Chapter 17 Noah
Noah
I haven’t stopped pacing since I got home, feet tracing the same path from the kitchen to the living room and back. My stomach is knotted, my hands are clammy and trembling, and I’ve been trying to convince myself that the last few minutes after Damien’s practice didn’t happen.
It’s ridiculous. I should sit down, take a breath, or turn on some music—literally anything else than circle my own apartment. But every time I try to stand still, my heart tries to crawl up my throat.
I keep checking my phone for the millionth time to make sure I haven’t missed a text, or worse, an “I can’t make it, something came up.” There’s nothing, just the text I sent, and a read receipt.
Why did I do this? Why did I invite Damien Moore over for dinner at my tiny apartment as if it were the most natural thing in the world? As if we haven’t spent the last few years orbiting each other with all the grace of two wounded animals.
Because I want him here, and that’s the terrifying truth of it all.
I want him to know where I live now, and to see how I carved out a space for myself that belongs only to me.
I want him to sit on my couch and see the stacks of books on my coffee table and my half-done projects piled on my kitchen island.
I want him to see this little part of me and not run away when he realizes that I’m still trying to figure myself out.
I want him to look at me the way he used to—like I’m his Blue and not Noah Adams, only son of two larger than life people.
The apartment feels too small. I check the kitchen.
Everything’s clean. Living room—pillows neat, candles lit, lights low.
I double-check that the bathroom door is closed, that my shoes aren’t in the middle of the hallway, and that there’s nothing embarrassing left on the counters.
Why does it feel like I’m about to go on a first date instead of just having dinner with someone I’ve known since I was fourteen?
I press my palms to my face and exhale, trying to ground myself.
But the memory of him on the court won’t leave me.
There’s a kind of graceful violence in the way he moves—controlled energy that makes chaos look easy.
Every pivot, every call he made that echoed across the gym, and people listened; they always do.
Damien Moore was built to be seen and followed.
He’s all his father’s legacy and then some: sharp jaw, olive skin, that bone structure that photographs too well even when he’s sweaty and exhausted. Then there’s his wide, wicked smile that used to get him out of every bit of trouble we stumbled into.
I take a deep breath, stand by the window, and try to slow my heart.
But my brain is racing, spinning out what-ifs—What if he hates the place?
What if it’s awkward? What if I say something stupid and he regrets coming?
I pace again, counting steps. I’ve always done that.
Eighteen paces from the kitchen to the window.
Fourteen if I skip the island. My stomach’s twisted into something ugly.
Then there’s a knock at the door. My hands freeze, then start sweating. It’s not a loud knock—just two sharp raps, the kind that would annoy me from anyone else, but from him, it’s familiar.
I force myself to walk across the living room.
When I open the door, Damien is standing there with a grin so wide and easy that it makes my heart trip.
He’s still a little damp from the shower, hair wet at the tips from underneath his backwards cap, wearing a navy hoodie and dark jeans that should be illegal with the way they fit.
“Hey,” he says, voice rough from yelling plays.
I swallow, clutching the doorknob. “Hey,” I manage, voice embarrassingly breathless. “Uh. Come in.”
He steps past me, looking around with a casual curiosity that somehow doesn’t feel judgmental. “Nice place. Smells good,” he says, dropping his bag by the entryway, and I’m suddenly hyper-aware of the way my pulse is pounding in my ears.
I shut the door and try not to hover as he toes off his sneakers, leaving them neatly at the door beside mine.
He still remembers that I don’t like others wearing shoes in my space.
“Thanks. I, uh, bought a new candle. I think it’s grapefruit or something citrus.
Didn’t want my place to always smell of chlorine. ”
“Mission accomplished,” he says as he removes his cap and ruffles his hair out.
I fidget with the hem of my sweatshirt and step into the kitchen. “Do you want something to drink? Water? I have tea. Or soda? I have coffee if you prefer that, but it’s instant. I mean, it’s not terrible, but definitely not barista level.”
Damien follows me into the kitchen and leans with his side against the counter—god, he’s so tall, I’m gonna die—and arms crossed, watching me with a softness I’m not used to anymore.
His eyes don’t wander; they stay fixed on my face, patient, almost amused.
