Chapter 167

Aiden

The dream went on.

Noah’s warmth was pressed against me, his breath soft against my thigh as he moved with slow, devastating intention. My fingers were threaded in his hair, guiding him, my chest tight with something that felt like relief as I fucked his mouth. I whispered his name—broken, reverent—because nothing in the world had ever undone me like the way he touched me.

I felt myself unraveling under him, my body yielding, everything inside me loosening at once. I was drowning in him, in us, in the idea that nothing and no one could take this from me anymore. I clung to the dream, to the safety of it, to the feeling of being wanted and known—

—and then a flash of light tore through the room.

A sharp sound.

A soft thump against the door.

The dream dissolved.

I opened my eyes.

Noah was standing in the doorway. This time it was real. It was him in the flesh… My baby was here!

But, his face was pale, his eyes wide and unfocused, his breath jerking in his chest like he’d been hit. He looked wrecked—devastated—like the ground had just fallen out from under him.

I sat up, disoriented, heart hammering.

The room swam.

Something warm shifted against my hip.

And it was only then—only in that terrible, splintering second—that I realized my hand was still in someone’s hair.

Not Noah’s… But then, whose—? Realisation hit me like a sledgehammer to my skull. To my heart.

Micah’s.

He was the one in my bed.

His lips. His breath. His body.

He’d been—

My stomach dropped so hard I couldn’t breathe.

No.

No, no, no—God, no.

I hadn’t known.

I had been asleep.

I thought—I thought it was—

Noah’s face shattered.

His mouth opened—no sound at first—just air, just broken air, before a single, quiet, wounded sound escaped him, small enough to ruin me.

He shook his head once.

Slow.

Disbelieving.

Like he was begging the world to reverse itself.

“Noah—” My voice cracked. I was already reaching for him, already trying to move, to speak, to explain—but there were no words big enough to stop what he’d seen.

He stepped back.

Tears blurred his eyes instantly, sharp and shiny, falling too fast to blink away.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

It sounded like something dying.

He turned.

“Noah, wait—please—” I stumbled from the bed, the room spinning, panic scraping the inside of my ribs. “I didn’t— No, listen to me— I didn’t know—”

He was already moving.

Fast.

Violent.

Like he needed to get out or he’d stop breathing.

He grabbed his shoes, his jacket, his body shaking so hard he could barely get the sleeve on. I reached him at the doorway—my hand catching his arm, desperate—

“Please,” I begged. “Please, look at me—”

He wrenched away like my touch burned.

“Don’t you fucking touch me!”

The words ripped from him, raw and shredded, his face wet and twisted with grief.

“You wanted us over?” His voice broke in half. “You got it.”

And then he was gone.

The door slammed.

The engine roared.

And Noah tore into the night like he was running from the end of the world.

I stood in the doorway barefoot, shaking, the cold hitting me too late.

I didn’t breathe.

I couldn’t.

I had just lost him.

Not because I betrayed him.

But because he thought I did.

And I didn’t know how to fix something that broke this fast.

The house fell silent the moment Noah’s motorcycle faded into the distance. I stood frozen in the doorway, the cold air creeping over my skin, until the numbness shattered.

My knees buckled, and I sank to the floor, my hands gripping my head as if I could hold myself together by force alone. A broken sound tore from my chest—raw, guttural, aching. I hadn’t made a sound like that in years. It felt like something inside me had split open and everything I’d been holding back was pouring out uncontrollably. I didn’t know how to breathe. I didn’t know how to think. All I could feel was the crushing, relentless weight of losing him.

What had I done? Why now? Why now, when I had finally found the courage to choose him, to imagine a life where we could be together, to believe we had a chance? I had just built the future in my mind—some fragile little house of hope—and now it was crumbling in my hands before I could even show it to him. The agony of it was staggering.

Footsteps approached, soft and uncertain. Micah knelt beside me, his presence careful, hesitant, as if he didn’t know whether to touch me or disappear. “Sir… Aiden… please,” he whispered, his voice shaking. “I don’t understand. You were… you said…” He swallowed hard, eyes glistening. “I thought you wanted this. I thought—you pulled me closer. I thought you wanted me.”

I looked up at him, and for the first time I actually saw him. Not the boy I had once held when he needed someone. Not the student who had relied on my guidance. Just Micah—kneeling on the floor beside me, bewildered and hurting and ashamed. The realization hit with devastating clarity.

“I told you to sleep in the guest room,” I said, and the words came out hoarse, almost unrecognizable. “You disobeyed me.”

Micah flinched, tears gathering faster. “I just wanted to be close to you. You were hurting. And when you pulled me in, when you held me, I thought—Aiden, I thought you wanted me. I thought you were choosing me again.”

My throat burned. “I thought it was him,” I said, barely above a whisper. “That’s why.”

Micah’s face broke, the expression crumpling into something devastated and small. I continued, voice shaking but firm, “I told you that nothing was going to happen away from the stage. I told you that there was no us anymore. I told you I wasn’t yours.”

Micah’s breath stumbled. “You said you two were over,” he said, his voice barely holding together. “You said it was done. How was I supposed to know? I thought you still… loved me.”

I didn’t shout. I didn’t accuse. The anger wasn’t loud—it was grief. I spoke quietly, and it was worse than shouting.

“I love him.”

Micah closed his eyes, a single tear falling as he nodded—slowly, painfully—as though that acknowledgment pulled something out of him by the roots. He was crying openly by then, but not loudly. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. Or you. I just… thought you and I had a chance.”

He stood with care, as if moving too quickly might cause both of us to shatter. He dressed in silence. No excuses. No pleading. No anger. Just the quiet acceptance of something that had always been true.

At the doorway, he paused. He didn’t look back. “I’m so sorry—I love you…” he said softly, his voice breaking on the last word.

Then he left.

And I was alone in the aftermath, surrounded by the pieces of a future I had almost believed in. The boy I loved was out there, hurting and alone, thinking I had betrayed him. And I had to go find him. I had to try, no matter what it cost.