Chapter 16 Damien
Damien
I’m not keeping count, but I know it’s been three days since Noah last answered my texts.
Three days, which shouldn’t mean anything.
People get busy. Schedules change. Shit happens.
But I wake up every morning glancing at my phone like a junkie waiting for a hit.
I feel every hour of silence that stretches between us, and it’s so fucking annoying because I don’t want to be that guy.
The one who double texts and triple panics.
But it gets harder not to overthink shit. I know he’s not angry—I’ve seen and lived angry Noah. But the absence grinds against every raw nerve I have left, and the worst part is I can’t ask about it without sounding desperate.
I scroll, check, and scroll again, every hour on the hour. Because I’m pathetic, and that boy with blue hair and mismatched eyes has turned me into fucking wreck, and he doesn’t even know it. It’s like he slipped some wire under my skin, and now he gets to decide when the electricity flows.
Doesn’t matter that I’m taller, broader, more experienced, older—none of these things hold up against the simple fact that I want him.
Not in the casual, passing way that comes easy with most people.
But in the brutal, stomach-clenching way that turns a grown man into a fool for a glimpse of a name on his lock screen.
It’s ridiculous, the way that I measure my day in notifications now.
I was never this guy before him; never the one stuck halfway between hope and humiliation, waiting for someone to throw him a line.
But here I am, losing sleep over the chance of a single message.
Even after everything, after all the silence and distance, he’s still got that hold on me.
I know I can’t ask for reassurance when I haven’t even earned his trust back yet.
At the end of the day, I’m still just that seventeen-year-old kid who’d do anything for one more minute with Noah Adams. And even now, with all the years and hurt between us, that hasn’t changed. If anything, it’s only become worse.
So, I sit with it. I let it churn. I let the what-ifs gnaw at the edges of my sanity while I get dressed on autopilot, my body moving through the motions same as usual.
Maybe I said the wrong thing. Maybe the “I missed you so fucking much” landed wrong, and he decided reopening that door on us wasn’t worth it. Maybe he’s already decided that keeping me at arm’s length would be easier. I guess he wouldn’t be wrong—I wouldn’t trust me, either.
Luca catches me staring at my phone during breakfast and raises a brow, but doesn’t say anything. Ryan, on the other hand, doesn’t have the grace to stay silent.
“Mano, you keep looking at your phone like it’s gonna spit out lottery numbers,” he says, pouring himself orange juice. “I wonder what everyone would say if they could see how lost you look while waiting for a text from a sweet boy with different colored eyes.”
“Eat shit, Torres,” I mutter, pocketing my phone. “Mind your own damn business.”
He grins and smacks me on my shoulder. “You’re so fucking obvious even Eli noticed, and that guy misses tornado sirens half the time.”
Luca snorts into his coffee. “Just text him, man.”
I don’t answer and chew the inside of my cheek instead, trying to act like the world won’t stop spinning if I reach out first. But by mid-afternoon, with practice coming up and a head full of static, it hits me all at once how fucking stupid I’m being.
I’m spiraling over silence instead of doing the one thing Luca told me to do.
Be his friend. Check in.
I pull my phone out of my bag, my hand brushing against the thing I’ve been hiding in there for days, and I scroll to his contact. My finger hovers, and my heart thuds hard, but before I can overthink it yet again, I open our text thread.
Me: Hey, Blue. Random question, what time are you finishing with swimming practice today?
The three dots don’t appear straight away, and that’s fine. Ten minutes later, though, my phone buzzes.
Noah: We’re done by 3. Why?
I don’t let myself hesitate this time.
Me: Wanna come to my practice at 3:30? No pressure if you can’t or don’t want to, tho.
There’s a longer pause this time, long enough that my stomach knots again. I try to tell myself he’s thinking about it and not rejecting me outright. I try to focus on my class, but my mind keeps going back to Noah.
Fuck me, I am so twisted up about this boy.
Just as class ends, my phone buzzes again, and I steel myself for a rejection. Only… I don’t find one.
Noah: Okay. I can do that.
The knot in my chest loosens so fast, it almost knocks the wind out of me. I don’t allow myself to read into it. I don’t let myself celebrate, either. He’s just a friend coming to my practice… A friend whom I happen to be stupidly in love with, but anyway.
Me: Cool :) See you then.
He doesn’t say anything else, but the read receipt sits there like a promise. I let myself relax a little before continuing with my day.