He looks so at home in my space that I feel sick. In a good way.
“I’m good,” he says.
I nod. “I was going to—uh, I was thinking we could order something together. Unless you’re starving? Then we can do pizza. Or—” I break off, heat creeping up my neck. “Sorry. I didn’t even ask what you like now.”
Damien just watches me, his eyes tracking every word, mouth curved up at the corners. “Whatever you want, Blue. I’m easy.”
The nickname settles in my chest, warm and familiar.
Then I go back to fussing with the pile of takeout menus I left on the counter, sifting through them to hide how flustered I am.
“Well, there’s a new Thai place I’ve been meaning to try.
Unless you hate Thai now, which would be a first, but there’s Chinese or—this place that does these rice bowls—”
Damien’s chuckle is quiet, but not mocking, and it stops my tangent. He closes the space between us in three steps, taking the stack of menus from my hands and setting them aside. “Breathe, Noah. Thai sounds good. I’ll eat anything that isn’t frozen pizza.”
I exhale hard as I nod, all my practiced lines falling away. He takes some of the menus, walks toward the couch, and pats the space next to him. “Come on, let’s figure out dinner. We’ll get something good, watch something stupid, and you can laugh at how much I sweat when I eat spicy food.”
That makes me laugh. I move to the couch, keeping some space, pulling my knees up, and wrapping my arms around them.
We decide on dinner and type in the order on my phone—pad thai, red curry, spring rolls, and a few other extras just in case.
I’m proud of myself because my hands only shake a little.
“Should be here in thirty,” I say when I’m done. “Sorry if it’s weird being here. I’m just nervous, and I haven’t had anyone over yet.”
He smiles, and my heart does that thing again. “I’m honored to be the first. But it’s not weird. Or, if it is, it’s a good-weird; a familiar weird. Besides, it’s your place, so you get to make all the rules.”
I shrug, picking at the seam of the cushion. “Still getting used to it, I guess. Living alone. Being able to decide things for myself.”
He leans back, stretching out his long legs. “You’re doing good. The place feels like you.”
For a moment, we just sit in it—the hum of the fridge, the low flicker of the candle on the table. It should be awkward, but the longer he’s here, the more it starts to feel like the old days—a rhythm I can slip into if I just let go of the panic.
Damien glances at me. “You doing okay? You’ve been quiet since I walked in.”
I snort, burying my chin on my knees. “That’s just… me. You know I’ve always been bad at talking. Ryan used to say I was a walking ellipsis.”
He laughs. “Yeah, but you always said more in a look than half the guys do yelling. That hasn’t changed.” His eyes find mine, and for a second, neither of us looks away. The weight of that is almost too much. I drop my gaze, heart pounding.
I fumble for the remote and switch on the TV, nerves shot. “So, um. What are we watching?”
“Dealer’s choice, just not anything sappy, please,” he groans, throwing his head back. “Sage made us watch some romantic drama last weekend, and I nearly gouged my eyes out.”
A giggle slips past my lips because that’s just so Sage. I flick through the options, more to have something to do with my hands than because I care. My mind is still spinning; half caught in the sound of his voice in my apartment.
“We could start something new, or we could just watch The Office again. That’s safe, right?”
Damien groans again. “Okay, I know I said dealer’s choice, but if I hear Michael Scott say, ‘that’s what she said’ one more time, I might actually die.”
I shake my head and grin, relaxing more than I mean to. “Fine. Brooklyn Nine-Nine, then.”
“Much better,” he says, lifting both hands in mock surrender.
We fall quiet again, but this time, it’s less loaded.
I can feel his attention like static—present, never heavy, just there.
When I glance at him, he’s smiling—soft and fond, the kind of smile that says he’s happy just to be here.
My face burns under it, and I look away, fidgeting with the hem of my throw pillow.
Damien moves closer, resting one arm on the back of the couch. “You don’t have to play host, you know. I’m not expecting five-star service.”
I huff a laugh, some of the tension bleeding away. “You say that, but if you get food poisoning, I’ll never hear the end of it.”
He leans in, the weight of his gaze grounding. “You think I’d complain? I used to eat cafeteria food without flinching. I’m basically invincible now.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling for real. “Your confidence is terrifying.”