at last

@somebodyels3

@concretejunglefm

@malice-ov-mercy

@ami-gami

@darksigns-exe

@likeavilllain

@veephoenix

@deathblacksmoke

@sebffilo

@iwasntstable

@blessedwithabadomen

@xmads-omensx

@sorrowsofsilence

@dodgersnotebook

@jestersnotebook

@saveyourscissors

@honeytama

@starlapse

@saythatuwill

@silent-stories

@buttercupbabyyy

@badomensspecter

@blade-dressed-in-red

@concretenoah

@estraeiea

@measuredingold

@yarasdead

Whenever you mentioned where you lived, you were always met with the same concerned and shocked expression.

"You live out there? By yourself?"

"Aren't you scared?"

"Why don't you move into town?"

You were used to these kind of questions, and you always smiled and shrugged when you had to answer them.

Because to everyone else, it was an isolated cabin on the edge of a dangerous forest, but to you, it was home.

It had belonged to your grandmother long before it belonged to you, and she had loved this place more than anything.

She loved waking up before sunrise to water her garden while birds sang overhead, collecting herbs from the forest edge, and sitting on the porch with a cup of tea as rain drummed softly against the roof.

Even after all these years, her vegetable garden still occupied the sunny patch behind the house.

It wasn't nearly as beautiful as it had been when she cared for it, as she had somehow managed to grow enormous pumpkins, sweet tomatoes, fragrant herbs, berries and beans.

You were considerably less talented, but you still tried and, every spring, you planted seeds anyway. Because giving up on the garden somehow felt like giving up on a piece of her.

The forest helped in its own way, because the soil was rich, the air was fresh, and the rain always seemed to arrive exactly when it was needed.

Despite living so far from town, you weren't isolated. The drive into the town wasn't particularly long and you went a couple of times a week, for groceries, shopping, coffee with friends, and running errands.

Sometimes you spent an entire afternoon wandering through little boutiques before meeting your friends for lunch.

You enjoyed the bustle of town, but by evening, you always found yourself looking forward to driving home. As the buildings disappeared in the rearview mirror and the road narrowed into a winding dirt path beneath towering trees, something inside you relaxed.

The silence out here always felt comforting.

Most people couldn't understand that feeling.

Especially because of the stories.

Everyone had heard them. Children grew up hearing them whispered around fireplaces, hunters repeated them over drinks, and older people swore they were true because of some story that started with "one night, when I was young..."

According to them, something lived in the woods.

They were not wolves, and they were not bears.

They were something else. Something older. Monstrous.

People spoke of enormous creatures glimpsed between the trees late at night, of figures that ran on four limbs with impossible speed, of eyes that reflected gold in the darkness.

Livestock occasionally disappeared.

Sometimes deer were found torn apart in ways no ordinary predator could manage.

Every few years a hunter failed to return.

When search parties eventually found the body, the stories always spread faster than the facts.

"His rifle was snapped in half."

"Half of him was missing."

"Whatever killed him wasn't human, and it wasn't a wolf!"

With every retelling, the monsters became larger, crueler, more terrifying. Some people refused to enter the forest after sunset, others insisted on carrying firearms even during daylight hikes.

Many believed the government knew something and kept it quiet.

You had never shared their certainty, because wild animals existed, accidents happened, and people exaggerated. You always assumed the stories had simply grown over generations until no one remembered where they had begun.

Your grandmother had disagreed. She believed every single word.

She never called them monsters, but she said that there were creatures in the woods.

When you were little, you'd laugh whenever she warned you not to wander too deeply into the woods.

"Are they going to eat me?" you had teased once.

She had smiled without looking up from the herbs she was hanging to dry.

"Probably not."

You remembered frowning.

"What does that mean?"

"They're not mindless beasts."

You tried to understand.

"They've lived here far longer than we have. If you don't disturb them..." She tapped your forehead gently. "...they won't disturb you."

At the time, you'd dismissed it as another one of her old stories, the same kind of folklore grandparents loved to tell, a lesson about respecting nature wrapped inside a fairy tale.

But still, even years after her passing, you found yourself remembering those words whenever you walked beneath the trees.

The afternoon was quiet.

The sun had already slipped behind the towering pines, leaving the sky washed in soft shades of amber and blue. The light wasn't gone yet, and you liked that time of the day.

Behind the house, you were kneeling in your grandmother's vegetable garden. One hand brushed away stubborn weeds while the other gathered ripe tomatoes into an old wicker basket resting beside you. The scent of damp earth clung to your clothes, mingling with the fragrance of basil and rosemary growing nearby.

The air was peaceful. A gentle breeze rustled through the leaves overhead, and somewhere in the distance a blackbird sang its evening song.

Then...

A sound ripped through the forest. You jerked upright so suddenly you nearly knocked over the basket.

The cry echoed between the trees, loud, raw, and painful, and you were sure it wasn't a wolf. It wasn't a deer. It wasn't anything you had ever heard before.

The sound carried something horribly human within it, even without words.

After its echo, the noise stopped, and silence crashed down over everything.

Your heartbeat suddenly sounded far too loud.

You remained frozen in the garden, staring toward the tree line only a few yards beyond the back fence.

"What the hell...?"

You waited for a moment, without moving.

You almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it.

Then, a second sound drifted through the woods, quieter this time, like a low, ragged growl.

It sounded more broken than threatening, as though whatever had made it no longer had the strength to scream, and it ended in a strained, almost choking sound.

Something was hurt.

Badly.

Every sensible thought told you exactly what to do: go inside, lock the door, and call someone.

If it was a wounded bear, getting close would be suicide, and if it was an injured hunter, professionals could find him.

And if, somehow, all those ridiculous stories about creatures in the forest held even the smallest grain of truth... then walking toward that sound was the worst decision you could possibly make.

You should have listened.

Instead, before you had fully thought it through, your feet were already carrying you toward the woods.

You left the basket forgotten among the vegetables, pushed open the old wooden gate, and atepped beneath the first line of towering pines.

The air changed, and it immediately felt cooler.

The familiar scent of your garden gave way to damp moss, pine needles and rich earth.

You paused for a moment, listening.

Nothing.

Only your own breathing.

"...Hello?"

Your voice sounded strangely small beneath the trees.

You got no response.

You took another step, then another.

The narrow trail disappeared almost immediately, forcing you to weave between ancient trunks and tangled undergrowth.

With every step, your house grew farther away, and soon you couldn't even see its roof through the trees.

The forest closed around you, the silence became heavier, and your pace slowed.

An uneasy feeling settled low in your stomach.

The stories you'd spent years dismissing surfaced uninvited in the back of your mind, and you found yourself thinking about golden eyes, creatures that walked on four limbs, and hunters who never came home.

You shook your head.

Stop it.

You're letting old ghost stories get to you.

Then something caught your eye.

A dark stain against the forest floor.

You frowned, and stepped closer.

It was blood. Fresh.

Bright crimson splashed across dead leaves and exposed roots.

There was another stain several feet ahead.

Then another.

Whatever had been injured was moving, or at least, it had tried to.

Your pulse quickened.

You should turn back now. You knew that.

But instead, you found yourself following the crimson trail deeper into the forest, each step carrying you farther from the safety of home.

The blood became heavier.

Branches had been snapped clean in half.

Deep gouges scarred the trunks of nearby trees, as though something with enormous strength had clawed at the bark in desperation.

The ground was torn apart, leaves scattered, and soil churned.

The trail rounded a cluster of ancient oaks before opening into a small clearing.

And there, a massive steel bear trap lay clamped shut around something caught inside.

Its jagged teeth had clamped around the lower part of a leg.

The chain attached to it had wrapped itself around a fallen log during the struggle.

The creature trapped inside looked like nothing you had seen before.

He seemed human and animal and the same time. Long ears, clearly animal, flattened tightly against his head, and dark hair fell over his eyes. He looked taller than the average man but from his position, you couldn’t really tell. His hands looked almost human, until you noticed the black claws extending from every finger. His face was human enough to recognize fear, but animal enough to make every instinct scream at you to run.

Golden eyes snapped toward you.

His lips curled back immediately, a deafening snarl ripped from his chest, and rows of long canine teeth gleamed.

He lunged.

The chain yanked him backward, and metal clanged violently as the trap crushed deeper into his leg.

A horrible cry tore from him, and he collapsed onto all fours, panting.

"...Oh my God..." you whispered to yourself.

He growled, and then dragged himself backward despite the trap, trying to make distance.

His breathing came in frantic bursts, his chest was rising and falling rapidly, and he kept looking at you with wide eyes.

He wasn't preparing to attack now.

He was trying to get away.

He was scared of you.

"...Hey."

His ears pinned flatter.

"I won't hurt you." You tried, even if you weren’t sure he could understand your language.

Another growl was the answer you got. But it felt shakier.

His claws scraped desperately at the earth as he stared at your hands.

You wondered if he was searching for weapons.

You slowly raised both palms.

"Nothing."

His nostrils flared.

He smelled you. Probably every herb in your garden, probably your fear, but he didn't stop trembling.

You looked at the trap again.

They must have placed it here recently. Some hunter must have left it for the wolves, even though they were illegal there.

"You'll die if I leave you here."

You took one slow step, and the reaction was immediate.

A violent snarl exploded from him and he slammed both arms into the ground, claws extended. His ears disappeared against his head.

"It's okay."

You stopped.

"You don't have to trust me."

His breathing remained fast.

"But that thing..." You nodded toward the trap, "...isn't letting go."

He looked at it just for a second, then back at you.

His chest rose and fell rapidly.

Then, almost imperceptibly, his head lowered.

You thought it was probably not in surrender, but in exhaustion.

You waited a moment before speaking again.

"I have to get closer."

A weak growl, barely audible.

You took another step.

He bared his teeth again.

You took another one.

He didn't lunge, but simply watched, every muscle rigid.

You could see him really shaking now.

You crouched several feet away.

The trap looked even worse up close, its steel teeth had sunk deep into flesh.

"...This is going to hurt."

His ears flicked.

He watched you reach for the mechanism, and instantly, his entire body jerked backward.

A frightened bark-like snarl burst from him.

You withdrew your hand.

"It's okay."

He kept staring.

Then, very slowly, his eyes flicked to the trap. Then back to you. Almost questioning.

"I have to touch it."

His breathing quickened again.

"You can hate me after."

Silence.

"...But let me try."

He didn't move and you took the fact that he stopped trying to retreat as a win.

Very carefully, you reached toward the steel jaws.

The moment your fingers touched the cold metal, his claws dug into the dirt, every muscle locked.

His lips peeled back again.

"I know." You whispered, "I know."

The trap required force. You knew that those traps were very hard to open, though not impossible, because their design relied on the fact that animals lacked opposable thumbs and the ability to use the right grip, rather than on sheer strength.

You planted both boots, grabbed the springs, and pushed.

Nothing.

Again.

Your arms trembled, and the steel barely shifted.

"Oh, come on..."

You gritted your teeth.

Again.

Again.

The creature let out another pained sound, somewhere between a growl and a whine despite trying to hold it back.

"Almost..."

Metal groaned, and one side moved.

Not enough.

You repositioned, and pulled with everything you had. The spring finally gave, and the jaws opened.

He reacted instantly, moving away.

He ripped his mangled leg free and stumbled backward so fast he nearly collapsed.

The trap snapped shut again with a deafening CLANG. He landed several yards away on three limbs, chest heaving violently.

His injured leg hovered off the ground, and blood streamed down into the leaves.

You remained exactly where you were, hands visible, breathing hard.

Neither of you moved for a moment.

He looked at you like he couldn't really understand why you helped him.

His ears slowly lifted, just a fraction, and he took one limping step backward, still watching you.

Then another.

He was leaving.

Then, his injured leg buckled, and he hit the ground with a muffled cry.

He tried to stand again, and failed.

His frustration came out as a hoarse growl. He couldn't put weight on it.

"...You won't make it."

His head whipped toward you.

You didn't move.

"I have bandages."

Silence.

"Water."

Another silence.

"And food."

His eyes narrowed.

You could almost see the battle happening inside him.

"I live close."

You nodded toward the direction of your cabin.

"You don't have to come."

His ears twitched.

"But if you stay here..."

You looked at the blood soaking the forest floor.

"...someone or something will find you."

That caught his attention.

"I'm walking home."

You turned your back deliberately. It was the most vulnerable thing you could do.

"If you decide to follow, I'll help you. I mean it."

You started walking away, listening.

No footsteps.

No growls.

Nothing.

Perhaps he had vanished. Perhaps he'd chosen death over trusting a human.

By the time your cabin came into view, disappointment settled quietly in your chest.

You opened the front door.

Fetched clean bandages, boiled water, and prepared everything, as the sun dipped lower, just in case.

After some hours, that late evening, you heard a faint crunch coming from outside.

Not on two feet. On four.

Slow, uneven, and limping.

You looked toward the window. And between the shadows of the trees, golden eyes watched you from the edge of the clearing.

He was there.

For several long seconds, neither of you moved.

The only sounds were the insects singing and the quiet rustle of leaves stirred by the early night breeze.

His golden eyes never left yours. Then, slowly, painfully, he shifted his weight onto his three uninjured limbs.

His body trembled violently from the effort as he took one limping step. Then another.

His injured hind leg barely touched the ground before lifting again with a visible twitch of pain.

Every few steps he paused, lowering his head as though trying to steady his breathing before forcing himself onward again.

You walked to the front door and stepped onto your porch.

The distance between the tree line and your porch wasn't very far. Normally it took less than a minute to cross, but for him, it felt endless.

Halfway across the clearing, his forelegs suddenly buckled.

His chest hit the ground with a dull thud, and a strained growl escaped him before he clenched his jaw shut, refusing to make another sound.

When he pushed himself back onto his feet, his entire body shook so hard you wondered how he was still conscious.

"...Easy," you murmured quietly, more to yourself than to him.

He lifted his head.

Those gold eyes met yours again.

There was no aggression left in them, only exhaustion.

He reached the bottom step of your porch before stopping completely, looking at the stairs.

He didn't move.

"You don't have to come inside," you said softly.

His gaze immediately returned to you.

"I can help you out here."

Silence.

He continued staring, and then, very slowly, he lowered himself onto the ground. Not gracefully, more like his body simply gave up.

His chest rested against the cool wooden boards at the edge of the porch while his injured leg remained stretched awkwardly to one side.

Only then did you finally step closer.

His head lifted again, and a low warning rumbled somewhere deep inside his chest.

"I know."

You stopped several feet away.

"I'm just getting the bandages."

His eyes followed every movement as you crouched beside the small bucket of clean water you'd prepared earlier.

You soaked a cloth, picked up the roll of bandages and the small bottle of antiseptic.

When you looked back at him, he hadn't taken his eyes off you once.

"I need to see your leg."

His ears flattened, and very slowly, he shifted, and his injured leg slid a few inches closer.

This was the first tiny piece of trust.

"...Thank you." You whispered.

His ears twitched.

You knelt beside him.

The wound looked bad. The steel teeth had torn deep through muscle, the edges were packed with dirt.

You exhaled quietly.

"This has to be cleaned."

His nose wrinkled.

He clearly understood enough to dislike what those words probably meant.

"I'm sorry."

You soaked the cloth before gently pressing it against the wound.

His entire body went rigid.

His claws dug into the porch hard enough to leave grooves in the old wood, and a sharp growl vibrated through his chest.

"I know."

You kept your voice low.

"I know it hurts."

He bared his teeth.

His breathing became uneven, almost panting.

"I'm almost done with this."

Another growl.

His ears flattened so tightly they almost disappeared beneath his dark hair.

Still, he didn't pull away.

You carefully rinsed away the remaining blood until you could properly examine the injury.

"It doesn't look broken."

His eyes flickered toward you.

"The trap crushed the muscle more than the bone."

He watched your face, as though trying to understand every word.

"That's... actually good."

You reached for the antiseptic.

"This part is going to sting."

The moment the liquid touched the wound, his entire body jerked violently.

A strangled sound escaped him before he bit down so hard his canines scraped together.

"I'm sorry."

You worked as quickly as you could.

"I'm so sorry."

He squeezed his eyes shut.

When the antiseptic was finally done, you began wrapping clean bandages around the injured leg in several careful layers, firm enough to stop the bleeding, loose enough not to cut circulation.

"There."

You tied the final knot.

"That should help."

Neither of you moved. He continued watching the fresh white bandage wrapped around his leg.

Slowly, he sniffed it. Then looked back at you.

"...You're strange."

His voice was rough but not too deep.

You blinked, and your head snapped toward him.

"What?"

"You..." He paused, clearly searching for the right words, "...smell like human."

Another pause.

"...but you don't act like one."

You stared, "You... can talk."

One ear flicked, "...Obviously."

Despite everything, you couldn't help letting out the smallest laugh.

"I wasn't expecting sarcasm."

His expression remained perfectly serious.

"I wasn't trying to be amusing."

"...Right."

"Are you?" He asked again.

"Human? Yes, I am."

You stayed quiet for a moment, then added, "And you? What are you?"

You waited, several long seconds passed, but he remained silent.

"My grandma..." you began quietly, "...used to believe there were beings living in these woods."

You leaned back against one of the porch posts.

"She just called you... creatures."

After a moment, he asked, "...Do you?"

You looked at him.

"I mean..." He searched for the words, "Do you think that's what I am?"

For a second, you genuinely considered the question, then you gave a small shrug.

"Aren't we all?"

"What?"

"Creatures. Aren't we all creatures?"

He didn't answer immediately.

Instead, he simply looked at you.

The evening light had almost disappeared now, leaving only the warm glow spilling from the open doorway behind you. It caught the gold in his eyes, making them seem almost molten against the darkness gathering around the porch.

He tilted his head slightly.

"...Humans don't usually say that."

You smiled faintly.

"No?"

"They make themselves something else." His voice remained quiet, "Separate. Above."

