Chapter 26 Noah
Noah
I’m still smiling when Damien walks out my front door with that slow, lazy grin on his face. There’s something stupidly perfect about these good nights—how easy it’s become to wrap myself around his waist, nuzzle into his chest, and feel him press a kiss to my hair before letting go.
Tonight, I follow him out to the stairwell for no other reason than to watch him walk away.
He looks over his shoulder, shakes his head at my soft, dumb smile, and winks as he disappears down the steps.
I stand there for a long minute, heart rattling, until the hallway lights flicker and remind me to go inside.
Back in my apartment, I hit the switch on the lamp and grab my phone, scrolling through the dozen photos I took tonight.
There’s one with Damien’s hand curled over my bare thigh, long fingers splayed and callused from years of basketball and lifting, knuckles scuffed, skin golden brown against my paler tone, and with a little scar below the ring finger.
I stare at it for a minute. If I posted Damien’s face, everyone would know in seconds, and neither of us is ready for that. But this—his hand on my skin, the little details only I know to look for—that’s mine.
I post the picture, crop it tight on just our hands, and caption it with a single blue heart.
It feels weird to be this happy after believing it wasn’t possible for so long. My brain keeps trying to tell me I shouldn’t trust it, that something’s bound to ruin it. But tonight, the world is quiet. The space between my ears isn’t vibrating with panic, and I let myself soak it in.
My phone pings with reactions before I even set it down, but I ignore them, letting the contentment settle deep in my chest.
I’m halfway to making myself a cup of chamomile tea when there’s a knock on my door. I frown as I look at the time: it’s nearly eight. My heart is already in my throat when someone bangs on my door loud enough to make me jump this time.
Then I hear a familiar, theatrical voice echo through the hall, “Open up, Bluebird! We’re here to rescue your sad ass from whatever tragic playlist you’re moping to.”
Sage. There’s a thump and a muffled curse—Nate. “We’re kidnapping you, so put on something slutty. Or whatever your version of slutty is.”
I groan but smile, my heart pounding as I walk toward the door. I crack it open slightly and find them both beaming before they burst through my door with all the subtlety of a tornado.
A green beanie barely contains Sage’s blond locks, and there’s a glitter star sticker on his cheek.
Nate, though—Nate is a vision. Lacy mesh crop top that barely covers his chest but shows off his panther tattoo, black painted nails, and jeans that ride low on his hips.
He looks both ridiculous and gorgeous—utterly himself—and I stare for a second too long, caught between envy and awe.
“Don’t ogle, darling, you’ll make me blush,” Nate teases, flinging an arm around my shoulders.
“Sorry,” I mumble, but the truth is, I wish I could be that free. He doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t worry about who’s watching. He just exists, bright and unapologetic. “Shoes off, please. I don’t like shoes in my place.”
Sage groans at my order but obeys. Nate tilts his head as he removes his boots. “We’re getting you out. You’ve been hiding for days, and it’s time to be fun again. No excuses.”
I try to protest, but Sage is already walking toward my bedroom. “We need to talk about your wardrobe. You’re not auditioning for Sad Boy Autumn.”
“I have clothes,” I argue, grabbing jeans and a soft long-sleeved shirt before he can make any more comments about the state of my laundry. “And I’m not going out looking like that,” I nod at Nate, who just grins, entirely unbothered.
“Why not?” Nate throws himself on my bed, feet dangling off the edge. “This is the freest I’ve ever felt. Besides, half of campus wants to sleep with me or murder me. I like to keep them guessing.”
Sage snorts, flicking a stray sock at me. “Hurry up. We’re late for brunch, and there’s a vintage store sale—”
“Brunch? It’s eight o’clock at night!” I exclaim, but Sage just grins.
I don’t wait for an answer and fumble my way through my closet, pulse racing as I try to decide if I even have anything that counts as slutty before I head to the bathroom to get changed.
I swap my pajamas for a pair of black skinny jeans and the only shirt I own that could be described as daring—a tight, long-sleeved mesh top layered over a white tank.
It’s not slutty by any definition Sage or Nate would use, but it feels like a lot to me, and that’s enough. Tonight, I decide, I won’t second-guess.
“Look at you! God, that’s adorable,” Sage says when I walk out of the bathroom. Then he squints at my face. “Did you put on eyeliner? Tell me you put on eyeliner.”
