Chapter 20 Damien
Damien
I haven’t seen Noah since he came back from his swim meet on Sunday.
We’ve texted, yeah, but we haven’t really been alone together again.
It’s not for lack of trying, though. His practice sessions have been longer, and Coach has been on our asses since preseason.
We’ve both been too tired, and I get it.
That’s why, when I see Noah standing in the kitchen doorway—camera in his hands, strap looped around his wrist, and cheeks pink—my heart fucking soars.
Ryan and Roman are currently in a heated debate about whether pineapple and banana go on pizza, but their voices get drowned out at the sight of him.
“Hey,” he says softly.
I turn around to face him completely, wiping my hands on a dish towel as I walk toward him. “Hey, Blue. You good?”
He nods, then hesitates, shifting from one foot to another. I recognize that look. It’s the same one he used to get when we were kids, and he wanted to ask something he thought might be stupid or inconvenient. Even when it never was.
So, I move even closer, blocking the other guys from seeing him, so he can feel comfortable talking. “Can I… uhm,” he starts, then clears his throat. “Can I go to the pond? The light’s really nice right now, and I wanna take some photos…”
His eyes dart away from mine, and my chest tightens for reasons I don’t let myself unpack. “Yeah, of course. You don’t have to ask—”
“No, it’s just…” he interjects, biting his bottom lip and looking so fucking adorable. “I thought maybe, I mean, if you’re not busy, could you come, too? I wanted to try some portraits, if you’re okay with that.”
I laugh under my breath. “You want me to model for you?”
He smiles, all small and shy. “Please?”
Fuck me, I would do anything for this boy.
Ignoring the guys behind us, I take Noah’s hand and lead him out the back.
The path to the pond is narrow, tucked behind a line of trees most people forget are even there.
It’s quiet in the way the Sin Bin can never be—no shouting, no music, and no chaos.
Just birdsong, and the crunch of leaves under our shoes.
Noah walks a few steps behind me, camera in hand, snapping shots as we go. I slow my pace without thinking, matching him instinctively. “This place still feels unreal,” he murmurs. “Like it shouldn’t exist so close to the Sin Bin mayhem.”
“It’s my hiding spot,” I say. “You’re the only one I’ve ever brought here.”
He looks up at that, surprise flickering across his face. “Really?”
“Yeah,” I say, then add quickly, “I mean—Ryan knows it exists, but he doesn’t come here. He says it’s too quiet for him.”
“That checks out,” Noah smiles at that, something warm and private in his expression. “Thanks for sharing it with me.”
We reach the water just as the sun dips lower, the pond glowing gold and copper, the surface rippling softly where the stream feeds into it.
Noah stops dead. “Oh,” he breathes, lifting his camera. “This is perfect.”
I kick off my shoes, and on impulse, tug my shirt over my head and throw on the ground next to my shoes.
I’m only in basketball shorts now and already sweaty from my jog earlier, so the breeze feels good against my chest. I don’t think twice about it, I never do.
But the second I glance over, I see Noah stop and stare at me.
His eyes drag over me in a way that’s definitely not casual or distracted. No, those mismatched eyes are intensely trained on me. “You okay?” I ask, suddenly aware of my own body in a way I hadn’t been a second ago.
He swallows hard. “Yeah. Just—hold on,” he says, lifting the camera again, fingers steady despite his ears turning pink. “Can you stand closer to the water? Where the light hits your shoulders.”
I do what he asks, stepping down onto the smooth stones at the edge of the pond. The water laps against my ankles, cool and clean. I crouch and splash some onto my arms, then my chest, rinsing off sweat and dirt. When I stand again, the droplets trail down my skin.
Noah inhales sharply, and I pretend not to notice.
This part is easy. I’ve posed for cameras my whole life—media days, interviews, promo shots. I know how to hold myself, but this is different.
Noah doesn’t direct me like a photographer trying to get a product. He watches me, afraid to miss something. He edges closer, adjusting angles, and steps into my space without realizing it.
“Turn your head,” he says softly. “Hold still.”
I watch him instead, the way his eyes go sharp and soft at the same time, the way he bites his lip when he’s trying to get a perfect shot. He’s beautiful in the sun, more himself here than anywhere else, and I wish I could say it out loud.
Even though the shoot starts off calm, it doesn’t stay that way. Noah gets bossy real quick, and I have to fight the smirk tugging at my mouth every time his tone sharpens like a little general.
“Move a little to the left,” he calls out, squinting through the viewfinder. “No, your other left. Shoulder toward me—yeah, don’t hunch. Relax your jaw.”
I lift my chin, biting back a smile, and move as he directs.
The pond is cold at my ankles, light pouring over everything in rich gold.
He steps closer, barely two feet away now, camera raised.
There’s a tension in the air, a steady pulse that starts low in my gut and works its way up.
I have to lock my arms at my sides to keep from fidgeting.
I’m not usually self-conscious about my body, not after years in locker rooms and games in front of thousands, but I can feel his gaze like a physical thing on my skin.
He lowers the camera, tilting his head as he considers me from another angle. “Okay, stop flexing. You’re not about to do a protein shake ad.”
I snort, shaking my head. “That’s just my face, Blue. I can’t help it if I’m built like a fucking action figure.”
His mouth twitches. “Convenient excuse,” he mutters, but there’s a smile hiding there, and I want to see more of it. He circles around, adjusting his position. “Can you put your hands in your pockets? No, no—let your arms hang loose. That’s it.”