The court is already buzzing when practice starts.
Squeaking sneakers, slaps of hands on backs, and the sharp sound of Coach Blakely’s whistle making half the team flinch.
I throw myself into drills, every muscle focused, every play just as sharp, to keep my mind occupied.
But every time I find myself glancing at the entrance.
Keep your shit together, Moore.
When he walks into the gym about fifteen minutes later, I see him before he sees me. He pauses just inside the doors, shoulders slightly hunched and eyes flicking around the space. The gym has gotten louder, with more bodies in the stands, more noise—and I can see it hitting him all at once.
Ryan sees him as well, and I watch his face light up. “Well, look who decided to show his face,” he calls out and jogs over to Noah before I can stop him. “You couldn’t even come to watch your best friend shoot hoops? Tragic.”
Noah startles, then relaxes when he realizes Ryan’s grinning. “I did watch you shoot hoops. Just… years ago.”
“Ouch,” Ryan says, clutching his chest dramatically before walking backward toward the team again. “I’m wounded.”
I jog over to Noah, shaking my head. “Ignore him. You want to sit courtside?”
Noah hesitates, glancing at the rows of seats filled with students. The noise is rising—bouncing balls, Coach’s annoying whistle, laughter from the stands. I can see his fingers twitching, and the way he glances toward the exit makes me realize he’s about to bolt.
“Come on,” I say, gently taking his hand and leading him toward one of the quieter corners of the court. “You can sit over here where it’s less crowded.”
The noise isn’t too bad where I’m taking him, but I can tell his nerves are frayed, and it hasn’t even been five minutes since he arrived.
So, after he sits down, I tell him I’ll be right back and head to the locker room to get something from my backpack, then I jog back before I can talk myself out of it.
He looks up when I stop in front of him, eyes flicking to my face, then down to my hands. “Hey,” I say, my stomach twisting at how pale he looks. “Are you okay, Blue?”
“Yeah,” he answers automatically, then he shakes his head. “I forgot how… loud it gets in here.”
“I figured,” I say, holding out the black box to him. “I got this for you the day after the party. I remember you had a similar pair a few years ago.”
He takes the box and turns it around, staring at the noise-cancelling headphones inside.
They’re the good kind—the comfortable kind with soft earcups and active noise cancelling tech.
I bought them the morning after the last Sin Bin party, standing in the electronics store and staring at all the options like a fucking idiot.
I told myself it was practical, and it made sense for him to have them around with the Sin Bin being what it was.
But I know the truth—I bought them because I saw the way he was constantly flinching at the party.
Because I remembered how loud the world gets for him when it doesn’t for the rest of us.
For a second, he just stares at them, turning them over in his hands. Then his gaze lifts back to mine, and I notice the soft and stunned expression on his pretty face. “You… you got these for me?”
“Moore! Get your ass back here!” Coach shouts, but I ignore him and focus on Noah.
I shrug, suddenly aware of how much I don’t want to make this a big deal. “Yeah. I just never got the chance to give them to you before.”
When he slips them on and presses the button on the side, I watch his shoulders drop almost instantly. The tension drains out of him in a way that makes my throat go tight.
“You didn’t have to… but thank you,” he says, and his voice is steadier now.
“Anytime,” I say, and I mean it in a way that scares the shit out of me.
I force myself back into drills before I say something dumb like, “I love you, and I’d do anything for you.”
Back on the court, I’m distracted, but not in a way that costs me plays or makes me mess up shots—I’m still locked in. Every time I glance up, Noah’s got his camera lifted, snapping shots when he thinks no one notices.
I catch him mid-shot once, lens pointed straight at me, and he freezes when I look up at him. I grin without meaning to, just a flash of teeth, and his cheeks turn a little pink as he lowers the camera.
Ryan notices immediately, because of course he does. “Oh, so that’s who you’re playing for today,” he calls out. “You trying to impress the photographer?”
“Shut up and guard someone,” I shoot back, but I can’t stop the warmth spreading through my chest.
By the end of practice, I’m exhausted in a good way. The kind that feels fulfilling and quiets the noise in my head instead of amplifying it. When I look back up at the stands, Noah’s still there—headphones on, camera bag resting on his lap, and wearing a serene smile that makes my heart ache.
Fuck me, I love that smile.
I towel off quickly, sweat cooling in sharp relief against my already heated skin.