He lifted one clawed hand just enough to gesture vaguely between the two of you.

"Humans."

"And..."

He glanced at himself.

"...everything else."

You looked down at your hands.

"I don't think we're above anything else."

Silence settled again. Crickets chirped beneath the porch, leaves whispered overhead, and somewhere deeper in the woods something called once before falling quiet.

He seemed to be listening to all of it, every sound, every shift in the wind. His ears turned almost constantly, reacting to noises you couldn't even hear.

"...Do you always hear this much?" You asked, genuinely curious.

"I hear your heart."

You looked back at him.

"...What?"

"It slowed. When you stopped being afraid."

Your eyebrows lifted, "You can hear that?"

Another nod.

"You were frightened."

"I was."

"You aren't now."

"...Not really."

His eyes narrowed ever so slightly, "Why?"

You thought about it, because, objectively speaking, perhaps you should have been afraid.

There was an unknown creature lying injured on your porch, e had claws capable of tearing through solid wood, teeth that could probably crush bone, and he was stronger than you by an impossible margin.

Yet...

"I don't know."

You laughed quietly at yourself.

"I think..."

You looked down at the blood still staining the porch boards.

"...it's difficult to be afraid of someone who's hurt and who trusted you enough to come closer and let himself be helped."

He didn’t speak for a moment.

"...Why?"

You frowned.

"Why what?"

His eyes met yours again.

"Why did you help me?"

"I saw someone in pain. I felt like it was the right thing to do."

"But you don't know what I am." He said.

"No."

"You don't know what I've done."

"I don't."

"What if I've killed people?"

You held his gaze, "Have you?"

His eyes didn't leave yours, "...Sometimes."

Your heartbeat skipped. He noticed.

"I heard that."

"I figured."

You drew in a slow breath, "Were they trying to kill you?"

He was quiet for a moment, "Yes."

"Were they hunters?"

A nod.

"Did they attack you first?"

"...Yes."

You exhaled softly, "I don't think defending yourself from someone who thinks you don't deserve to live makes you a monster."

For a long moment, he simply looked at you.

Then, almost hesitantly, he spoke again.

"You saved my life."

His voice was so quiet you almost missed it.

"If you hadn't helped me..." His gaze drifted toward the bandaged leg, "I would've died toay."

He looked back at you, "Thank you."

The sincerity in those two words caught you off guard.

You offered him a small, gentle smile, "You don't have to thank me."

"I do." His answer came without hesitation, "I owe you my life."

You didn't answer, and there was a long pause before you spoke again.

"Do you have a name?"

His expression became strangely distant, as though the question had taken him somewhere else entirely. Several long seconds passed before he answered.

"Noah."

The name caught you by surprise.

It sounded so... ordinary. Warm.

"...Noah."

He looked at you.

"I like it."

His ears twitched once.

"You do?"

"I do."

He looked away, almost uncertain how to respond to that.

For someone who seemed to understand silence better than conversation, compliments appeared to confuse him more than anything else.

The two of you sat quietly for a while. Night continued settling over the clearing.

You could hear the distant rush of water from the creek somewhere deeper among the trees now.

Eventually, he spoke again.

"Do you go into the forest often?"

You nodded.

"Sometimes."

"Why?"

"Mostly for herbs."

You gestured vaguely toward your garden.

"Berries, mushrooms when they're in season... things like that."

"You hunt?"

You immediately shook your head, "No."

"I've never liked hunting. I usually stay near the edge anyway."

You pointed vaguely toward the trees bordering your property.

"I know the paths around here, but not farther. My grandma used to, but I don't remember them anymore."

Noah slowly nodded.

"There is one place I used to love, though, near the center of the forest. There are these flowers..."

You searched for the right words.

"They're purple. A deep violet. I've never seen them growing anywhere else. They were so pretty. My grandmother used to take me to see them when I was little."

"You haven't gone back?"

You shook your head, "Not for years. I stopped knowing the way."

A soft breeze drifted across the porch.

"And going alone that far never seemed like the smartest idea."

Noah remained quiet for a moment before adding, "They bloom where the light reaches the old stones."

"So they are still there?"

"Yes."

A genuine smile spread across your face.

"I'm glad."

He watched that smile for a second longer than necessary and that was the moment you realized his eyes were now more brown than gold, warmer. You wondered if the change was caused by the fading adrenaline and fear.

Then he shifted his weight, the movement was slow, careful.

He lowered himself further onto the porch, stretching his forelegs out in front of him before curling slightly around his injured hind leg.

The position reminded you so strongly of an exhausted dog settling down to rest.

Except, dogs didn't have clawed hands, or human eyes.

As he adjusted himself, a sharp wince crossed his face.

"Careful."

You leaned forward instinctively, then stopped.

"I'm okay." He said quickly.

"Do you need anything?"

He looked at you, "No."

"Water? Food?"

A small shake of his head.

"You've lost a lot of blood."

"I know. I'll be fine."

"Not even a pillow?"

That earned you a puzzled look, "What is that?"

You laughed quietly, "Never mind."

For a couple of minutes, you kept quietly talking.

You told him about the fox that occasionally stole from your garden, about the squirrel that had somehow learned how to open the lid of your compost bin, and about how terrible you were at growing pumpkins compared to your grandmother.

He never interrupted, he simply listened.

Sometimes his eyes followed the movement of the trees, sometimes he gave a quiet, thoughtful hum that made you think he was still paying attention.

"...And every year," you continued, "I tell myself that this time the tomatoes won't get eaten by insects."

No answer came.

"...Then, by July, half of them are gone."

Still nothing.

You glanced toward him.

"...Noah?"

His breathing had changed, it was slower now, steadier.

His head rested on his folded forearms, his ears, always moving, had finally gone still, his eyes were closed.

For a moment, you simply watched him.

He had fallen asleep.

And the thought that he felt safe enough to do that, made you happy.

Very carefully, so you wouldn't wake him, you stood.

The night air had grown noticeably colder. You stepped back inside the house, quietly took the thick wool blanket from the back of the couch, and returned to the porch.

For a brief moment you hesitated, wondering whether touching him would startle him awake, and thinking that he didn't care at all about blankets, since he lived in the forest.

But you gently unfolded the blanket and draped it over his shoulders and back anyway.

One ear gave the faintest twitch.

A soft, sleepy exhale escaped him, but he didn't wake.

You smiled to yourself, gave him one last look and slipped back inside the house.

The next morning, you woke up to sunlight filtered through the curtains, painting pale golden lines across your bedroom ceiling.

For a few sleepy moments, you simply lay there, listening to the familiar sounds of your little house settling around you.

Everything felt... normal.

Then your eyes widened.

Noah.

You sat upright so quickly the blankets slipped into your lap.

For one ridiculous second, you wondered if you'd dreamed everything.

The forest, the trap, the creature with golden eyes, the blood on your porch.

It all felt strangely unreal in the light of day.

You hurried downstairs, your bare feet tapping softly against the worn wooden steps.

The house was quiet.

You reached the front door and pulled it open: the porch was empty.

The blanket was there, resting on the ground.

Your eyes drifted across the porch and that's when you noticed a small bundle of deep violet flowers rested carefully beside the blanket.

You bowed and picked them up.

They were freshly picked, their delicate petals still shimmered with tiny drops of morning dew, the ones that only grew deep in the heart of the forest.

The ones you hadn't seen since you were a child.

A slow smile spread across your face, and you stayed on the porch a little longer, as the morning breeze stirred the petals gently, carrying their faint, sweet scent toward the house.

For some stupid, inexplicable reason, somebody thought it would be a good idea to go out to a dive bar after catching dinner. And when I say catching dinner I mean going to a nice, proper restaurant. One that warrants fancy clothes and more composure than the Bad Omens boys could even dream about.

In their stupid, cocky frenzy, and the completely unnecessary urge to get shitfaced and pretend to be pro pool players, not a single person had vetoed. Now that I'm stood by a high table off towards the corner, entirely exposed in my strappy dress and sulking into my mocktail, I realize that I probably should have done just that. But it's too late for it now, I don't want to be a party pooper by just ditching them. And as my eyes cast across them I have to admit there's something weirdly enticing about watching my friends bend over the pool table in the most dramatic way possible only to completely miss the ball.

Oh god, no. I take that back, Jolly's making a show of it. There's not a single valid reason for him to have the ability to hitch his leg that far up and onto the table. Turning my head away, I grin into the all-too sweet beverage as Folio comments on the arch of his back.

"Five bucks says he fucks it up." Noah drawls from behind me, and I almost spit out my drink when I feel the fabric of his dress shirt land on my exposed shoulders. In a measly effort to remain composed, my free hand pulls it up towards my neck to get comfortable before humming a breathy reply. "I'm willing to bet he takes it as far as getting one of you and Nicholas's in."

He's giggling into the space beside my neck, his breath brushing across the tender skin, and I'm glad that the dim lighting hides the light flush on my cheeks. Setting his beer to the side, he wipes the condensation off on my shoulder before reaching it out for a handshake. "Bet."

I simply rumple my nose at the disrespect of having him do me like that before notching my chin up a bit, clasping his hand in mine and shaking it firmly. "Let's make that ten." the warmth in his eyes is underlined as he grins at me, shy and lopsided. As our hands remain intertwined for a smidge too long, I wonder if he smiles as softly at everybody as he does at me.

Standing off towards the side, all of my attention goes back to Jolly who's still perched precariously on the edge of the table and now goes as far as sticking his tongue out in made-up focus. With the grace of a disoriented squirrel, he manages to not miss the ball, and our little group watches in anticipation as it scatters off. Quickly and with impossible precision, the cue ball crosses the space, moves right past the striped one he was aiming for and hits a solid smack into the pocket.

Ruffilo doubles over laughing, and I follow quickly when I notice the enthusiasm drip off of the Swedes face and get replaced with utter horror. Between Matt and Ruffilo's laughter and the very insistent argument Nick is picking up with Jolly, I wordlessly reach a hand out and tap it against Noah's tummy. With a quiet huff of laughter, the man grabs his wallet, picks out a crisp tenner and presses it into my hand. "That has to have been witchcraft or some shit. There's not a single person in the world that's ever held a cue that could've messed that shot up this badly after all that anticipation."

"Well I wouldn't know." I offer absentmindedly, shuffling the money securely into my own wallet.

"What do you mean?" He turns to me now, drowning out the other's conversation as he rounds my body and places himself between me and the table. "What do you mean you wouldn't know?" the grin on Noah's face is almost manic, all too wide and toothy to be considered sincere. And with the only light fixture being behind his head, it's like I'm staring into complete darkness where his Irises are supposed to be.

He says my name once, low and insistent as he cages me in with a hand on my shoulder.

Giggling lightly, I shove him off with ease, rolling my eyes as the others turn and call out towards him to make his play. "I've never played pool, Noah. It's actually kind of boring. What's so unbelievable about that?"

Silence falls over the men behind him, aside from the quiet click of Bryans camera as he snaps a picture of the scene.

"Blasphemy." Nick's bellow breaks the precarious calm, grabbing his cue as he comes towards us. With both hands raised in the air, I take a step towards the wall to escape their conjoined wrath. Apparently—despite how bad they are at it—the boys take their pool really fucking seriously. Just as the leather tip reaches my cheek and paints a blue smudge over the skin, Noah reaches a hand out to stop it, seeing as I have nowhere to escape to.

"Matt." he turns briskly, still wide eyed and standing straighter than an army general. "I trust you, brother. You and Nick win this thing, I can't let this stand." with the finality of dropping a bomb, he turns back over to my designated table, grabs both of our forgotten drinks and then herds me over towards another, thankfully unclaimed, pool table.

Unsure of what to do with myself, I keep both hands at my sides, fidgeting with the long sleeves of his shirt as he sets up the table for us like a man on a mission. "So, uh…" taking a deep breath, I stand by his side "What kind of mission are you on right now, man?"

Noah looks at me like I'm dumb, casting a teasing glance towards my restless hands before patting my shoulder. "I actually don't believe you right now. You can't tag along to a place like this and not pretend to be good at pool. No way." and then he's shoved a cue into my hand, grabs me firmly by the waist and man-handles me to stand opposite of the set-up balls. "Go on, shoot."

I stay unmoving, cue in hand and no clue what to do with myself, but watching him lean back and observe as the others continue to yell and obsess over their own round takes away the stress, if only lightly. "No pressure, do what feels right and then we'll see about ways to get you some technique." Noah utters gently before tipping his beer at me and taking a long sip. Arching a brow, I watch him crumble and grin into his glass. Technique my ass. Without much more thought, I position the cue like the people on TV do, look down it to determine the angle in which I need to it the cue ball, and push forward.

The ball moves, even if it's not with the amount of vigor I'd been hoping for, and ultimately strikes the laid out triangle. My weak attempt makes me cringe, but Noah comes around to stand beside me without as much of a twitch in the corners of his mouth.

"That wasn't half bad." He states, staring down at the different balls and their changed positions. "Maybe try hitting the ball head on next time." — "Fuck you."

With a laugh and more condescension than is fair, he strolls behind me. And then his hand settles on my hip, his head lingers by the side of mine and I can practically feel the smirk he must be sporting right now. "You wish."

As infuriating as it is, all I can do is snap my mouth open and closed helplessly as he guides me around the table. With practiced ease, he picks up a cue of his own, coats the leather top into the weird blue powder and sets up to pocket his first ball for the night. Huffing in indignation, I collect myself before speaking with as much of a leveled voice as I can manage. "So your version of teaching me is absolutely destroying me to boost your ego?"

Leaning onto the wooden stick, I watch him step over to me slowly. He taps my cue with his teasingly as he bends his upper body down. Brown eyes twinkle lazily as he takes in my face, and I know that no amount of bad lighting could hide the color in my cheeks. A beat passes, one of the others is yelling at Jolly, and then it's all over. "Come on," he hums, straightening back up and studying the different positions of our balls. "As much as I'd enjoy obliterating you in this, I'll hold off until you get the basics for now."

Together, we take in the current situation of the table and Noah nods supportively when I show him the striped ball of my choosing. With uncannily gentle words, barely strong enough to be heard over the crappy speakers and loud chatter around us, he tells me exactly how to position my cue, leans over the table beside me to notch it into place before giving me the go ahead to down the ball. To nobody's surprise, I end up missing, but it's hard to stay disheartened when he puts on a show right after.

Noah lifts his leg comically, not unlike Jolly had done before, settling his cue up without much fuss and absolutely sending the cue ball. It flies with little to no grace, hopping lightly—and even I know that that's not something you'd usually want—before simply scattering a few of our balls without downing any into the pockets.

"Your turn." He grins proudly after wrestling his leg down, stumbling over to my side to help me figure out which one to pick. The balls are all laid out differently now, inter-spaced with some closer to pockets than others. Finding a good opening for myself, I allow him to help me line up my shot in the hopes of making at least one of the nearly perfectly placed balls land.

"Go for it," Noah hums somewhere behind me, both of our drinks already in hand and ready to be toasted together. Okay, no time to waste. The shot lands, the cue ball darts off and right towards the predestined point. After the impact, it skitters across and beautifully, gracefully and very gently nudges a second ball right towards the pocket.

Stunned, I stand straight, turning towards him as he hands me my beverage with a comical bow. Giggling lightly, we clink our glasses together in cheer. "See," he hums around a sip of his beer, "That wasn't so hard. Who knows, sooner or later you could be the one obliterating me."

Another giggle later, I slip out of the wide sleeves of his shirt again before rounding the table carefully. With more freedom in my movement, and less anxiety about taking up space in my bones, I let the length of my dress trail behind me as I search for an opening to make my next move. Vaguely, I hear the others in the back of the room, but my attention is solely on my play. And the sheer force of a single set of eyes as it follows my form round the table. Noah's still leaning on his cue, staring at me from across the room and I have half a mind to tease him for how focused he is on everything that isn't my face. But then he meets my eyes, visibly recoils, and cowers in on himself again.

I can't help but laugh at his bright red cheeks, teasingly biting my lower lip to mock him for gnawing on his. "Fuck you." he offers meekly as he focuses back onto the table.

"You wish." Ha, my turn fucker.

Taking pity on him, I choose a spot and bend down deeply to line up my next shot. Maybe a bit too deep, but some teasing never hurt anybody, did it? With more confidence than somebody with my skill level should probably have, I down two more of the striped balls, letting his eyes trail after me as I move. When it's Noah's turn, I make sure to end up right behind the ball he's trying to hit, one hip popped as I watch him think. Dark eyes flit up at my face more than they are on the ball, and I can't help but grin when he misses entirely.

In our little corner of the bar, there's no pressure to make any moves, nor is there real pressure to even win. So when my next shot doesn't line up quite like I'd hoped, and I don't see it working out for me, I turn to look at him again. "Could you help me with the placement? I don't actually have a clue what I'm doing". All he does is hum, and it hits me that some drunk fool just started singing and Noah probably can't hear me well. Taking a step over, I watch as he dips his chin lower, resting a hand on my side as he drops his head forward entirely. With his ear closer to me, I repeat my statement, and only when he leans back and leaves my shoulder cold in the absence of his breath do I see his teasing grin.

"You want my help so you can beat me? Dream on, kiddo."

As if he'd made the cocky statement simply for the love of the game, he motions for me to explain my thoughts, following me back to my chosen spot. Standing half at my side, halfway behind me, he reaches out to my right elbow to position my arm. I feel his warmth against me, the fabric of his reclaimed dress shirt brushes over my back, and his voice melts in my ears as he guides the cue in my hands. "Come on then." he rasps out, as if it's only meant for my ears and nobody elses, "Take the shot."

The warmth of his body leaves mine as he straightens back up, and I do take the shot before the urge to follow him up overwhelms me. Surprisingly enough, I make it. The ball lands, sending the other straight into the right pocket. Noah whistles appreciatively, and I high five him as I take his side.