Nate pushes past him, looking me up and down with a wicked grin. “This is perfect. You look like a queer indie film protagonist about to have a coming-of-age moment.”
“Shut up,” I mumble, but I’m already smiling. I shove my feet into boots, grab my wallet, and try not to look at my reflection too long in the mirror.
Sage bounces on the balls of his feet. “Alright, first stop: thrift store. Nate wants to play dress-up, and I want to find something heinous just for fun.”
Nate tugs me into the hallway and slings an arm around my shoulder, his bracelets rattling. “This is an intervention, Adams. You don’t get to hide in your hobbit hole anymore. Not on our watch. Tonight, we force you to remember you’re hot.”
They don’t wait for me to second-guess. We’re out the door and in Sage’s car before I can panic, and I’m bundled up in Damien’s hoodie because I just had to bring it along with me. Sage drags us through three thrift stores.
Why there are thrift stores open past 5 p.m., I’ll never know.
I try on a vintage floral button-up at Nate’s insistence, and I actually like how it fits. Nate pulls out a handful of crop tops and half-jokingly holds them up to my waist. I manage to laugh instead of bolting, and Sage nearly cries at the sight of me in a rainbow cardigan.
We end up with three bags between us, half of which are full of things we’ll probably never wear but had to try for the laughs. Sage pays for everything with a flourish and announces, “Next stop: gelato, then the art gallery.” Nate immediately demands double chocolate and pistachio.
We eat gelato outside the gallery, sprawled on a bench. The air is cool but not cold, and for a while, the world feels manageable. At the night gallery, Nate drags us to every abstract piece, making up increasingly ridiculous stories about what the squiggles mean.
I meander past a wall-sized painting made up of a thousand tiny, mirrored pieces, and I catch my own reflection—a mess of blue hair and eyes a little brighter than they were this morning.
Sage leans in close and whispers, “You see that? That’s you. All light, broken up and put back together to make something even more beautiful.”
I swallow, not sure how to reply, but Sage doesn’t wait for my answer. He just bumps my shoulder, grinning. “Let’s go find Nate before he steals an installation.”
Nate is by a sculpture made of glass shoes, pretending to pose for a Vogue spread.
Someone snaps his picture, and he winks, utterly unselfconscious.
I watch him for a long moment, wondering yet again what it would be like to have every nerve turned outward instead of inward. To feel seen and not shrink from it.
Hours later, we’re sprawled on my living room floor with takeout noodles. My shoes are off, my feet are sore, and the mesh shirt sticks to my back where Sage dumped water on me earlier. Nate sits cross-legged in front of me, twirling noodles and talking with his hands.
I’m curled up with a fork in one hand, Sage’s feet in my lap, when Nate suddenly blurts out, “Liam proposed last night.”
Sage drops his fork into the noodle cup, mouth hanging open. “You’re shitting me.”
Nate beams, face softening in a way I’ve never seen. “Nope. Ring and everything. He took me down to the docks at fucking midnight, all serial killer-like and proposed—no wait, he told me I’m marrying him.”
That… should be disturbing, but Nate is clearly in love.
I look at Sage, who blinks twice, then screams—a full-volume screech that’ll probably make my neighbors hate me forever.
“Oh my god, you’re getting married? To Liam?
Holy shit, I need to sit down. Wait, I am sitting.
I’m going to need a minute. I mean, I knew you two were disgusting, but engaged?
What’s next, matching tattoos? Swapping blood in a weird cult ceremony?
” He shakes his head, still processing. “Congratulations, you chaotic disaster.”
There’s something in the way Nate owns it, the way he’s at ease in his own skin, that makes my chest ache. I can’t help it—my eyes linger on the faint line of a tattoo on his hip, the way his nails tap against the floor.
I catch myself staring too long again, and he notices, eyebrow arched. “What? You want the top? I’ll lend it to you for your next date night.”
I snort, but my laugh comes out softer than I mean it to. “No, it’s not that. It’s just—how do you wear that and not feel everyone’s staring at you?” I blurt, my words spilling out fast and messy. “I mean, I love it. I wish I could wear stuff like that. How do you not care?”
He tilts his head, considering, then shrugs, all casual bravado.
“Because I don’t owe the world anything.