The rest of the team disperses in uneven clumps, joking, hollering, and cursing Coach’s last set of sprints.
I toss a bottle of water to Ryan, who is already running his mouth about how I should start charging Noah for the view.
I ignore him and flip him off as I drink half of my water, then I jog over to where Noah is packing up his things. He notices me coming and stands up a little too fast—cheeks and tips of his ears red as if he’s been caught out.
“Good practice,” he says, fumbling with the strap of his camera that he’s wound around his wrist. “I sometimes forget how much taller you are than other people, even other players.”
“Yeah, Killian hates that I’m the tallest in the house,” I grin at him—a real, wide grin that I can’t seem to rein in. I’m still catching my breath from the final drill, hair damp and stuck to my forehead. “You watched the whole thing?” I ask, running a hand through my hair and slicking it back.
He nods, glancing down at his fingers fidgeting with the strap. “Yeah. I got some good shots too, I think.” Then he looks back up at me with that soft look shining in his eyes again. “You’re… really good, you know that?”
I snort, dragging a hand through my hair again, and this time it’s because he makes me so goddamn nervous. “You’re just saying that because I got you headphones.”
He laughs, and it’s a quick, breathy sound. “Maybe, but you are good. I can see why Coach yells so much. You don’t let up.”
“I try,” I say, leaning against the wall and suddenly realizing how close we are and how easy this feels. For a second, I think about saying something else—something about how seeing him here kept me sharp—but I bite it back.
Noah hesitates, then he bites his bottom lip, cheeks still pink. “Uhm… what are you doing after practice?”
I blink at him, heart lurching. “Not much. Why?”
He looks down again, fingers flexing against his thigh before looking back up at me.
“Would you want to come over? To my place, I mean—for dinner?” he stammers.
“I mean, I’m just… just ordering takeout, nothing special, since you know I’m a terror in the kitchen. But… if you want to, you can… join me?”
It takes a second for it to land, and for the simple honesty of his request to sink in. He wants me there. He wants me in his space. That’s a fucking huge deal to me, even though it’s just dinner.
“Yeah,” I say, maybe too fast. “Yeah, I’d like that, Blue. Let me shower, and I’ll come by?”
He nods, lips curving into a shy, pleased smile that makes me melt. “Yeah, I have to… tidy up, anyway. Make sure I don’t leave socks anywhere.”
“Wouldn’t wanna trip on one and sue you for ruining my career,” I tease, nudging him with my shoulder. The contact is brief, but fuck me, is it electric.
He gives me a half-laugh and rolls his eyes. “You’re such an asshole, Mien.”
I shrug, still grinning. “Only sometimes.” I try to keep my voice light, but it’s hard when my chest is buzzing. “I still have your address, so I’ll be there as soon as I’m done, yeah?”
Noah grabs his things, that smile not wavering. “Okay, I’ll, uh, see you soon.”
I take one last look at him—flushed, a little breathless, headphones still in hand—and it hits me just how much I’ve missed this. The easy back and forth, the anticipation and possibility of something… more.
I want to tell him everything. I want to lay it out and ask him to stay, to never go back to that quiet, sad place again. But I can’t… I don’t even know why I can’t. Fear, maybe? Fear of losing him again, fear of judgment and the possibility of him losing his parents. Of losing his career.
Instead, I just offer him a smile before I turn to leave—too scared to touch him because I know how much he hates to be touched by hands when he’s not expecting it.
In the locker room, I wash and rinse off in record time, barely registering the heat and steam. I’m out and drying off before Ryan can say a damn thing, shoving my kit into my bag to drop off in the laundry room later.
On the drive over, I can’t stop thinking about how nervous he looked when he asked me if I wanted to come over.
I keep one hand on the wheel, the other tapping out a nervous rhythm against my thigh.
I know I shouldn’t get ahead of myself, shouldn’t imagine what tonight might mean, but hope is a bitch like that.
It creeps in even when you’ve spent years learning not to trust it.
By the time I park outside his building, my palms are sweating, and I feel seventeen again—desperate and hopelessly in love. I grab my bag, double-check my phone, and head up the steps two at a time, excitement making me reckless.
I don’t care what we eat, I don’t even care what we do. I just want to be here with him right now. In his space, in his orbit, even if only as a friend.
If this is what coming home feels like, I’m not sure I ever want to leave.