Chapter 18 Damien
Damien
I barely register the episode playing on screen, having muted it about half an hour ago. For a long time, I just sit there, motionless, letting the light from the TV flicker across the room in flashes of blue and white.
I haven’t moved since he drifted off. I haven’t dared to because I can’t remember the last time I felt this kind of peace. I’m scared that if I move too quickly or breathe too loudly, I’ll wake up from the best dream I’ve had in years.
Noah’s head is in my lap now, knees drawn up, hands tucked beneath his chin.
He looks so soft in sleep—mouth parted, lashes dark against his cheeks.
A strand of hair has fallen across his forehead, vivid blue in the lamplight.
I’m scared to brush it away, scared it’ll wake him or that he’ll flinch on instinct and pull back into himself, shattering this moment of peace.
So, I just watch him sleep, counting each rise and fall of his chest, my fingers itching to swipe at the errant eyelash on his cheek. He’s always been beautiful, even more so in sleep—way too soft and small for someone as fucked up as me.
What did I ever do to deserve a second chance to be in his orbit? To have him here, trusting me enough to fall asleep in my arms, to invite me in without reservation? I think about all the years I lost—four years where I buried every feeling and memory under a pile of bodies to outpace the guilt.
But there’s a part of me that will always wonder if I did more harm by leaving than I ever could have by staying. I don’t think I’ve ever been honest with myself about how much that destroyed me.
And what did it cost in the end? I look at him, still and trusting in his sleep, and the answer is simple. It cost everything. The price of keeping his future safe was losing every piece of myself that ever felt whole.
I blink and realize my vision is blurring.
Tears sting the corners of my eyes, quiet and unexpected.
I blink again, willing them to stop, but one slips down my cheek anyway.
I wipe it with the back of my hand, then reach down as softly as I can to run my fingers through Noah’s hair.
The strands are fine and cool, tangling gently around my knuckles.
He sighs in his sleep, snuggling closer as if he’s chasing warmth.
My heart squeezes, and I selfishly wish this moment could last forever.
“You deserved better,” I whisper, my voice cracking. “You still do.”
The clock on the stove glows bright; it’s late, well past midnight.
I don’t want to break whatever this is, but I know he’ll wake up stiff tomorrow, and probably embarrassed from falling asleep on me.
I want him to sleep, but I want him to be more comfortable.
So, I gently lift his head and move my thigh out from under it, holding my breath as he whines.
Jesus, that noise shouldn’t get my cock twitching right now, especially not when he’s sleeping. Calm the fuck down, Moore.
I stand for a second, legs numb and heart pounding. I take him in one last time before I move, letting my eyes trace the line of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the slight furrow in his brow, even while asleep.
He’s changed so much and not at all. A little more muscle where he used to be all elbows and knees, but with the same eyes that caught me off guard when we first met. The same look that had me blurting out the word “blue” like an idiot. The same gentle quiet I always wanted to protect.
For three years, I tried to convince myself that I could just be his stepbrother. I tried to bury every look, every laugh, every time he reached for me in a crowded room or watched me from across the gym.
Maybe I’ll always be just Damien to him—his friend, his ex-stepbrother, his biggest fuckup, and sometimes, even a comfort. Maybe I’m an idiot for sitting here all these years later, aching in a way that’s never really dulled, but I wouldn’t trade it for anything.
Even if he doesn’t feel the same. Even if I’m just background noise to him now, I’d take it. I’d take everything he gave me just to be this close. If loving him means this is all I get, I’ll take it and call it more than I deserve.
Careful not to wake him, I bend down and slip my arms beneath him, scooping him up the way I used to when he was sick as a kid, too tired to make it up the stairs on his own.
He’s lighter than I remember—all soft fabrics and citrus-scented shampoo, but he’s still Noah.
Always, endlessly, heartbreakingly Noah.
He stirs a little, nose wrinkling, but he doesn’t wake, just burrows closer, lips parting on a sigh. His face nuzzles against my chest, and I can feel the way my breath goes ragged at the contact.
Walking to his bedroom is a test of will. I want to keep him in my arms for as long as I can, even if it’s only a few seconds. I’m holding all the years I fucked up and somehow, impossibly, being given a chance to rewrite them. My chest aches, but it’s the best kind of pain.
