Chapter 19 Noah
Noah
When I wake, the light in my room is softer than it should be. I blink a few times, brain sluggish and body heavier than usual. I didn’t just sleep—I crashed. My limbs ache in that post-swim way, where you’ve pushed past what you should’ve.
I roll onto my back and stare up at the ceiling, squinting at the lazy spin of the fan blades. My throat hurts, and my tongue feels is as dry as sandpaper against the roof of my mouth.
The memories of last night start to creep back in, and for a few seconds, I lie still, trying to put the pieces together.
The last things I remember are the two of us on the couch, Damien’s arm stretched along the back, his laughter vibrating through the cushions, and the light from the TV flickering over both of us.
I remember the show, the way we made fun of the ridiculous characters, Damien’s commentary getting softer the longer we watched.
I remember the feel of him beside me, and how safe that felt—so much safer than I want to admit.
After that, though… nothing. A blank space.
I don’t even remember getting into bed or saying goodbye to Damien.
A surge of embarrassment ripples up my neck. Did I fall asleep on him? I try to retrace the night in my head. The TV. The smell of takeout. My body melting into his, fighting sleep and losing. Did I say something? Did I move? Oh, god, did I drool on him?
The horror of not knowing hits me full-force, and I rub my hands over my face, trying to chase it away.
I hate losing control of my own awareness, especially in front of someone who already saw too much of me before I learned how to hide it.
I look around my room: the curtains are drawn, and the sheets are a little messy, but nothing’s out of place except for me.
Reaching for my phone, I unlock it and swipe down the notifications.
Nothing.
No texts from Damien. No unread messages. Just the usual swim team update emails and a couple of social media notifications I won’t check. My chest tightens stupidly at the absence of his name. I don’t know what I was expecting—a “good morning”? A “hey, you fell asleep on me, by the way”?
No, that’s not fair. He probably didn’t want to wake me. That’s… considerate. Still, the absence needles me.
I turn the phone screen off and set it back down, trying not to spiral the way I always do when something’s unclear.
Breathe, Noah. Just… breathe.
I press the heels of my hands to my eyes again, forcing myself to take slow, even breaths.
The routine grounds me—five counts in, five counts out, again and again until my pulse starts to level out.
It’s early. There’s no reason for him to have texted.
He just went home—like he should have—because I was already half gone, sleep pulling me under before I could even say goodbye.
It doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just… start the day. Routine helps.
I pad out to the kitchen, eyes scanning for any sign of Damien—dirty mug, extra pair of shoes, note on the counter. But there’s nothing. Glancing at the clock on my microwave, I realize it’s later than I thought—almost eight thirty. I should be hungry, but my stomach’s in knots.
I flip the switch on the kettle, listening to the faint whir and click as it heats. I grab a cup from the mugs lined up beside the sink and measure out the coffee grounds precisely. The familiar smell fills the air, rich and earthy, the comfort of routine pressing back against the panic.
It’s only as I’m moving to the fridge for the creamer that I see a splash of bright color against the plain white.
A yellow sticky note. Damien’s handwriting, slanted and bold, is unmistakable even at a glance.
I stare at it for a long second before I pluck it off, the edges fluttering as I peel it back.
I’ve reread it three times before I realize I’m smiling like an idiot in the middle of my kitchen. The ink is dark, a little smudged in places. The words aren’t flowery or dramatic, but they feel big. Bigger than the silence on my phone. Bigger than the years between us.
My cheeks burn, and my chest feels warm in that soft, unsteady way it used to before everything went to hell. Suddenly, I’m sixteen again, sitting on the roof with Damien, pretending we’re just stepbrothers, pretending I didn’t want more.
I fold the note and slip it into the side pocket of my hoodie, where no one else will see it. The smile on my face lingers, even as I pour my coffee and lean against the counter with the warmth seeping into my palms.
There are no classes for me today, but that doesn’t mean it’s a break.
I’ve got a five-hour swim practice scheduled with Coach at noon, to prep for the meet next Friday.
I should be excited. I’m one of the top-ranked swimmers in my division.
The scouts are watching me. The training is working.
My body is stronger than it’s ever been.
And yet…
Somewhere deep down, I still wonder if I’m doing this for me, or if I’ve just been doing it so long, I don’t know how to stop. I take another sip of coffee and exhale slowly.
Leaving the sport feels impossible. It’s not just my life—it’s the only version of life I’ve been allowed. The rules are simple in the water: you win, or you don’t. You push, or you sink.
There’s no guesswork, no ambiguity, no trying to interpret people’s tone or facial expressions. There’s especially no wondering whether or not falling asleep on someone means you crossed a line.
In the water, I know who I am: Noah Adams, Olympic hopeful. Noah Adams, the kid with the fastest underwater turns and the worst social battery.
Out of the water, I’m still learning.
I grab my phone again, staring down at the blank message screen.
The little typing bubble blinks at me, mocking my hesitation.
But then I remember the note in my pocket.
I remember the soft way he said my name last night, and the warmth in his eyes when he said, “I’d still steal them, by the way… If you’d let me.”
I don’t overthink it this time. I type before my brain can talk me out of it.
Me: Morning, Mien. Thanks for carrying me to bed. And for making sure I was safe. You didn’t have to. But I’m glad you did.
Then I hit send, set the phone down, and finish my coffee slowly, letting the quiet wrap around me. The note is still in my pocket. The day is still ahead of me. Practice will come and go. But for the first time in a while, I don’t dread it.
After breakfast and my meds, I finish getting ready in silence, tying my shoes with careful knots, looping my headphones around my neck, and packing my bag with the precision of someone who finds comfort in order.
I check the fridge again, grab a protein bar for the road, and glance once more at the spot where the note was pinned.
The whale magnet is still there. Crooked, slightly chipped.
I smile again and walk out the door, hoodie tugged up over my head, heart lighter than it has any right to be.