Chapter 165

Aiden

We got home well past midnight, the night air still thick on my skin, the adrenaline of the performance lingering like a pulse I couldn’t quite shake. Micah followed two steps behind me, silent now, no trace of the bright stage persona left in him—just the soft, obedient presence I had once known better than anyone.

I hadn’t thought ahead of that moment. He had driven himself here earlier today and I had assumed he could just drive back. At the doorway, he hesitated.

“Sir.” His voice was quiet. “Would you allow me to stay? Just… like before. Not as anything more. Just to be near you. I won’t ask for anything. I only—”

He swallowed.

“I just want to be where you are tonight.”

I should have said no.

I should have remembered what lines were for.

But I was too tired to fight ghosts and, after all, he had had a couple of drinks and a part of me knew better than putting Micah behind the wheel after the high intensity scene he’d just undergone, and with alcohol in his system.

“…Yes,” I said. “You can stay.”

Micah didn’t smile—but something in him eased.

He helped me out of my jacket first, folding it carefully. Then my shirt. He didn’t touch me the way a lover would—he touched me like something sacred. Reverent. Thoughtful. The kind of touch that knew history and weight.

When he slid my shirt from my shoulders, his breath slowed. His eyes lifted to mine, and the space between us tightened, charged with something familiar—something dangerous. He leaned in, just barely, close enough that I could feel his breath on my lips. For a heartbeat, we hovered there, suspended.

But I couldn’t do it.

Not with this grief lodged in my chest.

Not with Noah’s ghost in the room.

Things had gone too far. Everything I had been doing—every plan, every lie, every sacrifice—had been for him. My plan had been simple at the start: take the blame for everything. Admit I had crossed lines with a player. Accept being fired. Face disgrace. And if Noah pressed charges—even prison. Then make sure he never followed me. Make sure his career stayed intact. His future bright. His family cared for.

It had made sense because even if Noah believed, right now, that he wanted to choose me forever instead of the NFL… I knew someday he might resent me for it.

But then I remembered he had done the same thing for me—when he accepted William’s deal. He made a choice alone, thinking it was protecting me.

And suddenly it was so clear it hurt.

This wasn’t my decision to make.

It wasn’t his alone either.

It was ours.

If Noah had really chosen me over everything—then to hell with every plan, every rule, every consequence. I could still take the blame, yes. No more football for me. Fine. But he could still sign with another team—far from William—and why couldn’t I go with him? If he didn’t mind us being a secret, why should I? I loved him. I loved him so much it was stupid. If he wanted me in every hidden hotel room, every back hallway, every city we found ourselves in—then I would take that. Gladly. I would rather be his shadow than live a life without him.

The realization hit so hard it made me dizzy. Warm. Alive.

I leaned forward and pressed my lips—not to Micah’s mouth—but to his forehead.

A benediction.

A goodbye.

“It’s been a long night,” I murmured. “Go take the guest room.”

Micah’s eyes flickered—hurt, acceptance, devotion all at once.

He bowed his head.

“Yes, Sir.”

He left quietly.

I lay down alone—heart pounding—but for once, not with dread. With hope. I pictured Noah and me in Houston. He could rise like the star he is, and I would wait for him at home, or slip into his arms behind closed doors, and we would make it work. One day, when the world forgot the scandal, I would take his hand in public. I would kiss him under open sky. And no William Hart would ever own him again.

Tomorrow, I would call him.

I would tell him we could choose each other.

If he still wanted me.

God, I loved him.

My Noah.

My boy.

Sleep pulled me under slowly, heavy, warm—and in the dream, he was there. His body against mine. His arm slipping around my waist. His breath steadying my own.

I turned toward him, the way I had so many nights before.

Held him.

Buried my face in the place where his shoulder met his neck.

Everything in me loosened.

Unraveled.

For the first time in weeks, I exhaled without pain. I had a plan for tomorrow—a plan that included the both of us, if that was still what he wanted. But right now, in my dreams, I was already holding him, cradling him.

Sleep pulled me deeper, and the dream shifted.

Warmth pressed against my body, an arm slipping around my back, fingers tracing the line of my hips. I felt lips brush my shoulder—soft, familiar, the kind of touch that didn’t ask permission because it already belonged. I leaned into it instinctively, my body recognizing the presence before my mind could.

His mouth found my neck, trailing slow, unhurried kisses up to my jaw. I breathed out, relaxing into the weight of him. In the dream, I didn’t have to think. I didn’t have to choose. I simply felt.

I pressed closer to him, half-asleep, half-aware, my hand finding the back of his head, threading through his hair. His breath mingled with mine. Our foreheads touched. “My baby boy…” I whispered—soft, reverent, aching.

He kissed me—light at first, then deeper, coaxing something loose inside me. My hips moved without thought, seeking him, wanting the closeness we’d been starving for. The dream wrapped around me like heat, like relief, like coming home.

I held him tighter.

As I felt his teasing as real as day, his warmth, his naked body intertwined with mine, I responded like so many times before, bucking toward his erection, grinding our cocks together, as he moaned, trembling against my body—his hands pulling me impossibly closer, his lips descending with gentle kisses down my chest, my stomach…

Oh, baby, yes—please… I pleaded in my sleep, feeling him go lower, his hot mouth engulfing my cock and driving me to the edge of insanity…

My boy. My undoing…

I went with it, taking it all in. And I never once realized…

…that the body pressed against mine

wasn’t Noah’s at all.