"Looks like there's finally somebody good enough to replace Jolly and make it fun for us, is there?" Turning back, I catch a glimpse of the Swede right as his mouth falls wide open. With a dejected sigh, he raises his free hand to shoot Noah a middle finger, but the laughter of the surrounding crew seems to be enough to keep him from trying to defend himself.

"Is he really that bad?" With his next shot lined up already, all Noah does is huff lightly. Then, just as he lands another ball in the corner, his eyes shoot up from where he focused on the table to meet mine on the other side. The grin that spreads on his lips is teasing, turned more cheeky by the sharp angle of his face.

Noah straightens his back again lazily, and just when I think he's going to roast Jolly to hell and back, a cacophony of screams rings out from beside us. And then they break off, slowly but surely dipping into laughter. It's kind of cinematic, watching Jolly straighten up and stare at the grimy wall ahead of him like it holds the secret to his existence as the group around him collectively seems to be loosing their minds.

The movement of the men is erratic, a fast flurry of strewn up hands and manic laughter. Slowly but surely, with a shit-eating grin spread across his face, the singer saunters over and rests his hip on the pool table right beside me. "I'll take that as a yes." he giggles in response, watching as Folio re-enacts the events of the last minute to the still cackling group.

Jolly seems to get tired of the teasing rather quickly, running a hand down his face as he groans deeply. He mutters something about 'needing a smoke' and regardless of the fact that he doesn't actually do that, then begins to lead the others out of the building.

The questioning glance Ruffilo sends our way is met with a lazy shrug and a wave by Noah, and so the man grins teasingly before following the others out into the cool night. The room doesn't get any quieter without the group, not really. But for some reason, it's like we're drowning in the space between us as the rest of the world fades away into a distant, meaningless strum of a guitar.

And then the teasing picks right back up as Noah moves back around the table, and we start our game back up where we left it.

He grins lightly as my shot just so much as grazes the eight-ball, and I feel his eyes burning into me as I try to figure out where to go from here. There's two balls left, both far too close to either the eight-ball or one of Noah's.

In a brave, or maybe kind of stupid moment, I round the table and lean across it to line up my cue. Noah whistles somewhere off to the side, and just as I hear the clink of his glass returning to the table, I feel the unmistakable warmth of his body return to hover over my back. "Sure you can make that?" the grin he must be sporting bleeds through his words like a fatal shot, turning the warm timbre and teasing edge into a real, physical sensation that oozes from him in hot waves.

The cue in my hand falters just so long, slipping from my fingertips and landing on the table loosely. His warmth leaves my back, only for his hand to land on my hip in mock-support. "Take the shot."

My breath hitches in my throat at the touch, skin warming uncomfortably just where our bodies align. No matter how hard I try to refocus on the ball, the cue sits loosely in my hand as the world swims. A squeeze to my hip, long fingertips digging into the flesh beneath the thin fabric of my dress undoes me entirely. With a groan, I straighten up, and I can't ignore the proximity as my shoulder knocks back into Noah's chest.

Turning briskly, the apology dies on my tongue as my eyes find his. The usually deep brown is lit up like fire by the lighting that surrounds us. His expression is open, showing that he might be just as stunned by the proximity as I am. Mouth hung open just so, skin flushed by more than just the alcohol. Noah huffs a deep breath, flinching as his chest brushes against mine softly but not pulling back at the contact.

My empty hands twitch, some primal impulse to get closer to him. To take his hand, rise to my toes and just bridge the fucking gap. But then I watch his eyes widen another fraction and suddenly he's stepping back. Noah brings a hand to his neck loosely, rubbing across the shape of his tattoo there as his eyes wander across the space.

I don't say a word. Can't, really. But I stumble over to the table to steal a sip from his beer before returning to his side. Take the shot. It can't be that hard. Noah lingers by my side. His weight has shifted to create some semblance of distance between us, and I breathe deeply before finally picking up my cue to sink the ball. I blame it entirely on the poor layout when the shot doesn't land, grinning meekly as Noah raises a single brow in my direction in the most frustrating way imaginable.

"You go ahead and do it better, hm?" I snark, poking his foot with the end of my cue jokingly. And when he turns, I raise the wood to tap against his butt as well. He spins around to face me, mouth wide open and shock written so clearly on his face. And then his mouth dips, widening into a grin as slow huffs of laughter build in his chest.

"What was that?" I curse his stupidly long legs as he crosses the space between us in two long steps. The laughter that bubbles from his chest is so open, almost breathy as it underlines his shock and it's more instinct than anything else when I back around the table with a nervous giggle of my own.

Before I even know it, before I've taken as much as three steps away from him and cursed myself for being so bold, Noah's hands reach for my sides and turn me back towards him. His skin is hot, flushed by both the warmth of the room and the alcohol, and I make it a point to stare at his chest stubbornly. Even after the long night and murky interior of the bar, the smell of his cologne is clearer than ever, overwhelming me as he holds me impossibly close. I can't hear his heartbeat, it's physically impossible in our surroundings, but I feel it thrum through me like a bass drum in it's intensity. Words spill from my mouth before I can stop them, and then Noah dips his head towards me again.

I feel his hum radiate towards me more than I hear it, but the question in it is unmissable. The words were quick witted, too bold for me to hold on to the guts to say them. "I said you should take a shot as bold as that and dream of making it."

For a moment, everything falls quiet as he turns to look into my eyes. My thoughts are racing through my head at lightning-speed as I muster him, and it all feels like the world is exploding. His chest is too close, and yet not close enough. Warm hands hold onto my waist steadily, long fingers basically intertwining on my bare skin. And then one of them traces a way upwards, trailing beneath my hair and towards my back.

"Are you asking what I think you're asking?" The light tilt of his voice is breathy, caught up with nerves as he speaks the words right against my lips, and I can't help but press towards his chest further. It had been there all night, then. In his gentle guidance, the teasing and joking and complete lack of pressure.

I'd like to say something, but all that I can manage is a quick nod before a wide, toothy smile breaks out on his face again. The glint in his dark eyes is teasing again, a literal fire sparking within from the flickering lights behind me. Noah's handsome, somehow even more now in the dim lighting. My face draws closer, angling upwards just the slightest bit to stay aligned with his. Brown eyes dip from mine towards my mouth, and then suddenly there's no more thoughts at all.

It's only the overwhelming urge to take the shot, to slide up on my tiptoes and meet him halfway. To settle whatever strange dance we'd been at all night and to make sure it sticks. And so I do it, and I feel his heart race against mine and his breath get swallowed up and then his lips are on mine. Gentle, at first, as if a kiss as breathy as ours isn't as real or meaningful and we can still go back after it's said and done. And then I feel Noah smile against me, feel his fingertips dig into my skin and drag me closer.

It's real, this kiss of ours.

He's warm and slow and still smiling by the time I reach up to the side of his face to drag him even closer. Turning lightly, I allow Noah to guide me over towards the pool table, leaning against the polished wood as he deepens the kiss further. Mouths falling open just so, his tongue darts out towards mine. The smell of his cologne is sweet, fabricated into something so heady by my brain as it overlaps with the bitter remnants of his beer on both of our lips. My free hand reaches out, steadying myself against his broad chest.

Noah doesn't pull away, not immediately. Warm eyes meet mine again, and my fingertip runs over the anxious crick between his upturned brows soothingly. It's not until I've risen up to press absentminded kisses along his cheek and jaw that he relaxes again. And so we're us, just the way we always are.

"Take the shot then, I don't think you're too shabby."

ik this is so off brand of me but urgh i js had to get this off my chest before i implode w the knowledge that i did this lmao

not sure if i'll ever be struck by the urge to write for noah / bad omens but i am very obviously always down for ideas or reqs or whatever js hit my line lol

also i need to start shortening them with b.o it's so cutie patootie looking

hope this isn't crazy or stupid or anything

“Imagine if you caught the bouquet,” Natalie snickered, throwing you a shit-eating grin through the mirror as she reapplied her mascara while you washed your hands in the sink. “Noah would lose his shit.” 

Rolling your eyes at your best friend’s remark, you tried to keep your focus on the soap you’re lathering, on the bubbles your hands were producing way more than necessary, on the grey marbled sink, on literally anything to make you ignore the familiar warmth creeping up your cheeks. 

For once, you hoped your blush makeup had concealed it enough for her to notice. 

“How long has it been? Two years? Bro’s still hung up on you, I swear. Bryan said he couldn’t even find–”

“Cut it out, Nat,” you interjected, groaning as you finally rinsed and dried your hands with a paper towel. “Please don’t make things awkward.”

“Hey, I’m just stating facts!” She smirked, raising her hands in surrender, obviously trying (and failing miserably) to keep herself from teasing you further. 

“Then I don’t wanna hear it,” you muttered while narrowing your eyes at your giggling best friend. “You guys promised me you won’t make it weird if I came.”

Natalie snorted. “Then you certainly don’t wanna know about the bet they’ve been doing since your ex went stiff like a tree when you…” she paused, smirking as she slightly faced you to look at you from head to toe. “…when you walked in looking like that earlier.”

“What?”

“Nothing,” she sing-songed, dropping her mascara tube back to her vanity pouch. “I was just saying, you’re making some heads turn, babe. And a certain someone is surely not liking it.”

“Natalie–”

“Let’s go; I think they’re serving dinner soon!”

Groaning, you followed her out of the washroom and back to the hall where Nicholas’ and Nadine’s wedding reception would be held in a bit. 

A few weeks ago, the thought of dressing up for one of your closest friends’ wedding never crossed your mind. It was still fresh in your memory how you sent your regrets to Nick’s invitation, despite his thoughtful personal delivery of the textured blue envelope with a gold ‘N&N’ stamp to your doorstep. As an advanced planner, you had already made your decision even before you got the chic linen paper in your hands— even before confirming that he would actually want you there after everything. 

Who in their right mind would invite their best man's ex-girlfriend to their wedding, anyway? 

Yeah, no one. No one but Nicholas Ruffilo. 

Sure, you were all friends before things went south, but was inviting you to their momentous occasion really worth the trouble? Save for a few inevitable meetups, you successfully stayed away from almost all of them over the last two years. What difference would it make if you came now?

Despite these questions running through your head, Nicholas was insistent. Annoyingly, at that matter, like his life depended on it. Therefore, after all his persuasion tactics and with Natalie promising you so many tempting favors in exchange (you swore those two were conniving), you eventually gave in. 

What’s the worst thing that could happen, anyway? It’s not like your ex would deliberately corner you and make you uncomfortable on his best friend’s wedding day, right?

Besides, it would be nice to reunite with everyone after two long years. The thought of catching up with the boys rather than just hearing unsolicited updates from Natalie— who started dating their photographer— sounded enticing, despite the setup you knew you’d be in.

So after days of contemplation, you RSVPed ‘Yes’ on the condition that none of your friends pull any moves to make you uncomfortable in the presence of your ex-boyfriend. You wrote those exact words on the response card that you sent back to the groom. To which he happily agreed and even promised to keep Folio on a leash throughout the event. Nick made a mental note to assign that task to Jolly and Davis.

And here you were, a couple of weeks later, all dolled up and clad in a navy blue maxi dress, walking beside Natalie towards the rest of the boys, who all looked dapper as Nick’s entourage. Sitting at your assigned table were your old friends Vince, Jolly, Folio, Bryan, and Davis in their color-coordinated suits and ties. You couldn’t help but tease them earlier for looking so out of character in such formal attire compared to their usual all-black alternative outfits. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve surely mistaken them for men who worked 9 to 5 in corporate.

You chuckled at the thought, and as if right on cue, Folio turned his head your way and greeted you with his signature mischievous grin. It was the same annoying grin he had been throwing at you since the ceremony began— since your ex, who also looked as uncharacteristically sharp as they all did (especially with his overgrown hair slicked back and his shirt collar hugging his inked neck), stood beside Ruffilo at the altar earlier.

“Hey, neighbor, sit next to me,” Folio called enthusiastically like a golden retriever, tapping the empty seat to his left. As much as you wanted to be with Natalie, her boyfriend Bryan had already saved her a spot between him and Jolly. 

You narrowed your eyes at the drummer, your gaze moving from the seat he was offering to the other empty chair beside it, which had a black suit jacket draped over its backrest. 

Seeing how the boys at your table had theirs on, you were not stupid not to piece it together and tell who was (and would soon be) occupying the other seat next to yours.

So much for not making things awkward, huh.

“Nick, just stop whatever you’re planning,” you groaned.

“Have I told you how glad I am to see you tonight?” Your younger friend ignored your remark and practically pulled you down next to him, wrapping his arm around your shoulders and squeezing you against his side. “I was so excited when I knew you were coming! Noah was— ow! What did I do?”

Before he could even continue, you swatted his arm with your purse, making the other guys chuckle at your antics. Just like the old times.

–

If it wasn’t obvious enough, you, Folio, and the rest of the boys were once part of a tightly-knit circle bound by the same taste in music and hobbies. 

That was until you had to date one of them for seven years, and unfortunately, break up with the said guy and eventually with the rest of the group. 

You knew from the start it was a package deal. The guys had been friends for so long before you came, so it was just appropriate for them to be on Noah’s side when you separated.

Noah.

Noah Sebastian Davis.

Lead singer of a now-popular metalcore band you once witnessed struggle and grow.

Tall, charming, heavily tattooed, with a perfect nose and cute smile, now with thousands of girls throwing themselves at his feet.

The guy who could sing you a lullaby to sleep one moment and growl like a man possessed in the next.

The guy who used to hold your heart around those long tattooed fingers.

The guy you once thought of as your endgame. 

Well, everyone else did. Even your grumpy work supervisor back then, who always complained about that one tattooed ‘Asian white boy’ ‘loitering’ in the shop all day, silently rooted for the two of you. 

You and Noah met in your late teens, back when Bad Omens was still barely getting out of Folio’s garage, a few years before they released their first LP. You used to work part-time at a coffee shop across the tattoo parlor where Ruffilo apprenticed, so you earned yourself a couple of new regulars after their group made it a habit to rendezvous at the shop to discuss band stuff or just to hang out. You clicking with the long-haired guys covered in tattoos and piercings was a no-brainer. Growing up with an older brother who used to lead a mediocre metal garage band made it easy for you to connect with their music taste and other interests. It was also an advantage that you lived on the same street as Folio, so you’d easily get invited to their band practices and dive bar gigs. 

It was all fun and platonic until two years later, the tallest among them had to ruin it and start showing interest in dating you.

Noah tried to be subtle at first. He would send you random text messages that you were sure he sent to everyone else, which he later admitted were only sent to you. He would tend to come alone to the coffee shop during your shift, casually chatting you up while pretending to be waiting for Nicholas (even during those times when you knew Nick went home to Virginia; you just played along). He would randomly appear at your favorite salad stop during your break, making awkward excuses like he was in the area or Nick or Vince sent him on a salad run (even though it’s a known fact in the group that the aforementioned guys had an aversion to vegetables). Every night out or gig, Noah always made sure he had an excuse to be the one to drive you home, countless times not even allowing your neighbor Folio to come with. And in every hangout, he always had your favorite snacks on hand, while not even bothering to get anything for his other friends.

With those, among so many things, it didn’t take the rest of the guys too long to decipher his feelings towards you. 

And once they did, it was pure chaos that the then 21-year-old frontman had to prematurely confess to you after their set at Chain Reaction (RIP) one spring night. 

It was peer pressure at its finest, you couldn’t help but gush at how Noah rambled nervously like a schoolboy talking to his crush for the first time. Funny and endearing– certainly not what your lanky long-haired friend was aiming for. 

To his (and the rest of your friends’) delight, his feelings were happily reciprocated. It would be hard not to when you had been on the receiving end of Noah’s kindheartedness, his silly antics, his thoughtful acts of service, and his overall protectiveness. Not to mention his terrible flirting skills that always left you cringing and blushing at the same time. And to top it off, the guy was eye candy despite Natalie describing him as ‘too thin and tall like a praying mantis’.  

How your best friend had to shut up when Noah finally got buffed a few years later was forever etched in your memory. 

So, the 20-year-old you took the risk and went on a series of dates with Noah Davis. Your friendship was at stake; you knew that. But in your defense, you never thought your relationship would go seriously far; you were sure it would be over by the next weekend. And in no time, you’d be back to just being friends again, casually hanging out with the other guys at the coffee shop or Folio’s garage. 

But you and Noah morphed organically. The two of you became inseparable and hopelessly in love that after a few months of dating, you did not hesitate to make it official. And just before marking your first anniversary as a couple, you moved with him and the rest of the guys to LA, with you and Noah sharing a small one-bedroom apartment. 

In your second year, Bad Omens released their second album. It was in the same year that they started to get more attention and obtain an even wider audience reach. They started touring with bigger bands across the US and overseas, and in no time, their traction grew exponentially. 

Young and in love, the two of you tried to live your life together and separately at the same time. As more shows and touring opportunities opened up for the band, you were also starting to build a career you were happy with. While Noah would miss your company whenever he’s on the road, not once did he ever think of asking you to drop everything to be with him 24/7. Sure, you lived on the same roof, acting like a married couple. But you also had your life, and he had his own. 

You were pretty much happy with your arrangement. Both of you allowed each other to chase your own dreams without affecting your relationship. At the very least, you made sure you had time for each other despite everything. Month-long tours were almost nonstop, so you’d set aside a week or two to be with your boyfriend on the road. Noah, on the other hand, always got himself a non-negotiable minimum of 1 month break to come home to you before hopping into another long grind.

That became your routine for a couple of years– your normal. Your time apart surely tested your relationship, but like soulmates in a Hallmark movie, things always worked out for the two of you.

Until it didn’t. 

After the pandemic, Bad Omens started headlining shows and selling out venues left and right. Noah, in particular, had become so sought after that he slowly started to become… absent. 