He takes a few more shots, the shutter snapping in quick succession.
I watch him watching me, the way he moves, steady and precise, which is a far cry from the anxious kid I remember trailing after me at fifteen.
There’s a confidence in him when he works, and fuck, if it doesn’t get to me.
Every time he steps closer, barking another quiet order, it’s a jolt straight to my spine.
I feel stupid for how much I enjoy it and how it both makes my chest tighten and my skin go hot.
Confident Noah is sexy as fuck.
We talk between setups, easy conversation filling the space.
He tells me about a photo assignment he’s been working on—something with motion blur and city lights.
I tell him about the game coming up this weekend, the pressure building with every practice.
Sometimes he asks for a specific expression, a certain tilt of the head, a half-smile. I oblige every time.
“Take off your watch,” he says at one point. “I want it to look natural. Pretend you just came here after a run, not like you’re on the cover of Sports Illustrated.”
I unbuckle the strap and toss it onto the grass, shooting him a look. “Anything else, boss?”
He bites his lip, cheeks flushing, but not backing down. “Lose the attitude.”
I bark a laugh, unable to help myself. “Yes, sir.”
“Don’t call me sir,” he mutters, and that flustered edge is back, but it only lasts a second. He checks his settings and then nods at a spot near the water. “Go sit there. And look away from me, just for a second. Pretend you’re thinking about something important.”
I do as he says, except I’m not pretending. I am thinking about something very important: him. When I glance back, he’s lowering the camera, just watching me, eyes wide and dark. For a second, neither of us says anything. It’s quiet except for the slow trickle of the stream.
Noah moves closer, stepping around a fallen branch, his shoes crunching in the grass. “You always this obedient?” he asks, teasing, but his voice cracks at the end.
I swallow, pulse stuttering. “Depends who’s giving the orders.”
That gets me another real smile, bright and soft, and I swear my heart does a somersault. He crouches down beside me, camera forgotten for the moment, elbows on his knees. We sit there, side by side, neither of us speaking for a long minute.
He turns to me, voice barely more than a whisper. “You really never brought anyone else out here?”
I shake my head. “No one.”
“Not even…?”
“No,” I say firmly, cutting him off before he can name names. “Just you. No one else gets my quiet, Blue.”
He nods, gaze dropping to his shoes. His fingers toy with the strap of his camera, winding it around his hand and then unwinding it. “I like it here,” he says. “It feels safe.”
“You’re always safe with me,” I reply, the words slipping out before I can catch them.
He looks up, startled by the intensity in my voice, and for a split second, I wonder if I’ve gone too far. But then he smiles, soft and a little sad. “I know.”
We’re too close now. I can feel the heat coming off him, the nervous energy that radiates when he’s about to do something brave. He inches forward, his knee brushing mine, and every part of me goes still.
Noah’s the one who breaks the moment. “Okay, last set,” he says, all business again, pushing to his feet and snapping the camera up. “Stand by the edge, just there—and look back at me.”
I move to where he’s pointing, the grass damp and cold under my feet.
“Damien,” he calls softly.
I turn, meeting his gaze, and the look on his face nearly guts me. He watches me through the lens, and this time I see it—all the longing, all the hunger, all the questions he’s too scared to ask.
I walk up to him as he lowers the camera slowly, breath catching when he sees how close I am. Instead of putting distance between us, he steps closer, too—so close I can see every freckle on his cheeks, every tiny fleck of color in his eyes.
Beautiful. He’s fucking beautiful.
For a second, I forget everything except the shape of him, the want written so plainly it’s almost painful. “Blue…” I whisper, leaning in so close our noses brush. My breath catches, and then—panic.
I break first and pull back, cursing myself for being so fucking weak. “Shit, I’m sorry,” I say, stumbling back and shoving a hand through my hair. “I shouldn’t have—fuck, Noah, I’m sorry.”
Noah blinks, cheeks flaming red, mouth parted. He fumbles with the camera, nearly dropping it before looping the strap around his neck and stepping back. “It’s fine. You didn’t… You did nothing wrong.”
I swallow, guilt making my chest ache. “I didn’t mean to make that weird,” I rush to say, pulling at my hair. “It’s just—I got caught up, and you were—fuck, I’m sorry.”
“I should probably go,” he mumbles, and both his hands and voice are shaky. He doesn’t look at me as he busies himself with putting the lens cap on and stuffing his phone into his pocket.
I run a hand over my face, frustration simmering under my skin.
The sun’s almost gone now, the light turning everything blue and cool, shadows stretching across the ground.
I put my shirt and shoes back on again, and we walk back to his car in silence, tension stretched tight between us.
I follow him to the driveway, wanting to fix it, wanting to say something that’ll make it better, but the words don’t come.
When we reach his car, he fumbles for his keys, dropping them once before managing to unlock the door. I try again. “Noah, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have made it weird.”
He pauses, and for a second, I expect him to brush me off, to pretend it never happened.
But then, all at once, he walks up to me, leans in and presses his lips to my cheek—soft, lingering just long enough to make my skin burn.
When he pulls back, he meets my eyes, steady and certain in a way I’ve never seen before.
“You didn’t do anything wrong, Mien,” he says again. “I promise.”
I stand there, stunned, as he gets into his car, closes the door, and pulls away, away, leaving me with the ghost of his mouth on my skin and the hope in his voice ringing in my ears.