Chapter 105

Noah

While he was still showering upstairs, I scrambled around the kitchen like my life depended on it. Sunday breakfast was usually his thing, his ritual, but today I wanted to flip it—I needed to. Bacon crisped in the pan, sausages sizzled, and eggs turned golden and soft. I burned my fingers on the toast trying to get it just right, poured his coffee the way he liked it—dark, sharp, no sugar—and squeezed oranges until the counter was a mess of pulp and juice. It wasn’t just breakfast. It was an offering. A bribe. My pathetic attempt at smoothing over everything I’d messed up.

When he finally wandered into the kitchen, hair still mussed, eyes moving over me like he was cataloguing, he invited me to sit with a small, almost casual nod. I slid into the chair opposite him, suddenly shy as if we had not just fucked for the third time in the last twelve hours… At this rate I was gonna have to start hydrating… Not that I was complaining.

He stared at me, quietly, long enough that I started to feel stupid. Then he took a breath and said the thing I’d been bracing for since we’d shut the door behind us.

“Noah, we need to talk about last night.”

A grin spread across my face before my brain caught up—some leftover dumb, hot grin that lived in my ribs because of the way he’d taken me in the shower. He raised a brow at me, slow and lethal.

“Not about that, Noah.”

The grin died instantly. My throat tightened. I set my mug down to steady the nervous tremor in my hands.

He was calm—too calm. “I asked you before,” he said, voice low, “if opening things up... seeing other people was what you truly wanted.” He watched me over the rim of his cup like he was seeing if I’d flinch. “I will ask you again.”

My heart thudded, and I heard myself before I thought. “I don’t want it, Sir.” The words came clean and sudden, and everything behind them—fear, shame, relief—followed. “I don’t know how things will go. You’re right—opportunities might come, and paths might split. But while we’re together, I can’t see you with anyone else. I can’t. I’m sorry I asked you to. It felt like a way to have it all at once, and it was selfish.”

He looked at me like he’d been waiting to hear me say it. For a second the look softened into something like pride and something sharper—something that had been hurt and was choosing to forgive. He set his mug down carefully and reached across the table. His hand covered mine, big and warm.

“I hear you,” he said. “I understand why you asked. And if the day ever comes when you choose to walk away—when one of us needs something the other can’t give—I will respect that. I’ll always respect you moving on if you need to.” He squeezed my fingers once, then let go of the grip as if the gesture had cost him something. “But that doesn’t mean I can share you. If it ever happens, it has to be all or nothing. I won’t do halves. I thought I could, but I can’t bear being second place—being split.”

I swallowed, the coffee burning my tongue for no good reason. His words hit me like a boundary and a promise at once. He’d admitted the possibility of separation without softening the line he drew around us: either just him or not him at all.

He reached across again and brushed my knuckles with his thumb, and the motion was equal parts comfort and claim. I looked at him, and whatever storms might be waiting outside the door felt, for the moment, farther away.

Once the talk was over—and holy shit, it turned out to be nothing more than a small lapsus inside our little paradise, lines and boundaries drawn clear again—the rest of Sunday rolled by almost too smoothly. We slipped back into training and lessons like nothing insane had gone down on stage the night before. Domestic chores, homework, drills—it was all normal again.

That evening, he took me out for ice cream, like the very good boy I totally was. He got vanilla—ironically, his favorite flavor—while I licked an overloaded rocky road off the cone and pretended not to notice the smirk on his face every time my tongue dragged over it.

“Keep at it, and I’ll drag you to the restrooms and put that tongue to better use,” he warned me with a smirk.

But the real surprise came after.

“If you’re going to be teaching your friend,” he said, pulling something from the backseat of his car, “then you’ll need one of your own.”

I blinked. “Wait—what?”

He set the case in my lap. A guitar. A fucking guitar. My chest squeezed, my brain short-circuited. I didn’t even know how to thank him—my mouth opened and closed like a fish—but he saved me the trouble by adding, deadpan, “Don’t think this is a selfless gift. I expect you to play for me and give me private performances. Naked, of course.”

I choked on a laugh. “You’re kidding.”

“Do I look like I’m kidding?”

Spoiler: he wasn’t. And yes, the first private, naked, very out-of-practice performance happened that same night, right there at home—me strumming horribly, him laughing his ass off, before he set the guitar aside and bent me over the couch.

By the end of that Sunday, I felt like I had all the plates spinning again—Aiden, football, school, friends. Except for the upcoming talk to Lexie, everything was in order, at least for now. What I didn’t know was how quickly it would all start slipping out of my hands.

My week started like a fucking ton of bricks falling on me. Monday hit and suddenly it felt like every second of my life had been scheduled by some sadistic bastard who hated sleep—oh, wait, it had…

Classes from nine straight through to two. I pretended to care about the fundamentals of physics, the French Revolution, and poetry in the nineteen hundreds—yeah, like verse was gonna save my ass on the field. By three I was out in the sun for practice, lungs burning, legs pumping, giving Coach every ounce I had because I knew he wanted me to shine, and God help me, I loved shining for him.

By five I was stuck in tutoring with the super-hot chick Aiden had picked for me—God knows why he thought she was the right choice. Smart? Yeah. Gorgeous? Absolutely. But what the hell did he expect me to do with that? Oh, well, eye candy, and I was not complaining... When that wrapped, I still dragged my sorry ass to the gym, chasing muscle like it was the only thing keeping me upright. And by seven, I was at Keon’s for guitar, staring at frets and strings until my brain hurt more than my quads.

Holy shit. By the time I left, my muscles felt like lead, my eyelids ready to glue shut. But I didn’t care. Because every night, right after my workout session, like clockwork, there was one ritual that made the whole insane schedule worth it.

The showers.

I’d walk in quiet, head down, ignoring everyone else, straight to the last stall on the right. And there he’d be—Aiden, fully naked under the steamy spray, water sliding over every carved inch of him like some X-rated cologne ad. I’d strip fast, my body buzzing no matter how exhausted I was, and then I’d drop to my knees on the wet tile, exactly where I belonged.