At first, the unanswered texts, missed calls, and coming home late were understandable. He was just overwhelmed with the hustle from his newfound fame, you thought. You were lenient and considerate enough to give him time to adjust. This was his dream after all. You knew he would do the same for you.

But then it happened again and again that the alarms in your head just started blaring from every corner. Despite the countless apologies and promises to do better, the situation worsened to the point that he would miss important occasions. Noah had let his rockstar life consume him that his supposedly “non-negotiable” month-long breaks with you were cut short to two weeks, and during those weeks, he would still be cooped up in the other guys’ house producing their next hits, planning tours, brainstorming merch designs, and whatnot.

Save for the occasional dinner dates and sex, it was as if you never even existed.

Doubts had long been plaguing your head, but still, you tried to understand. That’s your Noah; he’d come around eventually– you tried to make yourself believe that.

But then came the night when you finally had enough. 

It was your birthday, and the day started nicely with Noah making you your favorite breakfast after making love with you at 7 in the morning. You blushed profusely like a teenager when he’d drawn you a bath and surprised you right after with a big bouquet of roses on the bed and a gift box containing a new dress and a diamond necklace with a note saying, ‘Can’t wait to see you in this for our date tonight. Happy birthday, my love.’

For the rest of the day, it was just impossible to wipe that giddy smile off your face. 

Everything finally felt right. It was as if the sweet, lanky, non-famous Noah Davis from Richmond, Virginia, with the wolf-cut hair, had finally returned home to you. 

For the first time in a long time, your heart was happy. 

But as hours passed and it was finally time for your scheduled dinner date, your chest gradually felt heavy, and you started wishing Noah were sincere enough to at least let you keep that happiness until your day ended… to let you pretend things between you were fine, even just on your special day.

Because clad in your new elegant black dress, you were buzzing with excitement when you entered the restaurant he had booked for your intimate dinner.

Because you were very much looking forward to having your boyfriend again, all to yourself, after he had spent the whole afternoon at the studio. On your own birthday.

Because you didn’t expect your nerves to creep in when 30 minutes had passed and there was still no sign of Noah Sebastian— no ounce of decency to send you a text or call to tell you he was running late.

Because the 30 minutes of waiting dragged on to an hour that the servers started looking at you sympathetically; you couldn’t gauge if the public humiliation was worse than the heavy feeling weighing down your chest.

Because as you finished your wine and placed a $100 bill on the table when you decided to leave, your worry surprisingly did not turn into anger, but disappointment— disappointment in Noah for tonight and all the other empty promises he made, and disappointment in yourself, most especially, for still believing things between you could still get better. 

Because for the first time since he started drifting away, you cried yourself to sleep, not because of him, but because of you and how much you were to blame for letting the situation get this far.

So after seven long years, you finally made the hard decision to let him go. It was high time to set Noah free into a life with no burdens, with no you to worry about and hold him back. 

You didn’t cry when you talked to him the next morning, not even when he didn’t say anything other than a quiet ‘I’m sorry.’

You didn’t cry when you started packing up almost a decade of your life from every corner of your shared house, with him not even attempting to stop you.

You didn’t cry when you hung your house keys on your designated hook beside his for the last time.

You didn’t cry when you started driving away from the familiar neighborhood… and from the man that you could no longer call home.

Tears only blurred your vision and started trickling down your cheeks when you drove by a random taco truck. 

Because memories of you and Noah grabbing your first dinner in LA came flooding back: two ambitious young adults freshly out of Virginia exploring the downtown plaza hand in hand, with nary a care in the world— no thoughts about tours, fans, or the pressure from record labels just yet; you being dragged by your tall ass boyfriend in front of the Mexican food truck because it’s the only thing he could afford that time, and your only concern was you couldn’t choose between the soft and hard shell tacos; you stealing a bite off his soft tacos as he bit off your hard ones; him placing a sloppy kiss on your cheek with his breath disgustingly smelling like cilantro. 

‘I love you so much, I’d get you one of these taco trucks when I’m rich.’

‘Wow, are you gonna make me sell tacos while your band gets to see the world?’

‘Nah, you’re coming with me when our music finally gets us to places we’ve never been… And when we’ve made it big, I’ll buy us a house with many rooms and a backyard for our kids to play around.’

‘And who said I want snotty little babies with you?’

‘I know you do, because you love me.’

Fat tears streamed down your face at the memory as you pressed on the gas pedal. 

You had so many questions you wanted to ask him, but what difference would they have made? 

You knew it was a losing fight from the beginning, but you still took the risk. It was impossible to compete when you’re up against none other than his biggest dream.

You just wished he cared enough to realize that he never had to choose between you and his career in the first place.

–

Heaving out a sigh, you settled in your seat beside Folio and just hoped for the best. 

Thankfully, your ex decided to stay and catch up with Nicholas’ family throughout the dinner service, so you were able to talk freely with the guys. Your heart warmed with their stories of how much they had accomplished over the past two years. You had read the news and seen the trending videos online, but you still couldn’t stop your eyes from welling up when you finally heard from them how they sold out arenas across the country and overseas. 

Noah finally got what he had long deserved after all. 

A part of you wished you could tell him how proud you were of him.

A part of you wondered if things would be different if you didn’t let him go.

Folio wolf-whistling on your side snapped you out of your thoughts. 

Brows furrowed, you glanced at him and mouthed ‘what?’

He just smirked in response as his focus moved towards the stage area, where a very familiar, tall, tattooed guy in a crisp grey dress shirt now stood awkwardly in front of a microphone stand, smiling sheepishly as if he didn’t pick up one for a living. His long sleeves were now rolled up to his elbows, perfectly showing his fully decorated forearms.

After all this time, Noah was still hunched like a shrimp, looking like he wanted to look smaller, as though he wanted to hide or run away from everyone’s line of sight. 

His eyes briefly met yours before he cleared his throat, making you snort internally. Two years ago, you would’ve annoyingly sung ‘Dear Maria, Count Me In’ to him after hearing that. 

But sadly, all you could do now was swallow nervously as you averted your gaze and decided to glare at your seatmate instead, who was throwing you his signature grin that screamed nothing but mischief.

“Oh, shut up, Nick,” you muttered before taking a small sip of your cold water.

“I haven’t said anything.” The drummer giggled quietly beside you.

It did not take long for Noah to start talking, and you swore you tried your best to drown his voice out with your own thoughts. Instead of listening to how he spoke about his and Ruffilo’s childhood, you tried thinking about your cats at home and if the automatic feeder had dispensed their dinner. Instead of paying attention to how Noah knew Nadine was the one for Nick, you tried to daydream about your upcoming trip to Bali– about the nice villa you booked, the pristine beaches, the warm weather, the sun finally kissing your skin. 

You tried to let your thoughts wander from your pending work deliverables, to your next meal plan, to the hot gym guy you had been crushing on– anything to cancel the noise coming out of your ex’s mouth.

If only it weren’t rude, you would’ve put on your AirPods and had Will Ramos’ squeals usher you into oblivion. 

But fate did not seem to be on your side as Noah said his parting words at the very same time your brain deliberately stopped thinking of anything else to further distract you. 

“Cheers to Nick and Nadine,” he said, a little bit more enthusiastic than his usual self as a smile danced around the corners of his mouth. 

And just when you thought it was over, your ex-boyfriend huffed and pursed his lips before uttering his next words slowly, as if wishing worms would not get out of the can if he were careful enough.

“What you two have is… is something… I… I wish I still had for myself...”

Swallowing, you stiffened in your seat as your heart started hammering against your ribcage. Your eyes trailed towards Noah’s face, now adorned with his signature tight-lipped smile that instantly activated your fight-or-flight response. With brows slightly furrowed, you blinked away and glanced at the groom, who sensed your unease but could only give you an apologetic smile. And as if everyone else shared the same brain cells, the whole table’s eyes were on you, Folio giving your wrist a gentle squeeze.

The words rang in your ears as your chest tightened.

Something I wish I still had for myself.

I wish I still had for myself…

I wish I still had…

You wanted to scoff hard at your ex’s stupid face.

How could he say that when a whole lot of Nick’s guests knew you two used to be together? When he knew that you, his ex-girlfriend of seven years whom he promised to build a life with, were there listening to him stutter those words out? 

As Noah ended his speech with everyone raising their glasses, you found yourself standing up– carelessly for that matter– feeling the sudden need for fresh air.

“Um… I’ll be right back,” you mumbled to no one in particular before you hurried your way out of the hall towards the adjacent veranda. 

You dryly laughed to yourself as you pushed past strangers and acquaintances alike to get to the ballroom exit. 

How silly of you to believe this whole time that it was Folio whom Nick needed to put a leash on.

###

You didn’t move for a while, staying beneath the linen sheets, your white nightdress loose against your skin, the pale fabric creased from restless hours.

Your chamber was as it always was, orderly and composed, its high ceilings framed with carved wood. The walls were dressed in soft ivory and pale blue, the colors chosen not by you, but for you. A vanity table was near the far wall, its surface neat and polished, a silver brush resting precisely where it had been placed the night before.

A wardrobe stood closed, its contents carefully arranged: corsets, gowns, fabrics chosen more for appearance than comfort, because sometimes a corset meant that even the simplest actions, like walking, breathing, or merely existing, became harder than they should be.

Everything was in its place. Everything was still inside.

But your gaze drifted, slowly, inevitably, toward the window.

The curtains had been left slightly parted, just enough for the morning light to slip through in thin, golden lines. Beyond them, the world stretched open and alive, because the port, that even at this hour, was already awake.

Ships stood anchored in the harbor, their tall masts cutting into the pale sky. Smaller boats moved between them, their oars dipping into the water, carrying goods, messages and people.

You could almost hear all its noise from here. The distant shouts of sailors. The dull thud of crates being unloaded. The call of gulls circling overhead, sharp and a bit annoying. Somewhere, faintly, the clang of metal against wood.

Life.

Messy. Loud. Unpredictable.

Free.

A thin line of sunlight caught the surface of the sea, scattering across it in fractured gold.

Your fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the sheet.

From here, it looked so close.

Close enough that you could trace the movement of the ships. Close enough that you could imagine, just for a moment, what it would feel like to stand there instead. To step onto one of the ships to leave.

But distance was a deceptive thing. Because between you and that water stood walls, expectations and promises that had been made long before you had any say in them.

Your eyes lingered on the horizon.

The moment didn't last long because a soft knock sounded at the door, gentle enough, and though it did not startle you, it pulled you back into the room all the same.

You let out a quiet breath before speaking.

“Come in.”

The handle slowly turned, and the door opened just enough to allow Mary to slip inside, closing it behind her with the same quiet precision. She carried a silver tray in both hands, its polished surface catching the morning light as she crossed the room toward you.

Mary had been part of the household for years, long enough that her presence no longer felt like that of a servant but rather part of the family, or at least, a friend. She was composed, always neatly presented, her dark hair pinned back beneath a modest cap, her dress simple yet impeccably kept.

She set the tray carefully on the small table beside your bed before turning to you, her hands folding neatly in front of her.

Breakfast.

It was, as always, more than necessary.

A porcelain teapot was still steaming faintly, accompanied by a matching cup and saucer; slices of fresh bread arranged with care, a small dish of butter set beside them; a pot of jam, and a plate of fruit.

You pushed yourself up slightly against the pillows, moving some stands of hair away from your face with your hand, your gaze flickering from the tray to her.

“Mary,” you began with a little smile, “I’ve told you before, I don’t want breakfast in bed.” There was no sharpness in your tone, “I would rather have it at the table, when I’m ready. With you.”

Mary did not look surprised. If anything, she seemed to have expected it.

“I know, miss,” she replied gently, her hands still clasped together, “you’ve said so many times.”

There was the faintest pause before she continued, choosing her words with care.

“But a maid does not take breakfast with you.”

You exhaled softly, and before you could respond, however, Mary seemed to remember something.

“Oh,” she added, her expression shifting ever so slightly, “a letter arrived for you this morning.”

Your attention returned to her immediately. “From whom?”

Mary smiled, because she knew you were always happy to receive letters from your friend. “From Rosaline.”

The moment the name left her lips, something in you shifted and you immediately felt lighter.

“Rosaline!” you repeated.

Mary gave a small nod, as she reached into the pocket of her apron and carefully retrieved the letter, holding it out toward you.

You took it without hesitation.

The paper was slightly worn at the edges, marked by its journey. You had met Rosaline years ago, during one of your travels with your father, back when the world had still felt wide open, and your life had not yet been confined to the walls of Port Everleigh.

Your father had been an explorer, a man who belonged more to the sea than to any one place, and after your mother’s death, so early that you had no memory of her at all, you had become his only constant companion. Wherever his journeys took him, you followed. You had seen cities that did not sleep, markets overflowing with colors and voices you could barely understand, coastlines untouched and vast, stretching further than the eye could reach. You had learned early how to adapt, how to observe, how to read maps, calculate coordinates, and how to find wonder in the unfamiliar.

And then, there had been Saint Marlowe. It had not been your father’s destination, only a stop along the way, a place to resupply and to rest before continuing further across the sea.

The streets were alive, buildings rose in soft colors sun-faded by years of salt air, their windows open to let in the breeze, their balconies draped with fabrics that moved gently with the wind. Music could be heard at nearly any hour, drifting from open doors and crowded squares, blending with laughter and the murmur of conversation

Small shops lined the streets, like bakeries spilling the scent of fresh bread into the air, stalls crowded with fruit and spices, tailors and craftsmen working with their doors wide open as if inviting the world inside. Beyond the busier roads, nature was never far; narrow paths led to stretches of green, to gardens left to grow a little wild, and to cliffs where the land gave way to the sea, the horizon vast and untouched.

That was where you had met your friend.

Rosaline was your age, she had spoken easily, as though you had known each other for years rather than moments, and before long, she had taken it upon herself to show you the city.

You had stayed only a short time, as you always did, yet it had been enough to appreciate that beautiful land.

When you left, you had not expected to see her again.

But the letters had started not long after.

The letters had begun not long after you left Saint Marlowe, and somehow, despite the distance, despite the years that had passed, the two of you had never truly lost touch.

You unfolded the letter carefully, your eyes moving across the familiar handwriting.

Rosaline told you about a cat she had found wandering into her garden, and then spoke of a man she had met. She had known him for a week, no more, and yet she claimed to be madly in love with him.

You found yourself smiling a little more at that.

It was so like her.

You had not even reached the final lines when Mary’s voice broke gently through your thoughts.

“You are to meet Sir Whitmore today, are you not?”

The words were not sharp, nor unkind, and yet you felt the warmth of the letter slipping through your fingers.

Your smile faded, though slowly, as your gaze lingered on the page for just a moment longer before you finally lowered it.

“Yes,” you answered, your voice quieter now, more distant than before. “I am to go to him this afternoon.”

Mary watched you carefully, her expression unreadable for a brief second before she tilted her head slightly.

“And you are not pleased?”

You let out a breath that felt heavier than it should have, your fingers folding the letter with more care than necessary before setting it down beside you.

“Pleased?” you repeated, you tone sharper now. “For what, exactly?”

There was a pause, and then, more plainly...

“For the prospect of marrying a man I do not love?” you continued, meeting her gaze now. “No, Mary. I am not.”

Mary hesitated, as though weighing her response, before speaking again, her voice still gentle, though more insistent this time.

“But he is the governor,” she said. “Sir Whitmore is a man of standing, of wealth… of power. There are many who would consider such a match—”

“A privilege?” you finished for her, a faint, humorless smile touching your lips.

She did not deny it.

You shook your head slightly, looking away for a moment, your gaze drifting back toward the window, toward the distant line of the sea that still called to you in ways you could not quite explain. You wanted to leave, you wanted to travel, to see the world again, to live.

“It does not matter what he is,” you said after a moment, more quietly now, but no less certain. “If I do not love him, I do not love him. And no amount of power or wealth will change that.”

Now, the silence felt heavier.

When Sir Edward Whitmore, the governor of the city, had first declared himself to you, you had not given him the answer everyone had expected. Instead, to the scandal of almost every person present, you had simply said that you would think about it, as though such a proposal could be weighed like any ordinary decision, as though your entire future were not meant to be decided in a single breath.

You had been told, again and again, how fortunate you were, how amazing it was for a man of such wealth and influence to choose you, how foolish it would be to refuse something so advantageous, as if love had ever been part of the equation they cared about. And so, in the days that followed, every voice around you had pressed the same conclusion into your ears, until even your doubts began to sound unreasonable, until refusal itself started to feel like defiance for its own sake. In the end, you had said yes.

And the moment you had, it had not felt like relief, but rather like something quietly closing around you, like a door shutting with no sound at all, leaving you standing on the wrong side of a life you had not chosen.

That afternoon, you prepared yourself with more care than you felt. A dress had been chosen for you in soft tones, neither too loud nor too plain, the fabric falling gracefully on you. The bodice was fitted but not uncomfortably tight, and the skirt flowed around you in gentle layers that moved with each step you took. Your hair had been carefully gathered and pinned back, the strands smoothed and braided before being secured in a simple, refined arrangement that left your neck exposed and your expression more composed than you felt inside.

You did not linger in front of the mirror longer than necessary.

When you arrived at Sir Whitmore’s residence, you immediately recognized it. It stood larger than most, its stone façade was clean and framed by tall windows that reflected the afternoon light. The door was opened after only a brief pause, as though your arrival had been expected long before you reached it.

Then, Sir Whitmore appeared, dressed with precision, every detail of him carefully maintained, as though even a single misplaced thread would be an imperfection too great to allow. His coat was dark and finely tailored, his cravat tied with practiced elegance, and his gloves immaculate, though he removed one as he stepped forward to greet you. His posture was upright and controlled.

“Sir Whitmore,” you greeted him politely, inclining your head.

A faint pause followed, as if he were unused to such formality from you.

“Edward,” he corrected smoothly, though not unkindly. “You will be my wife soon enough. There is no need for titles between us.”