I feel hot, so I wear it. End of story. Nobody gets a say, not even Liam.
The world’s always going to have an opinion, but I get to decide which ones matter.
People can stare all they want. They’re not paying my rent. ”
Sage stretches, sitting up and grinning. “He means, ‘fuck ‘em if they don’t get it.’ Seriously, who cares? You look good, you feel good, you wear it. That’s it. No one else’s comfort is worth sacrificing your own.”
Nate nods, stirring the noodles. “Besides, Liam loves it when I wear lace. Like, loves it. It makes him all feral—”
Sage fake-gags. “TMI! I do NOT need to know about Liam’s kink for mesh and lace, thanks. Some of us are trying to keep our noodles down.”
I’m smiling so wide my cheeks hurt, but there’s still something knotted up inside me. I glance at Nate again, his ease, the way he glows in whatever he puts on, and before I can stop myself, the words tumble out.
“How do you… I mean, I like wearing lace. Sometimes I wear heels. And lately… Damien calls me Babygirl and good girl, and I love it. But I don’t want to be a girl.
I don’t even want to look like one. It’s just—when I’m alone, when I wear those things, I feel…
beautiful. But only when I’m alone. The rest of the time, I feel like I’m playing dress up.
Or hiding. I only ever feel beautiful in the mirror when it’s just me. ”
There’s a stunned silence. Sage and Nate look at me, wide-eyed, but it’s not judgment I see—it’s surprise. Sage’s mouth splits into a smile, all teeth, all sunshine. “Wait—you and Damien are together? How long?! When did this happen?”
I flush, embarrassment crawling up my neck.
“It’s really new. But I’m happy. He makes me happy.
Happier than I’ve ever been. I just don’t know what to do with this confusion over wearing girly things and not feeling like one.
I don’t feel like I fit anywhere, and I keep thinking it’ll go away, but it doesn’t. ”
Nate leans over, bumping my shoulder with his.
“That’s because it’s yours. It doesn’t have to make sense to anyone else, and you don’t have to pick a label.
I’m a mess of things—femme sometimes, soft sometimes, mean as hell most of the time.
I wear what I want, love who I want, and that’s enough.
You get to be all of those things, or none.
No one gets to tell you what makes you feel good. ”
Sage smiles, his whole face bright with it. “You’re gorgeous, Noah, and you know what? I wish I had your legs. You in heels can only look iconic. Damien’s a lucky bastard.”
I try to laugh, but it catches in my throat. “You don’t think it’s weird?”
Nate rolls his eyes. “It’s hot. I think you’re brave as hell for even admitting this to us. You should wear what makes you feel good, and if anyone says shit, I’ll fight them. Seriously. I once bit a guy in the locker room for less.”
Sage cackles, then reaches over and grabs my hand. “You don’t have to be overly confident like Nate, or brutally honest like me. But if you want to show the world how beautiful you are, we’ll help you. We’ll hype you up. We’ll scream about your ass in those jeans until you believe us.”
I feel overwhelmed but grateful. “Thanks. I just… It’s easier when you’re here. When I’m with you guys, I feel less… weird.”
Nate smirks wickedly. “Babe, weird is the best thing about you. And if Damien’s smart, he’ll remind you every day that you’re the prettiest Babygirl at Blackthorne.”
Sage grins, leaning back on his hands. “And if he doesn’t, I’ll beat his ass. Or have Nate do it. He’s scrappy.”
I laugh, loud and helpless, the last bit of shame shaking loose. “You’re both idiots.”
“Yeah, but we’re your idiots,” Sage says, leaning into me. “Now, eat your noodles and show us the uncropped version of that photo you posted earlier. It’s always hands.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m smiling. “They’re Damien’s; he’s got the best hands,” I say, unlocking my phone to show them. “And they’re mine.”
Sage’s eyes go shiny, but he wipes at them fast, turning his sniffle into a snort. “Aww, you’re so whipped. I love it; it’s disgusting.”
Nate’s smile is softer now. “Good. About time you got a little happiness. You deserve it.”
Later, when they’ve both left with promises of making this a monthly thing, I watch the city lights outside my window. Damien’s hoodie is wrapped around me, the smell of cinnamon and clean laundry grounding me in the moment, when I decide to take their advice and be brave.