I set him down gently on his bed, pausing to pull the covers up over his body, and he curls onto his side, half on his stomach, arms tucked close.
For a second, I stand over him, fighting every instinct to stay.
To crawl in beside him. To hold him through the night and make up for every second I ever left him wondering if I cared.
Instead, I do what I’ve always done—I put him first. I brush the hair out of his eyes, letting my fingers linger at his temple, then lean down and press a kiss to his hairline.
“Night, Blue,” I whisper, voice thick. “Thank you for letting me in.”
Back in the kitchen, I grab the pen and a sticky note from the little pad on his fridge. The light from the stove is a little harsh after the dimness of his bedroom, and I squint as I scrawl out the words with a shaky hand.
Hey, Blue.
Didn’t want to wake you. Thanks for the best night I’ve had in a long time. Text me when you wake up.
—Mien
I pause, thumb running over the corner of the paper.
There’s so much more I want to say—so many apologies, so many what-ifs, so many years I wish I could hand back to him whole.
But that’s not what tonight was about. Tonight was just…
tonight. A second chance to be here, to be wanted in whatever way he’ll have me.
So, I stick it dead in the centre of his fridge and secure it with his whale magnets, knowing he’ll see it in the morning.
Before I leave, I put the leftover food in his fridge, then I grab his phone and place it on his nightstand.
Then I let myself linger a bit, looking around at the little details of his space.
The textbooks on his counter, the camera bag hanging from one of the barstools, the burnt-out candles on his coffee table. I see the life he’s trying to build for himself one day at a time, and I ache to be part of it.
With a sigh, I head toward the front door, slipping my shoes back on and grabbing my bag by the door. When I close his door, I wait for the latch to click to signal that it’s locked before I walk outside.
I breathe in the cold air and let it anchor me, allowing the midnight hush to settle as I walk to my car while already counting the minutes until I get to see him again.
By the time I pull up to the Sin Bin, it’s well after one in the morning. I leave the car idling for a minute, forehead pressed to the steering wheel, and just breathe through the chest-deep ache of having to walk away from Noah.
I cut the engine and grab my bag, letting the front door fall shut behind me. The Sin Bin is quiet at this hour—no parties, no video game tournaments in the den, and no half-dressed athletes eating pizza at midnight. I know where I need to go before I’ve even made the decision.
I should go to bed, I know that. Should head to my room, drown myself in silence, and pretend I don’t still feel Noah’s weight in my arms. But I don’t.
I veer left instead, straight down the hall toward Ryan’s room because my chest feels like it’s full of glass, and if I don’t say something—if I don’t let it out—I’m going to crack in half.
His door is cracked open as usual. Ryan never locks it unless someone’s pissed him off. I knock once. “You up?”
There’s a beat of silence, then a rustling noise followed by a groggy, “If you’re not bringing pizza or dick, I’m hanging up this dream.”
I huff a laugh and push the door open. Ryan is lying on his bed in black basketball shorts and an old tournament T-shirt, rubbing sleep from his eyes. His curls are wrapped up in a black silk bonnet, and he’s trying to glare at me but not quite pulling it off.
“It’s like one in the morning, bro. You trying to catch hands or what?” His voice is half teasing, half genuine concern, because he’s always been better at reading me than most.
I lean against the doorframe, dropping my bag in the hallway. “You got a second?”
He sits up a little when he sees me. “What’s up? You’re either drunk, or you’re about to tell me something you’d rather I forget in the morning.”
I close the door behind me and take in the familiar chaos of Ryan’s room—sneakers, hoodies, empty water bottles, and crumpled playbooks. He sits up a little and fixes me with the kind of look that says he knows I’m about to make him a co-conspirator, whether he likes it or not.
His smirk falters at the look on my face. “Okay, not joking. What happened?”
I don’t sit right away. I walk to the window, stare out at the streetlamp glowing through the trees, and shove my hands deep into the pockets of my hoodie. “I’m in love with him, Ry.”
Ryan doesn’t pretend not to know who I’m talking about. “You finally figured it out?”
I choke on a laugh and look over my shoulder. “No, just the first time I admitted it out loud. The problem is, I never fucking stopped. Not when I left, not when I was hooking up with half the campus trying to prove I was fine. None of it worked because it’s always been him.”
His eyes soften, and he swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “Damien…”