For a fleeting second, something sharp almost rose to your lips, something dangerously close to Don’t remind me, but you swallowed it before it could take shape, the corners of your mouth tightening just slightly instead.

Instead, you only gave a small, controlled nod.

He stepped aside to let you in.

The interior of his home matched its exterior in every way, refined and expensive, filled with polished wood, soft carpets and clean furniture. You were guided into a sitting room where a low table had already been prepared, a fine porcelain tea set arranged neatly upon it.

A maid entered shortly after, carrying a tray, but as she poured the tea, her fingers trembled ever so slightly, the cup clinking faintly against its saucer.

Edward’s gaze sharpened almost immediately.

“Careful,” he said, his tone low and cold, without raising his voice.

The maid flinched.

You, however, offered her a gentle nod as she finished, “Thank you.”

Edward’s attention returned to you as the tea was served properly, the silence between you settling again as the door closed behind the maid.

For a moment, there was only the quiet sound of porcelain.

“Preparations for the wedding will begin soon,” he said at last.

“I’ve heard,” you replied.

His gaze lingered on you.

“Is there anything in particular you would like?” he asked. “For the ceremony, the arrangements… anything at all.”

You hesitated only briefly, though not because you were considering possibilities, but because none of them truly mattered to you.

“No,” you said at last, without much emotion. “I don’t think so.”

Something flickered in his expression, subtle enough that most would not have noticed, but you did. Still, he said nothing.

Instead, your eyes drifted away from him, slowly taking in the room once more. And then your gaze caught on something that interrupted the symmetry of it all.

A large map of the world hung on one of the walls.

It was old enough to feel lived-in, yet carefully preserved, its surface marked with faint lines, ports, and distant lands.

“May I look at it?” you asked, setting your teacup down with care.

Edward seemed momentarily surprised, as though the request were unexpected.

“Mm… of course,” he replied after a brief pause.

You rose from your seat and moved toward the wall. Up close, the map was even more detailed, the continents marked, the seas filled with names and routes.

Edward followed you a few moments later, stopping just behind and slightly to your side, watching as your gaze traced across it.

Without thinking too much about it, you lifted a hand and pointed.

“I would like to go here,” you said, tracing a distant coastline far beyond the familiar routes of Port Everleigh. Then your hand shifted slightly, moving across the painted ocean. “And here.”

Edward’s eyes followed your gesture, though his expression remained carefully neutral, as though he were observing something mildly unusual rather than genuinely intrigued.

You moved again, more certain now, your finger tapping different regions.

“I have been here,” you said, a faint softness entering your voice despite yourself. “It was… very beautiful.” Your hand shifted once more, sliding across the map with less enthusiasm this time. “Here, though, there was not much worth remembering.”

Edward gave a small, almost absent nod.

“Hm,” he murmured. “I suppose that is often the case with distant places. They rarely live up to expectation.”

It was not unkind, but it was detached. Still, you did not stop.

Your finger hovered over another stretch of sea, a place marked with fewer routes, fewer names, the ink lighter as though even the cartographer had been uncertain.

“I have never sailed through these waters,” you said.

“Well, those seas,” he said, after a brief pause, “are known to be infested with pirates.”

There was a quiet finality in his tone, as if that alone should end any further curiosity.

You turned your head slightly toward him.

“Pirates?” you repeated.

A faint, humorless exhale left him.

“Brutal men,” he continued. “Lawless. Violent. They take what they want and leave nothing but ruin behind them.”

You listened, and then, after a brief pause, you said quietly, “Maybe they simply want to be free.”

After a moment of silence, Edward let out a short laugh.

“You think so?” he said, tilting his head slightly as he looked at you properly for the first time since you had begun speaking. “You believe men who burn ships and rob the King just... want to be free?”

There was a faint edge of ridicule beneath his words now, and you decided it was better not to add anything else.

Then he shook his head slightly, almost imperceptibly.

“You have spent too much time in the wrong places,” he said at last.

You didn’t speak, and your eyes returned to the map instead, lingering on the sea.

When you got back home, the night came quietly as the hours passed and the last of the daylight faded completely from the sky.

You stood near the bed as Mary moved about the room, finishing the small, familiar tasks that marked the end of your day. The heavier layers of your dress had already been set aside, replaced by your simple nightdress, far more comfortable than anything you had worn that afternoon. Your hair, once carefully pinned and arranged, now fell freely down your back, loose strands brushing gently against your shoulders.

You preferred it this way, there was a relief in it.

Mary adjusted the covers before stepping back, her hands smoothing the fabric with care.

For a moment, she said nothing.

Then, glancing toward you, she asked, “Was it… a pleasant meeting with Sir Whitmore?”

There was something cautious in the way she said it, as though she already suspected the answer and yet hoped to be proven wrong.

You moved toward the bed, slipping beneath the covers without much thought, settling into the familiar space as you reached for the book resting on your bedside table.

“I wouldn't call it pleasant,” you replied.

Mary did not move.

“Be serious,” she said after a moment, her tone gentle but insistent.

You paused only briefly before opening the book, your eyes dropping to the page.

“I am,” you answered, just as simply.

The meeting had been exactly what it was meant to be.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Mary seemed to consider pressing further, but in the end, she did not. Instead, she gave a small nod to herself, as though accepting an answer, before stepping back toward the door.

“Good night, miss.”

“Good night, Mary.”

The door closed softly behind her, leaving you alone once more, and the room returned to silence.

You read for a while, though the words did not hold your attention as firmly as they usually might have. Your thoughts drifted too easily, slipping between the memory of the map, the echo of Edward’s voice, and the letter still resting nearby.

After a few pages, you stopped.

The book lowered slightly in your hands as your gaze unfocused, lingering somewhere beyond the lines.

Then, with a quiet breath, you set it aside, and eventually, sleep came.

When you woke up hours later, you didn’t fully understand what was happening at first.

The room was dark, just as it should have been in the middle of the night, but something felt off. It took you a few seconds to notice the faint light filtering through your curtains, a strange red-orange glow that usually wasn't there.

At first, still half asleep, you thought it might be a lamp left burning somewhere outside.

But then you heard the voices.

Loud, shouting, overlapping and panicked. Then a heavy crash, followed by something that sounded like wood breaking. Another shout, closer this time.

You were fully awake now.

You sat up quickly, pushing the covers aside before getting out of bed, the cold floor making you move faster as you crossed the room. The noise kept growing, clearer with every step and impossible to ignore.

Something was wrong.

You reached the window and pulled the curtains apart.

And froze.

A portion of the port was on fire.

Flames spread across the docks, climbing up wooden structures and licking at the sides of some ships. Smoke filled the air, rising into the night sky. The light you had seen was coming from the fire itself, reflecting off the water in uneven, shifting patterns.

People were running everywhere.

Some were trying to carry things, others were just trying to get away. You could hear screams now, clearer than before, mixed with orders being shouted and the constant noise of things breaking, falling and burning.

And among the chaos, you saw men who were not trying to escape.

They moved fast, but not like the others. Not afraid.

Their clothes were rough and worn, nothing like the neat uniforms of guards, and different than merchants' clothes. Long coats, loose shirts, belts with weapons, heavy boots. Some had cloth tied around their heads or necks, others carried blades that caught the firelight as they moved.

And they were stealing.

Barrels passed from one to another, crates dragged away, anything of value grabbed without hesitation. A few of them were fighting, pushing people aside, striking when needed, clearing their way through the chaos.

Your gaze shifted further out, toward the center of the port.

There was a ship. Large, dark and still.

It stood out immediately, its hull almost black, its white sails visible even in the dim orange light, barely moving.

They were pirates. And they were attacking your port.

You remained by the window, unable to sleep after that, while everything outside fell into chaos, your hands resting against the frame.

Soon, you saw the guards arrive.

At first in small numbers, then more, their presence growing as the alarm spread through the city. Their uniforms stood out even in the firelight, their voices cutting through the noise as they tried to regain control.

You saw them fighting. Steel against steel, shouts turning sharper, more ordered, though never fully enough to match the chaos the pirates had brought with them.

And still, the pirates did not scatter immediately.

You watched them move back and forth between the docks and their ship, carrying barrels, crates, anything they could take, passing goods from one to another. They did not push deeper into the city, did not attempt to break past the port itself, and you were so glad of this.

Your home, standing where it did, would have been one of the first they reached.

Eventually, the balance began to shift.

There were too many guards.

You could see it in the way the movement changed, in the way the pirates no longer advanced but began to pull back instead. The last of the stolen goods were loaded onto the ship, ropes thrown, and by one, they began to retreat.

You watched as they made their way back aboard, climbing swiftly, disappearing into the dark shape of the vessel as it prepared to leave.

And then, something caught your attention.

A figure.

At first, you thought it was just another fight, another clash among many, but this one did not end the same way.

He was alone, the last one still on the dock.

Guards surrounded him from all sides, closing in, focused entirely on him. Even from this distance, you could tell he was fighting, holding them off as long as he could, moving with force and making it clear he had no intention of surrendering.

But there were too many.

One strike. Then another.

You saw him stagger.

Still, he did not go down immediately.

It took more, several guards pressing in at once, overwhelming him, forcing him back until finally, he collapsed under the weight of it all.

He stopped moving, and your breath caught slightly.

The ship did not wait.

As the last of the pirates climbed aboard, the ropes were cut loose, sails shifting as the vessel began to move, pulling away from the port.

Leaving him behind.

You watched as the guards approached his unmoving form, one of them crouching briefly before signaling to the others. They grabbed him, not gently, lifting him just enough to drag him across the dock.

Even from this distance, you could tell he was not dead.

Unconscious, perhaps, but alive.

His head fell forward as they moved him, dark hair slipping loose, not long enough to fully hide his face, yet enough, combined with the distance, the darkness, that you could not make out his features clearly.

You remained by the window as the chaos slowly faded, watching people work through the night to put out the fire and restore what they could. Buckets of water were passed, and the port gradually returned to something closer to what it used to look like. You did not move for hours, your gaze fixed outside as darkness gave way to the pale light of dawn, the flames replaced by morning sun. Only then did you realize you had spent the entire night there, standing in silence, watching everything fall apart and come back together again.

You fell asleep that early morning the moment you finally returned to bed, completely drained from the night spent awake at the window, your body giving in.

It did not last long.

A soft knock pulled you back to consciousness, followed almost immediately by Mary’s voice on the other side of the door.

“Miss, I am sorry to wake you, but Sir Whitmore is here and he wishes to see you.”

You sat up slowly, still exhausted. There was no space to refuse, no time to even properly gather your thoughts.

“Come in,” you answered.

Mary entered, closing the door gently behind her. The moment she saw you properly awake, she moved into action without delay, helping you wash and dress. Your hair was brushed and pinned back with care. As she worked, the two of you spoke about the events of the night.

“It was terrifying,” Mary said quietly as she adjusted the fabric at your shoulders. “The fire, the shouting… I thought the whole port would burn down.”

When you were finally ready, there was no time left to rest. Sir Whitmore was already waiting.

You found him in the sitting room, standing by one of the windows as though he had been there for some time. He turned as you entered, composed as always, dressed immaculately despite the early hour, as if nothing in the world could disturb his presentation.

“Good morning,” he said, stepping toward you. “I was passing through and wondered if you would accompany me for a walk.”

You stopped for a fraction of a second.

You were tired. You had not had your breakfast yet, had barely slept, and the last thing you wanted was a walk with him.

For a brief moment, you almost said it.

I would rather rest.

I would rather not see your face today or ever again.

I would rather not leave my bedroom.

But none of it left your lips.

“Of course,” you said instead. “Let’s go.”

Everything in the streets outside looked normal and walked beside him in silence for a while before he spoke again.

“Have you heard about the terrible events of last night?” he asked.

“I saw them,” you replied simply. “From my bedroom window.”

He gave a small, grave nod. “It was fortunate there were no deaths. Considering the damage, we were lucky.”

You did not answer immediately, and he continued.

“Even more fortunate,” he added, “that we managed to capture the captain of Bad Omens.”

You stopped walking for a fraction of a second.

The name struck something faintly familiar, though distant, like something you had heard years ago during one of your travels and never thought about again.

“Bad Omens?” you repeated.

“A pretty.... famous pirate crew,” he said. “They have been responsible for countless attacks along the coast in the last ten years. Ports raided, ships taken, entire cargos stolen. For years, we have tried to stop them.”

He exhaled lightly, almost satisfied.

“They say their captain has escaped capture more times than we can count,” Edward went on. “But not this time. The guards were prepared, and for once, everything went as it should.”

A faint, almost pleased smile touched his expression.

“Noah Sebastian is finally in our custody,” he said. “And he will rot in the prison of Port Everleigh.”

And that was exactly the moment the most reckless, unreasonable idea you had ever had took shape in your mind.

So absurd that, under any other circumstance, you would have dismissed it instantly. No proper young woman of your standing, raised well, promised in marriage to the governor of a city, would even allow herself to think such a thing, not even in jest, not even as a distant possibility.

And yet, the thought remained. And it was impossible to ignore.

Noah Sebastian.

A pirate. A criminal. A man you had never seen, never spoken to, who now sat somewhere in the city's prison, locked behind bars.

And somehow... he felt like your way out.

The idea made no sense. It was dangerous, illogical, and very likely impossible. You had no reason to believe it would work, no proof that he would even listen to you, let alone agree to anything you might offer.

And still, as you walked beside the man you were meant to marry, in a city that no longer resembled anything but a cage, it did not feel impossible.

It felt like an opportunity.

You could free him.

The thought alone should have terrified you.

Instead, you felt quiet sure about it, in that moment.

You could free him… and in return, he could take you away from all of this.

To Saint Marlowe.

To Rosaline.

To a life that had once felt out of reach, but now seemed suddenly and dangerously, possible again.

It was madness, and yet, as you continued walking beside Edward, listening to him speak about the wedding dress he had already chosen, and bought, without once asking for your opinion, it began to feel like the only thing that made sense.

Your responses came automatically, distant and polite, while your mind remained elsewhere, fixed on that single, crazy idea. At that moment, it felt like the closest thing to freedom you had. And if it failed… then it failed. You would die at the hands of a pirate, which did not seem much worse than living a life that was never truly yours. So, perhaps, it was worth trying.

So, that same afternoon, you returned to Edward’s house under the pretense of a sudden idea, one that, under normal circumstances, might have even sounded convincing.

You told him you had seen dahlias at the market that morning, flowers you liked so much you thought they would be perfect for the centerpieces at your wedding, something elegant yet different, something that would make the tables stand out.

Edward had listened, then nodded.

“Yes, that could be arranged,” he had said. “I will make a note of it.”

He mentioned his agenda, something he had been using to organize every detail of the ceremony, and excused himself to retrieve it, leaving you alone in the sitting room.

You smiled. You nodded.

And the moment he was out of sight, you were on your feet instantly, your steps silent against the carpet as you moved toward the cabinet in the corner. You barely hesitated before kneeling, pulling open the lowest drawer.

He had mentioned it once, and you remembered.

You searched quickly, your fingers brushing against papers, and some small objects, then metal.

You froze for half a second before pulling them free.

A heavy ring, holding a number of large, dark keys, cold against your skin.

You had found them.

Your heart was beating faster now, louder than it should have been, but there was no time to think about it. You slipped them beneath your corset, pressing them against your side, adjusting the fabric just enough to keep them hidden.

The pressure was immediate and uncomfortable.

The rigid shape of the keys dug into your skin beneath the already tight corset, making it harder to breathe than it had been before. You could already tell it would leave a bruise.

But it did not matter.

You pushed the drawer closed just as you heard his steps returning.

By the time Edward reentered the room, you were standing where you had been before, your expression composed, as though nothing had changed.

He glanced at you briefly before speaking again, already focused on the matter at hand.

You did not let him continue.

“Edward,” you said, just quickly enough to interrupt, your tone apologetic, “I have just remembered that I promised Mary I would help her with something important this afternoon. I truly must go.”

There was a brief pause, as though he had not expected that, but then he nodded.

“Of course,” he said. “Se you again soon.”

You gave him a small, polite smile, forcing yourself not to move too quickly as you reached for your coat, slipping it on like you usually did, despite the uncomfortable weight hidden beneath your corset.

Then, without giving yourself the chance to hesitate, you left.

You had stopped by home quickly, grabbed a jacket, slipped some gold jewelry into your pockets (things you could trade for money if you ever made it to your destination) and put on a pair of more comfortable boots. You had kept your dress and corset on, the keys still hidden inside, afraid that if anyone saw them, they would start asking questions.

The city’s prison was smaller than you might have expected for a place of such importance, tucked between two older stone buildings. Its walls were thick and dark. There was a heavy wooden door reinforced with iron bars, and narrow windows set too high to see through properly.

You reached it quickly, your breath slightly uneven from the pace you had kept, your heart still racing, not just from the run, but from everything you were about to do.

Two guards stood outside, just as expected.

One of them turned at the sound of your approach, confusion already forming on his face as he recognized you.

He was one of Edward’s closest acquaintances, a man you had seen many times, though never for any reason that made him seem particularly competent. If anything, he was known more for his lack of awareness than anything else and he usually struggled with the simplest instructions.

And yet, somehow, he had ended up guarding the prison. Well, good for you.

“Miss?” he said, clearly caught off guard. “What—”

“Have you not heard?” you cut in immediately, as you stepped closer, not giving him time to think.

Both guards straightened.

“Heard what?” the other one asked.

“The port,” you said quickly, breathless just enough to make it convincing. “It has caught fire again.”

“What?” the first guard blinked. “Again?”

You stared at them, as if the answer should have been obvious.

“What is it, is there a law that forbids the port from burning two days in a row?” you snapped, “One of the ships is on fire! They need help!”

That was enough.

They exchanged a quick look, and then, almost at the same time, they moved.

“Come on,” one of them muttered, already turning.

