Chapter 229

Aiden

It had been a few days since the chaos, since the nightmare of the wedding and everything that followed. A few days where, in the quiet moments between the madness, Noah tried to breathe again. And I tried to help him breathe.

We hadn’t talked much about what came next—not yet, not until we had to. But I could see it in his eyes every time he caught my gaze and in the way his hands trembled when he thought no one was looking. Sometimes, he’d just go still for too long, staring off into space, lost in whatever memory haunted him at that moment.

So, yeah, even though we had a future to plan and a shitload of things to figure out about our relationship, football, location… love… It was impossible to build a future while we were still hanging by a bunch of threads that were not resolved yet.

There were things he wasn’t saying. But I wasn’t going to force him to say it. Not yet. I knew he was trying to cope. He was trying to heal. He didn’t need me to push him—he just needed me to be there, to love him, to make him feel safe enough to finally let the weight go when he was ready.

I made it a point to keep things normal. To keep us close.

I’d cook for him—romantic dinners, just the two of us in the kitchen, soft music playing, candlelight flickering. We’d eat, we’d talk, or sometimes we wouldn’t.

Sometimes he’d come up behind me, wrap his arms around my waist while I cooked or washed dishes, and rest his cheek on my shoulder.

God, I loved that. Loved him like that—quiet, warm, trusting.

Other times we’d just stop whatever we were doing and slow dance when one of our songs came on.

“You know how many times I’ve dreamt of this, baby boy?” I asked once as we held each other to A Thousand Years, his voice humming softly against my neck.

“Not more than me, babe… I missed you so much… I thought—I thought I’d never get to hold you again. Sing for you again…” A tear slid down his cheek as his lips brushed mine. “Kiss you again…”

And honestly?

There’d been a moment where I thought the same.

Even now, it felt like something fragile, something that could vanish if we breathed wrong.

So, I started to slowly reintroduce the pieces of us.

Gentle teasing, small commands, little tasks he used to do... Rewards and praise when he pushed through a therapy session or opened up. Subtle touches of our old dynamic—just enough to make him feel strong again, grounded again… powerful even in his submission.

Other times, I’d simply watch over him, kiss every inch of his skin, run my hands through his hair, tell him stories.

I’d read to him from the books he loved, let my voice fill the quiet.

Or we’d watch old classics, letting the world shrink down to a couch, a blanket, and the sound of his breathing against me.

His body would slowly loosen, breath steadying, and for a while, life didn’t feel like a full-time crisis.

But then there were the days Noah couldn’t outrun it.

The nightmares.

The panic attacks.

The long stretches of silence that felt like he was sinking.

It was a dance.

Some days he could carry himself.

Other days I had to hold him—literally hold him—while the panic tore through him. Let him tremble, let him shake, let him fall apart.

I wasn’t going anywhere.

And I made damn sure he knew that.

“I’m right here,” I’d whisper. “You’re safe, baby. I’ve got you.”

And he’d nod, exhausted, too drained to fight anymore. He needed to rest, so I’d hold him. His face would bury into my chest, his arms wrapped around me like he was holding onto something real. Something that wasn’t a nightmare.

Sometimes, I’d think we were doing okay. But then the weight of what he had gone through—what we both had gone through—would settle in like a storm cloud over both of us. I didn’t know how long it would take for him to find his balance again, or if he ever would.

Noah was still grappling with everything, still healing from so much trauma and the public fallout from it all. He had started therapy, as had Lexie. And while Micah was still recovering physically, he was trying to help too—distracting Noah when he could, giving him space to talk about what happened, what had been done to him. It was healing, but it was a slow, painful process.

And I was here for all of it. For every part of him—his highs, his lows, his breakdowns, his quiet moments.

I knew about the court proceedings. Everyone in Noah’s family knew. It wasn’t just about William’s murder. It was about what came after. About the charges Noah’s father faced—the attempted murder of Lexie, Micah, and Noah, the conspiracy, the blackmail. And now the investigation into the hit-and-run that led to the crash. It was a nightmare that wouldn’t end.

We were all going through the motions now, the legal battles unfolding, trying to get through one day at a time. Micah had already given his testimony about the crash, and the forensics had confirmed that it was James’s Toyota that caused it.

The DA had already filed charges.

James Blake was being held pending trial, facing murder charges for William Hart’s death, along with multiple felony charges tied to the crash that nearly killed Micah and Lexie.

The evidence was stacking fast—forensics, eyewitnesses, ballistics, Micah’s testimony.

There was no spinning his way out of this one.

The fact that he had gone after his own family—his own son—still had my blood boiling, even if he was already in jail.

Noah had been avoiding it, but I knew the day was coming when he would have to testify against his father. He’d have to face the man who’d tormented him, who’d broken him, and tell the world what happened. I was a bit worried that having to do that would messed him up big time, but this was my Noah, my strong man, willing submissive, star quarterback… And, hell, I knew he would get through it.

He wasn’t alone anymore. He had me. He had Micah, Hale, Lexie, and the rest of his family. We were all in this together.

A soft sound by the door broke my thoughts. I looked up to see Noah standing in the doorway of the kitchen, still in his sweats, his hair messy from a restless night’s sleep. His tired eyes met mine, and for a brief second, everything felt right again.

He didn’t say anything at first, just leaned against the doorframe, his body slumped. “Hey,” he murmured, voice soft, unsure. But then, like everything else, it was as if the tension in the room shifted. “I’m… I’m ready to talk.”

I set the knife down, wiped my hands on a towel, and crossed the room to him. His face was etched with exhaustion, but there was something else there now. A crack in the wall he’d built up.

“About everything?” I asked, holding his gaze.

He nodded, his jaw tight. “Yeah. About what comes next. About court. About… us. About everything.”

I smiled softly and pulled him into my arms. “I’m here, Noah. Whatever you need, I’m here.”

And for the first time in days, I felt like we could finally take that step forward. Together.