was real, and we all suffered. He gets all emo when his boyfriend is out of town on commissions.
It takes a few minutes before he responds to that, but the playfulness is gone from his tone.
“I didn’t realize how much I missed talking to you. Stupid, right?” There’s a soft laugh, self-conscious but not bitter. “I’m not great at texting. You know that. My brain does better when I can just talk it out. Less pressure.”
That part hits hard because I do remember. Sometimes he’d send a dozen voice messages in a row, even when we were only in our rooms, and I’d listen to each and every one. I don’t want to make it heavy, but I also don’t want to pretend it didn’t mean something.
Me: I missed you so fucking much, Blue. You have no idea how good it feels to hear your voice again.
There’s no response right away. Not a voice note. Not a text. I watch the screen, heart thudding. Maybe it was too soon. Too much. Maybe I should’ve eased into it. But I can’t take it back now.
Another voice message pops up a minute later, and his voice is softer than before.
“I don’t know what to say to that.”
Yeah, I know. I fucking know. I type out a reply, then delete it. Do it again. Finally, I just write:
Me: You don’t have to say anything. I just wanted you to know.
I’m a fucking idiot when it comes to this boy.
I can bag any person at a party, get more numbers than I’d ever text or call, and charm my way out of anything. But put me in front of Noah Adams, and I turn into a goddamn mess.
When it comes through, I notice his next voice message is longer than the others.
“I wanted to hate you. For a long time, I tried to. Every time I thought about you, I got so mad I couldn’t breathe.
But then I’d remember the way you used to look at me when you were proud of me,” he says, and I can practically hear the sadness in his voice.
“Or the time we snuck out to the beach at like 1 a.m., and my father grounded us for two months. Or how you used to hum songs when you thought I was asleep. It’s hard to stay mad at someone who made you feel safe.
Even… even when they stopped being around to do it. ”
That’s the most honest thing he’s said in four years, and I don’t want to ruin it by saying the wrong thing again. But before I can respond, he sends through another one.
“Anyway. Sorry. Stir fry update: didn’t burn it. I think I deserve a trophy.”
I sigh, knowing he changed the subject for his own peace of mind, so I don’t dwell on it even though I have so much to fucking say to that.
Me: I’ll make you one out of Ryan’s protein powder container.
He laughs in the next one. “Perfect. Sculpted muscles and sculpture materials. He’ll be honored.”
We go back and forth like that for a while. Easy. Low-stakes. We don’t talk about the past again. We don’t talk about the hurt, or the distance, or the thing I can’t talk about. We just… talk.
He sends a voice note about his latest photography project, and something else about studying reflections and symmetry.
I ask if he’ll let me see the photos when he’s done.
He says maybe. Then tells me about a professor he doesn’t like, and I tell him about the new guy on the team who can’t shoot a free throw to save his life.
He laughs at that, and I can hear it clearer this time, not muffled by food or distance.
But then he takes a while to respond. I frown and type another message.
Me: You fall asleep on me?
No response. No voice note. No typing bubbles.
I check the time. It’s 2:03 a.m.
Shit.
I glance back at the string of messages in our chat.
The way the conversation unraveled easily, as if no time passed at all.
I think about him probably curled in bed, one hand tucked under his pillow, hair messy and falling into his face.
I remember how he looked when he didn’t need to mask his emotions.
I sit back against the headboard and let my eyes drift shut. For the first time in a while, I don’t feel as if I’m choking on what-ifs.