Within seconds, they were gone.

You stood there for only a moment, listening to their footsteps fade, making sure they were far enough.

Then you turned.

Your hand moved quickly to the door, fingers tightening around the handle as you pushed it open and stepped inside before you could stop yourself.

The air felt different inside.

It was colder, heavier and it smelled of damp stone, rust and dirty men. The space was narrow, lit only by a few dim lanterns fixed along the walls.

Cells lined both sides, each one closed off by thick iron bars. Some were empty, others not. Chains hung in places, bolted into the stone, and the floor beneath your feet was uneven, marked by dirt and old stains.

One man was singing, loudly, and terribly off-key, his voice echoing in the place. Somewhere further down, another muttered to himself in a constant stream of words you couldn’t quite make out. A third was asleep, or at least unconscious enough to be snoring heavily, the sound rising and falling in uneven rhythm. And somewhere to your right, two voices argued back and forth, mad and irritated, though neither seemed particularly interested in ending the dispute.

And then they noticed you.

The singing faltered first.

“Well now—” someone drawled from behind the bars, his tone shifting immediately. “What’s a beauty like you doing down here?”

A low chuckle followed from another cell. “Lost your way, sweetheart?”

“Or looking for company?” a third voice added, followed by a few scattered laughs.

“If you’re staying, I’ve got space—”

“Come a little closer, love, don’t be shy—”

“That’s enough,” you said, trying to cut through them.

It didn’t work.

If anything, it encouraged them.

“Listen to that—she’s got a voice too—”

“Fiery one, aren’t you?”

“Careful, I like that—”

“Enough!” you snapped, louder this time, your voice echoing down the corridor.

That did it.

There was a quiet pause and you could finally speak without being immediately talked over.

“I’m looking for Noah Sebastian.”

There was a brief moment of silence.

Then, from somewhere further down talked. “The last cell,” one of the men that was arguing said. “All the way at the end.”

You didn’t hesitate.

You moved forward again, your dress brushing dangerously close to the dirty floor as you passed each cell. You could feel their eyes on you as you walked, following your movement.

A whistle sounded behind you.

“Good luck with that one,” someone muttered.

You ignored them, and you reached the last cell at the end of the corridor.

He was there.

Sitting on the ground, his back resting against the cold stone wall, his head lowered just enough that his face remained hidden in shadow. Strands of dark hair fell forward, obscuring his features, though you could make out the outline of him in the dim, flickering light.

He look too calm for someone who had fought the way you had seen the night before.

A loose black shirt hung from his frame, the fabric worn and slightly open at the collar, revealing the faint lines of ink beneath. His trousers were darker, more fitted, tucked into boots that had clearly seen better days.

For a moment, you simply stood there.

Then...

“Have you come to see a pirate up close?”

His voice broke the silence before you could speak.

It wasn’t what you had expected.

Rough, yes, and also tired, but not as low, not as heavy as you had imagined.

You straightened slightly.

“No,” you said. “I’m here to make you an offer.”

There was a pause.

Then, slowly, he lifted his head.

And for the first time, you saw him.

The light from the corridor caught his face just enough to reveal it in pieces at first, his dark eyes, the shape of his lips softer than you had expected, and features that you had imagined to be much sharper than they actually were.

His expression was unreadable, though not uninterested.

He pushed himself to his feet in one smooth movement, brushing dust from his hands before stepping closer to the bars, his gaze never leaving you.

“Interesting,” he said.

Up close, you could see more.

You noticed the ink along his neck, dark lines disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. More across his hands, stretching over his fingers in patterns you couldn’t fully make out in the dim light.

And something told you that the tattoos didn’t stop there.

You noticed the faint trace of stubble along his jaw, with the slightest hint of a mustache that was almost softening his features.

His eyes moved over you, taking in the fabric of your dress and the small details that set you apart from everything around you.

“Go ahed, princess.”

“I can get you out of here,” you said quickly, “But only if you agree to something for me in return.”

One of his brows lifted slightly.

“Oh?” he said. “And what could you possibly want from me?”

“I want you to take me with you,” you replied. “Out of this city. To Saint Marlowe.”

There was a pause. Then, a quiet, short laugh.

“Saint Marlowe?” he repeated, almost like he couldn’t quite believe what he had heard. “That’s not exactly around the corner.”

“I know.”

“It’s on the other side of the world,” he went on, tilting his head slightly as he studied you, as if trying to understand whether you truly meant it. “That’s not a quick trip. That’s months at sea. Maybe longer.”

You held his gaze.

“Do you want to be free or not?”

That seemed to amuse him more than anything else.

A faint smile touched his lips.

“You’re fortunate,” he said after a moment, his tone shifting slightly. “I was already planning to head in that direction. There are islands not far from there I intend to pass by.”

“Good,” you said, almost immediately. “Then we have a deal. I get you out, and you take me to Saint Marlowe.”

You were expecting a confirmation, but instead he asked for your name. You hesitated for a second, almost thinking of lying, but then decided there was no point and told him. He replied, “Noah, but maybe they’ve already told you.”

After a moment, he spoke again.

“Well, now I’m curious,” he said, leaning slightly closer to the bars. “How exactly were you planning to get me out of here?”

You slipped a hand beneath your corset and pulled, the metal keys finally coming free as you drew them out, allowing yourself a deeper breath now that the pressure against your ribs had eased.

Another quiet laugh.

“Keys,” he murmured. “You came prepared... How does a lady like you get her hands on the keys to a prison?”

“I’m the governor’s fiancée,” you replied.

That earned you a different reaction.

His head tilted slightly, studying you again, more carefully this time, as if reassessing everything he had thought about you.

“Oh,” he said slowly. “We’ve got a rebellious princess, then.”

You frowned slightly at the word, but he didn’t seem particularly concerned whether you liked it or not.

In fact, he seemed to enjoy it.

“A governor’s fiancée,” he repeated. His gaze flicked briefly to the keys in your hand, then back to you. “And here you are, sneaking into a prison to bargain with a pirate, wanting to commit a crime and sail across the world.”

A pause.

“You don’t look like someone who’s ever done anything like this before,” he added. “No offense.”

“None taken. But i have traveled. I know the sea.”

“You’re either very brave,” he said, “or very stupid.”

“Which one do you think?”

He didn’t hesitate.

“A bit of both,” he replied easily.

Despite yourself, something in that almost made you smile.

Almost.

And he noticed.

Of course he did.

“Are you agreeing or not?”

He watched you for a second longer, then exhaled softly, like he had come to a decision.

“Well,” he said, straightening just a little, “I was going to rot in here otherwise, so...”

He gave a small, careless shrug.

“I suppose I can make room on my ship for one very determined princess.”

Then he slipped one hand through the bars, and extended it toward you. A couple of rings caught the dim light on his fingers, metal glinting softly against inked skin.

“Well?” he said quietly.

You didn’t hesitate. You stepped closer and took his hand, shaking it for a brief moment.

His grip was firm, fingers rough against yours, his rings pressing lightly into your skin.

“Yeah,” he said after a moment, shaking his head slightly as his hand left yours. “You’re definitely going to regret this.”

“Open the door,” he added then, nodding toward the lock. “Let’s find out how long it takes before you change your mind, princess.”

୨୧ the two of you are attached at the hip!! he loves being able to watch their opening acts while holding you tight and swaying along to their songs. in the background of the behind the scenes photos that bryan posts, the fans can always spot the two of you together walking hand-in-hand or being preoccupied with each others company.

୨୧ you’re basically their tour guide showing them around to all the best shops and restaurants when they have a show in your city. which is the main reason why noah will make sure that there’s an off-day before they perform so you can show them around!

୨୧ it has become part of noah’s pre-show rituals to give you a kiss right before walking on stage. you have no idea when it really started but when you asked him about this, he says that it’s “good for his voice” and it “helps him sing better” (he declares that his worst shows are when he doesn’t get a smooch from you right beforehand, he thinks it’s bad luck without getting one)

୨୧ making some tea for him in his little thermos mug! he always brags when you make it for him, claiming that, “it just tastes better.” (when in reality, all you do is add an extra packet of sugar)

୨୧ professional paper airplane folder has become your official job title during this tour since you found out how much noah loved to throw them out to fans. although the most dangerous part of this job was the paper-cuts, but thankfully noah was there to help heal the wound with a small kiss and a bandaid.

୨୧ touring is a lot of work, especially for noah, it’s very mentally and physically challenging. yet, he always makes time for you! he’s constantly on the lookout for somewhere in the city to take you on a date, wanting to try the different delicacies that each state has to offer along with you!!

୨୧ stealing all the hockey jerseys/random freebies the venues gave him! you now own at least 15 different hockey jerseys that have his name written across the back

୨୧ feeling so overwhelmingly proud of him and the guys, especially during just pretend, seeing all the arenas lit up full of fans. it will never not make you tear up seeing them living their dream.

He had texted you a week ago out of the blue: home soon, wanna hang out??

It wasn’t unusual for the text chain between the two of you to go quiet when he was on tour—you understood how demanding that kind of schedule could be, how easy it was to get caught up in the there and now when your life was chaos. You made sure you never complained about it once, more than content to send memes or good wishes into the void until Folio remembered he had a phone and that he should check it. When you’d received the text asking if you wanted to hang out, you’d made yourself sit on your hands for nearly thirty minutes before sending off a quick yeah, let’s do it to make sure you didn’t seem too eager.

Which, in hindsight, was funny as hell when he had sent back 😎🤘 immediately. 

Now here the two of you were, standing in front of the closed parking lot gate for Sugarloaf Mountain, Folio fiddling with the headlamp he’d brought because the sun was already starting to set on the horizon and it wouldn’t be long before he was taking you into the woods and hiking in the dark. Some part of your brain tries to supply that this is absolutely how horror movies start, and you’re about ready to suggest that maybe the two of you wait until tomorrow when the sun’s up before those stupid brown eyes of his find yours and he grins.

God. You’d do anything for that grin. 

Including, apparently, hiking up a mountain in the dark.

“Are you positive we have to do this at night?” You ask, hands falling away from the elastic strap at Folio’s head so you can cross your arms over your chest.

“Don’t tell me you’re getting cold feet on me!” Folio teases, hands starting to smack the pockets of his jeans like he’s searching for something. 

“I’m not getting cold feet. I’m just… being realistic. What if there are bears out there?” 

The snort he gives in response to your question has pink rising to your cheeks. 

“If you’re gonna worry about anything, I’d worry about bobcats,” is all he says, content with the self-pat down he’d given himself and already turning to slide through the gap that exists between the parking gate and the wooden fence surrounding the parking lot. 

All you can do is stand there in the aftermath, mouth slightly parted, before your body gets the memo and starts following after him. “Wait—what? Nick. Are you being serious right now?” He continues walking, oblivious—or flat out ignoring—your question. “Nick. Folio!” From ahead, you hear the sound of his laughter, fully pleased with himself as he forges on while you nearly trip over your own feet to catch up to him.

Oranges and purples paint the sky above you as the sun dips closer and closer to the horizon, late evening light dappling through the canopy of leaves overhead and painting the ground at your feet in a hatchwork pattern against the packed dirt. As the two of you walk, you listen to Folio’s voice as he recounts the highlights of the band’s most recent tour: Noah chugging a container of hot sauce because Matt called him a pussy if he didn’t, Jolly tricking crew into trying salted black licorice because he derives joy from watching others suffer, and how he himself played half a set in Wichita with his knuckles split open because he’d broken a drumstick and it kicked back on him.

You like hearing about the part of his life that you don’t get to witness that often. You’ve met the rest of the guys in the band when they’ve come through close enough to Maryland that you were able to drive to a show—they’re good people, and you trust them to watch out for Nick because he doesn’t always remember to watch out for himself. Not because he’s incapable, but because he’d rather put someone else’s needs before his own. That’s one thing that you’ve always liked about him: just how deeply he cares about the people around him, even if they may not realize it—too thrown by his chaotic energy. 

But you know the sweetheart that lurks underneath.

You’ve watched him try and be statue-still in your backyard, handful of nuts extended and at the ready, all because a squirrel happened to hop a foot closer than usual and he’s ready to try and befriend them. You also remember the sheer joy that had taken over his face the first time that same squirrel—well, Folio said it was, but you aren’t sure about that—took a peanut from his hand and then ran clear across the yard to eat it. “Did you see that!” Folio had gasped, eyes wide and bright as they looked at you. “We’re totally buds now.”

“Hey, do you mind if I—?” Nick’s voice cuts and forces your mind to quit wandering and come back to the present. 

You look up just in time to catch him pantomiming smoking, and your shoulders lift upwards in a shrug. 

“Go for it. We’re out in nature, aren’t we?”

“Well, yeah. But I still wanted to check.” 

The smile he tosses in your direction is sheepish, but his hands are already moving to dig into his pocket to pull out a metal tin that you immediately clock as the Harley Davidson cigarette case you’d gifted him for his birthday last year. There’s something about seeing the gift—that he uses it—that has a small smile of your own curling at the corners of your lips as the two of you continue down the hiking trail. Purples and oranges have given way to the darker navy that slides in right before full sunset, warning the two of you that it won’t be long now.

“How much further?” You can’t help but ask after he finishes another one of his stories: this one about how Noah left him behind at a gas station because he’d been the last one to use the bathroom and, somehow, no one thought to check for him before leaving. 

Folio’s head swivels in your direction at the question and for a moment, you find yourself staring into the Eye of Sauron as the headlamp flash bangs directly into your eyeballs. 

“Oh my god—” Your hand is already reaching up to shield your face.

“Oh, fuck! Shit—fuck, sorry!” 

Lights dance across your vision as you pause, unwilling to walk further when you can’t see and do something stupid like tripping over a root. You press the heels of your hands against your eyes, rubbing like that’s going to help. Just a few feet in front of you, you can hear the sound of Folio fidgeting, soft curses spilling out of him as he works on angling the light up and away from your face so that he can step in and make sure you’re okay. Hands find your shoulders to keep you steady, and the familiar skunky smell of weed drifts in as Folio gets close.

He’s always like this when he smokes; the usual concern he has gets cranked up to an eleven, anxiety creeping in around the edges even if it isn’t warranted.

“You good?” Warm hands move from your shoulders up to your face, rough palms cradling your cheeks as he looks you over himself like he’ll be able to evaluate you before you can answer.

You have no idea how close the two of you are until you drop your hands and blink your eyes open. Despite the white orbs that still dance across your vision with every blink, what takes up a majority of your vision now is the concerned face of your friend whose expression is currently making him look like a golden retriever who’s been scolded. Regardless of how much you’d like to blame the flush rising up to your cheeks on anything else—the cold, the weed, anything—you know it stems purely from your proximity to the man standing in front of you.

“M’fine,” you grumble, reaching up to rub at one of your eyes again because it’s easier to distract yourself than acknowledge the traitorous band of butterflies that’s been unleashed inside your stomach. You’d swear the metaphor is real, given the way your insides feel, and Folio isn’t helping matters as he sweeps his thumbs just beneath your cheekbones. 

“Really, it’s okay.” 

“I still feel like a dick. I forgot this thing was on my head.”

Even in the darkness you can see the furrow between his brows and the way his mouth pulls down into a frown that tells you he’s going to be beating himself up about this for hours. Sighing softly, you simply reach your hands up and place them on top of his, fingers curling underneath and taking hold so you can finally lower Folio’s hands away from your face. Still holding onto them as they rest in the space between you, your fingers give a gentle squeeze to his.

“Yeah, well, I’m gonna kick your feet out from under you when you least expect for payback.”

That’s enough to have a bark of laughter escaping out of him—entirely too loud for the quiet of the forest around you. Despite yourself, you feel your own laughter coming, Nick’s apparently too infectious for you to escape unscathed. 

From that point on, the two of you keep walking hand-in-hand. With the headlamp corrected and pointing down to illuminate the ground once more, time starts to lose meaning with each additional foot between yourselves and the parking lot you’d left behind down at the base of Sugarloaf. All you know is that every time you ask Nick any variation of ‘are we close’ he just chuckles to himself, squeezes your hand, and tells you to be patient.

When you finally get to your destination you understand why he didn’t want to spoil the surprise.

Standing on a rocky outcropping that breaks through the thick treeline, the rest of the forest stretches out beneath you: trees nothing more than dark silhouettes against the sky. That, however, isn’t what Nick had brought you out here for, because the moment you tip your head back to look at the expanse of night sky above your heads, you know what the real view was all along. 

Above your heads, stars shine like glitter thrown against a black backdrop, while beside you, Folio is working to turn the headlamp off so you can have the full effect. The moon is full and high in the sky, shining like Nick himself had put it there deliberately just for you—like he’d convinced the Goddess Selene herself to momentarily halt her chariot just so the two of them could have the best view of the moon in all its glory. 

“Oh, wow,” is all you can say, and you can’t help but be annoyed at yourself for not having anything else.

Folio, however, is unbothered.

“Pretty nice, huh?” 

His hand still hasn’t left yours the entire time the two of you have stood there staring up at the sky. Swallowing thickly, you nod—for all the good that will do you, it’s dark as hell and he likely can’t see it—before you feel him gently pulling you forward and then sitting himself down on the rock and giving you a tug to encourage you to sit beside him. You can feel the cold of the stone seeping into your skin through the denim of your jeans as you adjust to get comfortable, yet can’t bring yourself to care that it’s slightly uncomfortable. 

Folio’s hands work at his pockets once more, pulling out the familiar cigarette case in addition to a small flask that he’s apparently been carrying with him as well. Both items are set down on the rock between the two of you, and for a moment, silence lingers; not uncomfortable but noticeable. 

“Hey, uh—” he starts, expression twisting with frustration at the clumsy start, “I just… wanted to say that I’m sorry we don’t hang out as much as we used to. Life’s just been so crazy—” 

“Don’t,” you carefully reply, stopping his apology in its tracks. “Don’t do that. You don’t have to apologize. I understand.” 

Silence once more, somehow loud despite having nothing to say.

“You’re living your dream, and I’m proud of you for that,” you continue, because you don’t want him to get the wrong idea. “I’m so proud of you. And, I know it isn’t easy. You’re gonna have people in your life that don’t understand. I’m… I’m not one of them.” Shifting to sit up straighter, your hand carefully searches for his in the space between you, fingers lacing together once you find it. “I’m just grateful for the time we do get together.”

For a moment, he’s quiet: unnervingly, uncharacteristically so, to the point you start to second guess yourself.

Then, he laughs—this quiet, uncertain sound—and he leans into your space to rest his head against your shoulder. When he speaks next, his voice is quiet.

“Wanna get high as fuck, sneak some whiskey, and stare at the stars for a bit?”

It was easier to remove you from his life completely. He had spent those first few hours the morning after moving clothes haphazardly into a suitcase in less than an hour, purely so that he didn’t invade your space for any longer than necessary. Then, with only a short lipped goodbye on your part, he was gone.

Matt’s spare room wasn’t much, but it was somewhere to start. It took him a while to stop feeling like a guest in Matt’s space, even if he paid rent and contributed to bills and groceries. They found a rhythm quickly, at least, whilst Noah settled into his new reality.

And then you happened again.

He hadn’t intended his night to take a turn in that way. Of course, the whole point of going out that night had been with the option of a certain endgame, and he hadn’t even thought twice before slipping the condom into his wallet that evening. But he never expected it to happen like that.

You were the safe option, he told himself. Expected, familiar. Someone he didn’t have to sell himself to.

And when it was done, he left. Exactly as he would have with any other.

Except you weren’t just some random girl from a club. And your place wasn’t just a random apartment building he was slipping out of before the sun came up. But that didn’t matter to him, not at the time.

And so he continued on, like he had always planned. Things didn’t feel different when he got back to Matt’s; he slept, rose for work and continued on in the routine he had created for his new life. He usually wouldn’t have spared a thought for what you were doing, where you were or how your life was going. It wasn’t his business anymore, so why should he waste time in such trivial thinking when there were more important matters at hand?

Except suddenly, he found himself with a lot of time to spare. Waste, per say. And the common denominator in this time was always you.

but i catch myself falling, falling

It was as if you were nowhere.

Then suddenly, you were everywhere.

Perhaps he hadn’t been looking for you at the beginning; maybe you’d been there all along. But suddenly you were in everything he saw. A second season of a show you had started together that nearly had him texting you. A song by your favourite band playing loudly over the speakers when he entered the gym. The bakery down the road bringing back a discontinued cookie that you used to obsess over. Your shampoo was even conveniently on sale in the grocery store one day, and he found himself naturally reaching to buy it whilst it was on such a good deal before he remembered why he couldn’t.

Because you weren’t his. Not anymore.

Noah had caught his hand mid motion, rushed around the rest of the store and abandoned the rest of his shopping list. The dried cereals could wait, for he had a sudden and unending need to get back to the safety of Matt’s place.

Matt’s. Not home. Never home. No matter how much Matt insisted it was now his home too, no matter how much work he had put into making the space personal. It was never home.

Noah knew where his home was.

i could try to stop calling, calling just to show myself

Somewhere down the line, he convinced himself it was a poor man's Stockholm syndrome caused by a good fuck and something finally familiar in half a long year of strangeness. That bought him another month at most to pretend it meant nothing. To pretend that you didn’t haunt his daydreams no matter how hard he tried to dispel you, like a particularly stubborn poltergeist at an exorcism.

That he wasn’t being driven crazy by visions of you against white sheets.

It felt like every time he closed his eyes he could see you; bent over, face to the pillows as he took exactly what he wanted with little remorse at the time. The way you had gasped and moaned when his fingers had found purchase where you needed him most. How your breath had stuttered when his lips found particularly sensitive spots he knew to exploit like second nature.

He was haunted by the way you had felt when you came undone around him, as if it was the first time the two of you had been in that position all over again. He had dreams about your lips on his, the smell of your perfume assaulting his senses as his tongue slipped into your mouth, and the way it felt to be home once more.

The house? Well, that was just a house. You were what made it home.

If Matt noticed the changes in him, he didn’t point it out. Noah hadn’t exactly given much elaboration in the first place, and Matt hadn’t asked for it. He had accepted Noah moving into his spare room with little argument or fuss, and nothing had been a cause for concern in the way his friend acted.

But then suddenly, Noah was losing what he had left of his grip on reality before you came and destroyed it all again. It was like the worlds most fucked up, ironic grief pattern.

The next logical conclusion for Noah to focus on was that it was just your body he missed. Just. Nothing more. He had always loved having something to worship and devour as if it were a physical form of sustenance that could not be ignored. It was how the two of you had started out after all; hot and heavy and entirely wanting.

But just like your initial relationship, Noah’s fantasies shifted and settled into something more delicate; domestic. And he couldn’t deny for much longer that it was you he wanted.

Not just your body; you.

did you keep my sweater, sweater?

The realisation slammed into him in the middle of a meeting.

They had been there for hours, organising new merchandising schedules and checking everything was in line with whatever complex lore system they had created in the recent months. Noah had been sitting down for so long that his body had begun to simultaneously mold with and reject the plastic chair beneath his bones. It was the agonising admin that came with wanting creative control; a sacrifice of time in exchange for satisfaction.

Someone was talking, Noah honestly didn’t remember who. He was too busy staring at the prototype lay out on the table.

It was a simple black hoodie with one of the approved designs. Nothing special.

But to Noah, it suddenly meant everything.

You had always loved new merch drops, mainly because it meant you would have a new sweater of Noah’s to steal. Every time he would ask if you wanted one to yourself, and every time you would brush him off and say you were okay, that you didn’t need more clothes you wouldn’t wear.

And then you would almost always steal his anyway.

When he had first called you out on it, you had denied it. But on the second occasion that he had pinpointed your behaviour, you had confessed the truth; it simply did not feel the same if the hoodie was yours. It wasn’t the merchandise itself you liked, it was that it belonged to him.

Back then, when he had been packing to leave, Noah had looked at one sweater hanging in the wardrobe and considered it for a long moment. It was one of his favourite designs, the ghost emblem, and he knew that he would get good use out of it in the future.

But you loved it too.

It was his final act of connection at the time. A small but knowing thing he could give you amongst the other gifts of heartache. So without thinking too much, he had left it where it hung on the rail.

Noah couldn’t help but wonder if you still wore it.

Matt was addressing him then. From what Noah could gather, it wasn’t about the current issue at hand, a simple Dude, you okay? or something along those lines.

For the first time in a very long time, Noah didn’t know the answer to that question.

did you read my letters, letters?

Someone else, maybe Nick or Jolly, asked him if he needed a drink. All that served to do was propel Noah out of his chair like a man possessed, only to be met by dozen confused glances thrown in his direction.

“I have to go,” was all he managed to get out before he was gone.

He didn’t know why he was feeling this way. He had spent so long convincing himself he was fine, that he had finally set the both of you free and that it was better to be alone. He had wanted this. He had ended it.

So why, all of a sudden, did an ending feel so wrong?

In what felt like the blink of an eye but had instead been an agonising series of events, Noah was suddenly unsure of himself. More than perhaps ever before. In losing you, he had lost a part of himself he had not even been aware was missing at first.

He hadn’t noticed that part of himself turning ugly at the time, and now he didn’t know what to do.

You always knew what to do. Noah’s heart only had to beat at an irregular interval for you to know.

His feet carried him to the car without looking back. There wasn’t time to even sign out of the building. That was a problem that could be easily fixed.

He only hoped this could be fixed, too.

As he pulled out from the carpark, completely disregarding the speed limit, the rain began to thrash down on his windscreen.

Noah flicked on the wipers, death gripped the steering wheel once, and turned in the direction of your place.

do you know me better, better, than i know myself?

a/n: hope this was okay! finished it in a rush because i realised how long it was since bad habit and just wanted to get it out honestly. so sorry it’s not my best work—weird mental week! thank you as always for love and reactions on the last part :) one more to go! hope you all don’t hate noah As much very soon

masterlist || taglist

It was a slow day. Not much to do and only a few people that needed help. Which Grey doesn’t mind, but it always scares her whenever her help isn’t sought out like it usually is. Makes her mind race nonstop with the worst possibilities.

She was also beginning to worry about Georgie. She hadn’t seen him in weeks, and his sudden absence was making her itch with concern. It took everything in her not to think the worst when it came to him.

Grey was now putting her supplies away. The Christmas lights had been turned off roughly forty-five minutes ago, and now she was taking her time setting everything back in its rightful place. A cool breeze flowed in through the open window, the curtains rustling gently making for perfect background noise as Grey worked.

Then there’s movement outside the window, the metal of the fire escape creaking and groaning loudly. Grey turns and sees a familiar figure pulling himself inside. A small smile tugs at the corner of her mouth.

“Noah? I didn’t think you— Oh, my god! What happened to you?!”

Noah says nothing as he haphazardly sinks down onto the white bed in the middle of the room. Blood trickles from his nose into his mouth, staining his teeth, but it’s dried around the edges. His lip is busted to hell. He’s shaking.

Grey rushes over to him and immediately begins checking him out, and is thankful when he doesn’t object. She starts with his eyes.

No sign of concussion. Thank fucking god.

With the light from the lamp in the corner guiding her, Grey grabs a handful of cotton balls and the bottle of hydrogen peroxide from one of the shelves closest to her and does not hesitate to clean up his exposed knuckles. Then she gets a damp washcloth from the bathroom and wipes away the blood that is visible to her on his face. Once all of it is gone, she hesitates.

“I need to look at your lip and then your nose,” Grey tells him softly. “Can I lift up the mask enough just to check it out? Make sure it’s not broken?”

Noah meets her gaze. The dark bags beneath indicate he’s exhausted but the lethal glint in his irises suggests something else. Something manic and dangerous. Grey’s heart is pounding in her throat.

Thankfully, Noah nods slowly. He watches her every move as she goes to carefully pull the mask up over his mouth to rest lightly on the bridge of his nose. And she was right: his lip is split and swollen, blood splattered along his cheek before disappearing into the fabric of the ski mask. She cleans it up with a heightened awareness of her own body, forcing herself to move robotically and gingerly as to not spook Noah. Because someone did this to him and he’s running on the last bit of whatever adrenaline is fueling his body.

Grey has never been so scared of him.

He’s a wounded, cornered animal. Even though she knows he trusts her to do this for him, he is still going to scrutinize each and every move she makes with severe calculation. She has never given much thought to what Noah may be capable of, but as she carefully dabs at his lip with a cotton ball, her brain is going at a hundred miles an hour with all of the possibilities.

How did this happen? Did he hurt someone? Or worse? But why does he look so upset?

Grey cleans his lip thoroughly as she ultimately fails to shove these thoughts from her mind. But she fears she may have made a mistake when she gently holds his chin between her fingers. She catches his eye for a split second, and she sees no malice reflected back at her, as if he needed the comfort. Her stomach turns.

With a touch of neosporin to the split in his lip, she moves on to his nose. With lithe fingers Grey touches both nostrils and the bridge that is covered by the mask, feeling for any break or fracture. She moves it gently and nearly jumps out of her skin when Noah winces out of nowhere. His hand latches onto her wrist, his grip tight and unyielding.

“Does that hurt?” she asks, forcing her voice not to waver from the sudden movement. And now that she focuses, she can feel a small break in the upper lateral cartilage. It doesn’t seem to bother Noah the more she presses on it. Or, he’s pretending it doesn’t. He gives her a slight nod. “I think it’s just a minor fracture. Luckily, they can heal on their own with just ice and pain meds. I’m gonna go grab an ice pack from the freezer, okay?”

Grey begins backing away but Noah tightens his hold on her wrist even more. She starts to panic as he stares up at her. He pulls the mask back down, and Grey tries desperately to commit his face she could see to memory. The stubble, his square jaw, the freckles… All of it.

“Noah?”

He doesn’t answer. He just pulls her into him and holds onto her. She’s never felt his hands on her — aside from the occasional wrist grab — until this moment. Her throat involuntarily bobs at the unexpected warmth.

One of his hands is around her waist and grasping at the thick sweatshirt she wears. The other grabs the loose fabric of her sweatpants near her knee. He presses his face against her stomach and heaves a heavy sigh. Her heart breaks.

Grey slowly cradles the back of his head. He is shaking uncontrollably and it has tears burning in her eyes. He’s scared or panicked and just needed someone there for him. And he thought of her.

She sways slightly back and forth, just holding him and humming quietly. She wants to make sure he’s alright but she isn’t going to pressure him to talk. So, for now, she will do what he want: comfort him.

They sit like that for a good long while. Grey loses track of time, but she is more than content to just be here with Noah and hold him. He clearly needed her and didn’t want to go back to wherever he lives.

That’s when realization crashes into her.

He would rather be with her than where he lives. He’d rather come to her when he is obviously pissed off and feral than go to the people he lives with, people Grey isn’t even sure would have cared for him like this. He wanted to be with her.

He wanted to be with her.

Her head spins like a top as the realization sinks deeper and deeper into her.

Eventually, Noah shifts. He releases her pant leg and leans his head away from her. He looks up at her with gratitude and relief flooding his eyes. She gives him a soft smile.

“I’m sorry for bursting in like that,” he tells her, his voice low and hoarse. “I just… I knew you’d help.”

“Of course,” she answers. Her heart is shattering for him. “Can I ask, though, what happened?”

Noah’s eyes flash with that predatory look from before, gleaming with rage once more as he relives what happened earlier. He blinks and that look is gone. But he still seems hesitant.

“Got in a fight with my brother,” he murmurs. The hand that is clutching onto her sweatshirt releases it and travels to her hip almost absentmindedly. Noah doesn’t seem to notice what he’s doing as her face heats up with blush. “I needed to talk to him, but things got heated. If I’d stayed I would’ve been put on house arrest, and I…”

Noah trails off. Grey holds the back of his head with bated breath as she waits for him to finish his thought.

His admission is nearly inaudible, muffled by her sweatshirt. Grey’s gut twists and sparks and she tries desperately not to crawl into his lap and hold him forever.

“And you wouldn’t what, Noah?” she asks him quietly.

He sighs, his hand tightening on her hip. He moves his attention to that hand, and it is now obvious he knew exactly what he was doing when he grabbed her there.

“I wouldn’t be able to see you.”

He needed her so badly that he would have risked his ability to even see her in the first place.

“Oh, Noah…”

If Noah realizes or cares about what he said, he says nothing. He wraps his arms around her waist. He is still shaking, just not as bad as he was. Grey knows this reaction of Noah’s is from fear and anxiety. He needed something to hold on to, something to ground him. And his first thought was her.

So she just cradles him. Being the comfort he needs right now. She is more than happy to be that for him for as long as he’ll allow it.

Grey holds Noah for a good chunk of time. She rocks him back and forth gently, hoping she’s making at least a fraction of a difference for him. She’s thinking she is though, considering he has stopped shaking and is humming an unknown tune into her sweatshirt. Hesitation grasps her as she considers her next words.

“What are you singing?”

Noah grips her hip tightly, and Grey swears she could feel his nails dig into her skin for but a moment. Heat creeps up her neck as she waits for an answer from him.

“One of the songs I wrote,” he murmurs at last. “Just been trying to figure out a melody for it.”

“Yeah? Can I hear some of it?”

Noah shakes his head to himself and pulls back to look up at Grey. There is a soft smile on his face.

“Not in a million years, angel.”

Grey returns his smile with ease. Being like this with him is just that: easy. Being in this position with Noah is one of the easiest things she has ever done. It feels so natural, so right.

And before she can think, Grey has her hand on the side of his face, cradling his cheek despite the mask covering it all. Noah’s lips part minutely as he watches her carefully. A hint of that mania and feral nature shines in his eyes, but not in the way it did previously. Now, it’s as if he wants to show that side of him to her, although this time he doesn’t appear afraid. Almost like he wants her to see it.

Something tugs at her heart, her gut flinching at the sensation. Every part of her body is screaming the same thing: keep him safe. Every vein, every artery, every single ounce of her soul is telling her this is how life is supposed to be. Something is berating her senses to inform her she needs this. That she needs Noah in her life.

But she stops herself from saying any of these feelings or thoughts out loud. She doesn’t want him to run away. Run away from her. Anything but that.

Before her voice can betray her, Grey slowly detaches from Noah, stepping away from him. Noah’s face falls gradually but he doesn’t say a word. Grey settles down on the chair next to the bed, hoping the distance she has put between them helps this feeling run rampant inside her.

“I should go,” Noah says suddenly, too softly.

Noah begins moving towards the window. Grey jumps to her feet without a second thought and stops Noah before he has the chance to climb out onto the fire escape. He pauses in front of the navy blue curtains.

“Thank you, for the other night, by the way,” she tells him. She had been wanting to thank him for staying with her until she fell asleep that one evening. “It really means a lot to me that you would stay like that. No one’s ever done something like that for me, so thank you.”

Noah gives her a lopsided smile. “Of course,” he responds. He stares at her mouth for a long moment before meeting her eyes. “I would want someone to do the same for me. Don’t worry about it.”

“Noah, I’m serious.” She reaches for his hand. “No one has been able to get me to sleep like that. Not since my dad. It’s a really big deal for me.”

The way that Noah is looking at her, is the polar opposite of the aggression and violence that she beheld within him when he first arrived. Now, there is something in his eyes Grey can’t quite put her finger on. She thinks it may be akin to adoration or disbelief or god knows what. But either way, it has her stomach doing somersaults and her head spinning.

“I don’t take that lightly, Grey,” Noah assures her with a squeeze of her hand. His voice is soft and comforting. “I’m glad that I can be of help. ‘Cause, you know, you help everyone, but who’s gonna help you?”

Grey’s throat immediately constricts. Tears prick her eyes before she can get a breath down.

Noah is right, though. She doesn’t let anyone help her, not even Vivian. She hasn’t let anyone help her ever since her dad died. It’s been three years of this.

“Grey.”

Noah’s voice drags her back to the present. And he’s looking at her like she’s important to him, his eyes shimmering with a mix of emotions.

“You’re allowed to ask for help.”

Grey shakes her head to herself and looks down at the carpet. The urge to cry is even stronger now but she swallows back the tears as much as she possibly can. Once she is certain that her tears are held at bay she meets Noah’s eyes once again. And the intense warmth she sees reflected back at her takes her aback, so much so she almost falters where she stands.

“I know. I just don’t like to.” Grey anxiously bites at her lip. “Not when there’s people less fortunate than me that need my help. Until I take care of all of them, I’m fine, okay? I promise.”

One side of Noah’s mouth quirks upward as he says, “I’m gonna prove you wrong one day. I’m gonna be the one to do it for you just to show you it’s okay to ask for help.”

“Oh, so you just wanna prove a point?” Grey fires back at him, but she can’t help the smile that grows on her face. “No helping out of the kindness of your blackened heart? Just proving a point by making me out to be a charity case, is that it?”

“Blackened heart? You wound me.” Noah grins down at her for a moment. “And you aren’t a charity case, Grey. Not to me.”

The urge to cry returns, accompanied by a swooping in her stomach. It’s familiar but not in this context. It reminds her of the big drop on a rollercoaster, when your gut ends up in the back of your throat. But there is no rollercoaster and there is no sudden drop. There is, however, the sudden fear of falling into the unknown. And Grey wants to drown in it.

That’s the exact moment Grey remembers she is holding Noah’s hand. It must cross her features at that very millisecond because Noah gently rubs her knuckles with his thumb. Grey swallows the fear.

They stand like that for a while. Grey is committing everything to memory in case something happens and she truly can’t see him. She selfishly hopes he is doing the same.

Noah is looking at her like she hung the moon. Like she is the only thing worth looking at, like she actually means something to him. She can’t stop the goosebumps from crawling across her skin at the thought.

“I better go,” Noah tells her just above a whisper.

“Okay.”

It takes a few seconds for Noah to finally let go of her hand. When he does it’s with sheer hesitance and Grey giving him a tiny smile.

“Bye, Grey,” Noah says softly.

Then he is climbing back through the window and disappears into the night.

thank you for reading! hope you enjoyed! likes and reblogs are very much appreciated <3

masterlist. the drain masterlist.

iMessage from Noah:

iMessage to Noah 🦐: oh? Would it have anything to do with the thing I told you not to do?

iMessage from Noah: I plead the fifth

iMessage to Noah 🦐: sure, bud how bad is it?

iMessage from Noah: I took Nyquil and tried to stay up to finish a track last night and saw spiders coming out of my walls

iMessage to Noah 🦐: dude what the fuck

You can’t help but stare at the exchange between the two of you, mouth hanging open, trying to figure out why this man thought that fighting a medication meant to put you to sleep was a good idea. Probably because he was zoned in and didn’t want to lose whatever momentum he had. Which, okay, fine. You get that. You’ve been there yourself when you’re working on things—but that usually manifests as forgetting to eat lunch or realizing you haven’t peed despite your body telling you that you needed to nearly an hour ago. You’ve never fought against melatonin and watched spiders crawl out of your walls.

Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to your phone.

iMessage to Noah 🦐: please tell me that someone is there to watch over your dumb ass

iMessage from Noah: haha, you wish. I’m medicated and the designated adult of the house

iMessage to Noah 🦐: oh sweet jesus

iMessage from Noah: 👉👉

iMessage to Noah 🦐: what are you pointing at?

iMessage from Noah: … they’re finger guns nvm you’re uncultured leave me to die in peace

For a moment, you consider it. The only reason he’s in this situation to begin with is because he came over even after you told him no, wearing a mask that wasn’t going to stop the spread of germs in the slightest, and now he had the audacity to complain about being sick? Despite whatever frustration you might feel at this situation being—in your eyes, at least—entirely avoidable, there’s the faintest sliver of guilt that lingers just beneath the surface. You know it isn’t your fault he got sick, that it’s entirely possible he could have gotten it from somewhere else and the timing just looks suspicious.

You also know that you’re absolutely going to go over there with the same kind of get well package that he’d put together for you.

“Lord,” you grumble, locking your phone and shoving it into your pocket before reaching up to drag a hand across your face; palm smooshing your nose down as your fingers rub into your closed eyelids. Alright. This is happening. Hoisting yourself up from where you’d been sitting on your couch, you make your way to the front door and grab your jacket off the hook on the wall and your keys where they hang on the hook beside it. 

Thirty minutes later, you’re standing outside Noah’s front door, the CVS bag held in one hand while your other hand gets shoved into the depths of your jacket pocket; fingers anxiously toying with your keys where they sit inside. You knew the Ring camera caught you as soon as you walked up, but you still lift the bag-carrying hand and press the button beneath the camera, the familiar default chime ringing out loud enough for you to hear through the front door. From the other side, you hear one surprised bark, and then watch as a familiar head pops into one of the front windows.

“Hey, Harp,” you greet, watching as she wiggles excitedly through the open blinds.

Moments later, the sound of the deadbolt getting thrown catches your attention and you look away from the window back to the door just in time to watch Noah yank it open; expression pinched and teetering on the verge of being pissed at having an unexpected visitor show up. As soon as his eyes land on you, however, that expression shifts—face shifting from confused to dawning realization. 

Turnabout’s fair play, isn’t it?

All you do is grin as you hold out the bag of things you collected from CVS like you’re a departed soul attempting to pay passage to Charon with cold medicine and Pedialyte. 

“You look like shit,” you say, unable to stop your grin from growing.

“Eat my entire dick,” is what he greets you with, voice raspy and painful sounding, but he steps aside to give you just enough room to enter.

You take the opening and slide into the living room before he decides that he would rather leave you outside. As soon as you step through, Noah closes the front door behind you, and Harper immediately abandons her post at the window to trot over and say hi; wet nose nudging against your hand the minute you take it from your pocket to reach down and pet her. As you scratch behind her ears, Noah shuffles around you, already making his way toward the stairs to go back and wallow in misery in the comfort of his own room. 

“He’s in a mood, isn’t he?” You tease to the dog, and Noah grumbles something beneath his breath as he starts to ascend the stairs, meanwhile Harper just stares at you with those big eyes of hers before she licks once at your palm. She looks between you and Noah’s retreating form like she isn’t sure who her allegiance belongs to, and all it takes is you waving your hand towards the stairs and going, “C’mon,” for her to bounce up and bound to them immediately—happy for the permission to follow even if it wasn’t yours to give.

You follow the two of them after toeing out of your shoes and giving one last check to make sure the door’s locked behind you before heading upstairs. As you start up the carpeted stairs, you listen carefully to the sounds of the house: beyond the soft creek of the stairs beneath your feet, it doesn’t seem like anyone else is home. Noah was telling the truth when he said he was the only one here. It’s not usual for the rest of the guys to be busy and leave him with the house to himself, though it is rarer than one might imagine. You don’t put five guys under one roof and expect peace and quiet often.

When you finally make it to the top of the stairs and head to Noah’s bedroom, you pause to lean against the door frame, arms crossing over your chest and causing the plastic bag to crinkle slightly with the motion. “So, did everyone abandon you because you’re sick, or what?”

Noah, from where he’s seated at his desk, simply turns his head and levels an unamused look in your direction. 

“Are you here just to be a pain in my ass?” He questions, congested enough you frown.

“I’m here to be a pain in your ass and make sure you’re actually taking care of yourself.”

The way he rolls his eyes is enough to have you biting down on the inside of your cheek to stop from saying something just to be mean. Instead, you push off from the door frame and step further into his room, noting the way the LEDs—currently purple—wash him in an awful glow that only accentuates the dark shadows beneath his eyes. You’d been mostly teasing when you told him he looked like shit downstairs, but looking at him now, you can’t help but wonder if he actually feels worse than he’s letting on.

Placing the bag down at the edge of his desk, you start to rummage through it. “You said you had Nyquil already over text, but I went ahead and bought another box for you.” You pull out one of the same combo packs he had bought for you earlier in the week—except you didn’t spring for name brand, because you’re not made of money and the active ingredients are the exact same for three dollars less. 

“I also went ahead and got some Sudafed for you. You’re welcome, by the way. They had to scan my ID for that.” Your mouth pulls to the side in mock annoyance as you set the box down on the desk. “As well as Mucinex, some throat lozenges, Pedialyte, tea… oh, and a thing of kombucha.” When your haul is finally assembled on the desk in front of you, you wad the plastic bag up and toss it into the small trashcan that Noah keeps beside his desk. It may have been overkill, now that you’re looking at it, but you were the type that liked to be over prepared rather than need something later.

The mention of kombucha is enough to have Noah diverting his attention from whatever project he’s working on, lips thinning as he makes a face and turns his chair to finally assess the spread you’ve laid out beside him. Reaching out, long fingers wrap around the glass bottle you’d picked out from the refrigerated section, and you watch his eyes narrow as they look over the labeling.

“This isn’t the brand I usually get—” He starts to say, lifting his head to look at you.

Whatever look is waiting for him on your own face is enough to have the brunette’s eyes momentarily widening, the bottle making a dull thud as he lowers it back down to the desktop. 

“Uh, thanks,” he quickly corrects, and you aren’t certain whether the pink on his cheeks is from a fever or embarrassment. Instead of commenting on it, you simply make a sound of acknowledgement, picking up the box of Sudafed and reading over the instructions like that’s the thing that matters most right now. 

“When was the last time you took something?” Your eyes drift from the box back to him, and you watch as he rotates the chair slowly from side to side, fingers fidgeting with the hem of the hoodie he’s wearing despite it being the middle of summer. 

“Uh, I think… like… nine this morning?” Noah turns his head to look at the clock in the top right of his monitor, frowning once he realizes what time it is. “Fuck, that was like, seven hours ago?” The time that stares back at the both of you is 4:12pm. “I took something when I got up, but then I sat down and just—” A hand waves at the setup in front of him, frown deepening. “Lost track of time.”

It’s your turn for you to roll your eyes as you work open the box of medicine in your hands, thumbs making easy work of the cardboard. “You really have the survival instincts of a worm, don’t you?”

“A worm?” 

“Yeah, a worm,” you throw back, finally pulling out the blister of pills inside and start working on getting those out, too. “Do you at least know if you’re running a fever?”

“I… uh—I don’t know. I tried to look for the thermometer, but Jolly is usually the one that knows where it is.” There’s the vaguest hint of self-consciousness in his tone, and you watch from the corner of your eyes as he nudges his foot at the carpet beneath his desk. Then, suddenly, he blurts out: “Look, you don’t have to do this. You didn’t have to come over. I can take care of myself.”

You snort. “Yeah, I know I didn’t have to. I wanted to. Now shut up and take this.” 

By that point, you’ve finally managed to open up the blister and pop the pills out, one hand holding them in your curled fist while the other hand holds out the Pedialyte. You watch as his eyes dart from your face, to one hand, then the other in an awkward triangle before he’s reaching out and accepting both medicine and drink from you. Your arms cross over your chest once more as you wait for him to throw back the pills, the plastic of the cap on the drink cracking as he opens it and then takes a long drink from the bottle.

“Happy?” He sighs afterward, capping the drink once more and setting it down beside his mouse.

“Ecstatic.” 

“So… are you gonna let me get back to work, or are you going to hover?” 

“Consider me a helicopter for the next few hours.”

“What does that even mean?”

“I’m hover—y’know what? Never mind.” If this was anyone else, you would have thrown your arms up in a dramatic display and gone in on them for not following the joke that they so obviously set up. Instead, you find yourself looking at him: flushed with what is likely fever, hair mused and disheveled around his face, eyes glassy and red on the lids while the skin beneath is dark with lack of sleep. It’s obvious he’s miserable, and you just don’t have it in you to try and force him into your normal banter when he clearly isn’t up to it.

Without waiting for his permission to make yourself comfortable, you head over to his bed, eyes raking over the unmade bed and deciding that it’s the least of your worries with everything else going on. Dropping yourself down on the edge, you scoot back until your back rests against the short headboard, legs crossing as they stretch out in front of you. Apparently the two of you had made enough noise to have Harper nudging open the door to investigate rather than staying outside, head sunk low as she looks from Noah to you while she trots across the room.

Noah, for now, has turned his full attention back to his computer. You make a kissy sound to get Harper’s attention and watch as the pup’s tail gives an excited wag, then she hops up onto the bed and curls up into a tight ball at the foot of it—the perfect spot to keep an eye on both you and Noah.

You’re not sure how much time passes: quiet had settled over the room as Noah worked on whatever had his attention at the moment, the silence only occasionally broken up by the sound of him sniffling or a sudden coughing spell that had you sitting up straighter until it died down. If you listened closely, you could hear the sound of the AC ticking on and blasting out cold air to keep up with the obnoxiously low temperature that Noah keeps it at, but beyond that, the evening passes around you without fanfare.

Until Noah launches into a coughing fit that has him pushing his chair away from the desk, one hand grabbing tightly at the edge as the other covers his mouth. It sounds awful—wet, hacking coughs that are clearly unproductive. Coupled with the fact that his sinuses are congested, by the time he finishes, he’s dragging in his next breath with a wheeze that has the hair on your arms standing up straight. The commotion is enough for Harper to have lifted her head to look at him, and you’re already on your feet and heading in his direction.

“Shit, hey,” you keep your voice quiet, because speaking too loud feels like it’s going to crack the whole moment wide open. “You’ve got this.” Your hand finds its way to his shoulder, and rather than shrugging you off like you expect him to, you instead feel the tension drop from Noah’s shoulders as he leans back into his chair with a groan.

“Damn, that sucked.” Half-lidded eyes stare up at the ceiling as Noah takes another unsteady inhale, and you hear a rattle that makes you nervous.

“I think you’ve been up long enough, yeah?” 

His head turns lazily to the side, dark eyes shifting to look at you, and there’s a glassiness to them that tells you he’s in the thick of whatever his immune system is trying to work through. Attempting to clear his throat and regretting the decision immediately, Noah shuts his eyes and then gives a small nod. “Yeah, I think m’done.”

Harper stays in place as you help him out of the chair and across the short distance to his bed; up close, you can feel the heat radiating off him. When you get him settled on the edge of the bed, your fingers can’t help but pluck at the fabric of his hoodie sleeves. 

“Hey, do you think we could—?” Your voice trails, uncertain, but you force yourself to push through. “Let’s take your hoodie off, okay? You’re burning up.”

“M’cold,” he mumbles, one hand lifting up to drag across his face.

“I know. I’ll grab some extra blankets for the bed, but I think you’d be more comfortable without it.” As you talk, your hand comes up to his forehead and your worry is only reinforced once you realize he’s running a fever. You don’t need a thermometer to tell you that much—not when touching him feels like putting your hand against the side of an oven. “Go ahead and take it off. I’m gonna grab some blankets and Tylenol for you.” 

“You don’t—”

“If you say ‘don’t have to do that’, I’m going to smother you with a pillow.”

“... can’t suffer when I’m dead.”

“Hoodie. Off.”

It’s the last instruction you give before leaving him to his own devices. You know there’s a linen closet out in the hall where they keep the extra sheets and blankets for the guest bed and you make that your first destination, gathering the small throw blankets into your arms and kicking the door shut before beelining for the bathroom down the hall next. In retrospect, you know that you should have done this in a different order, because trying to rummage through their medicine cabinet with your arms full proves to be an ordeal.

Eventually, though, you find the bottle of acetaminophen and make your way back to Noah’s room.

Stepping inside, you see that he’s slipped beneath the blankets and pulled them up to his chin. Harper’s still curled at the foot of the bed like watching over Noah is her God-given duty, and she barely even lifts her head in acknowledgement as you make your way back. You carefully set the medicine bottle down on his nightstand before dropping the blankets beside the bed, taking them one by one and snapping them out above Noah and then lowering them gently into place. By the time you’re finished, he’s buried beneath two extra throws and his own blankets, practically disappearing beneath the fabric pile.

“I just need one more thing from you,” you warn, nudging at the jut of bare shoulder you can see.

Noah groans and turns his head to bury his face deeper into his pillow.

“Noah, c’mon. I got tylenol so we can get your fever down.”

That’s enough to have him shifting beneath the covers to look at you—barely even half-awake and looking more pitiful than you’ve ever seen him. It takes effort to get him up onto one elbow so he won’t choke when he swallows the pills down, and he practically collapses back into his mattress the minute it’s done. Just when you’re about to turn and make your way downstairs to let him get some sleep, a hand reaches out from beneath the pile of blankets to grab at your wrist.

Surprised, you look back, expecting him to want something before you leave.

“... can you stay?” is the last thing you expected him to say.

Your lips part but no words come. You force them to close, swallowing as you shift nervously beside the bed. 

“... yeah. Yeah, I can stay.”

Carefully, you pull back the blankets and slowly slide in beneath the covers in front of Noah—who backs up just enough to make room for you and not an inch more. When you’re finally horizontal, you stare up at the ceiling above you, not quite sure what to do with your hands.

Then, you feel Noah’s arm move, carefully sliding across your stomach and then cinching tight; hand tucking beneath your back as he pulls you close. Fevered skin finds your shoulder as Noah tips his head to rest against it, already laying on his side facing you while you’re on your back. 

Silence lingers between the two of you before the brunette finally speaks again.

“... thanks,” Noah whispers, eyes already sliding shut. “For staying. For everything.”

Something twists in your chest as you move your own arm to wrap around him, your hand coming to rest on the back of his head to keep him in place.