Chapter 22 Chapter 22
Emily's POV
I should have been asleep. It was the first thought looping through my head as I stared at the ceiling in the dark. 6 AM was approaching fast. It didn't care that my brain refused to shut off. I rolled onto my side and checked my phone. It was 11:47 PM.
Rapid loud gunfire that was relentless came from the lounge followed by Noah's voice. “Are you kidding me? That was a headshot!” More gunfire and something exploding happened. “SEAN, YOU MISSED THAT-”
I sat up slowly, I was about to make a bad decision. But I tried to ignore it. For thirty-seven minutes, I had put in earphones, turned on the white noise, counted breaths and even reviewed tomorrow’s rehab schedule in my head.
Nothing worked, because Noah was playing some aggressive, chaotic, unnecessarily loud game like it was a competitive sport. Which, knowing him, it probably was. I swung my legs over the side of the bed.
“Don’t do it,” I muttered to myself. But then there was another explosion, which was way louder this time.
I stood up. So much for self-control. I opened my bedroom door. As I walked down the hallway the apartment lights were dim, but the lounge glowed blue from the TV screen. Noah sat sprawled on the sofa, controller in hand, completely absorbed. He was was wearing headsets. He was focused and alive in a way that was both irritating and… oddly captivating.
“Behind you!” he shouted. “No-left-LEFT-”
I crossed my arms. “Noah.” He didn't respond. “NOAH.” Still nothing. He leaned forward slightly, his eyes were locked on the screen.
“Don’t die-don’t die-don’t-”
“NOAH.” He flinched. He actually flinched before he slowly turned his head amd pulled one side of the headset off.
“What?”
I stared at him. “You are being loud.”
“It’s a game.”
“It’s almost midnight.”
“So?”
“So I have an early session tomorrow.”
“So do I.”
“Then why are you awake?”
He gestured at the screen. “Because I’m winning.”
I closed my eyes for a second. Of course he was. “Turn it down.”
“It is down.”
“It is not down.”
“It’s lower than before.”
“That is not the same thing.” My blood began to boil.
He paused the game and leaned back against the sofa. “You’re very intense at night.”
“You’re very inconsiderate at night.”
“I live here.”
“So do I.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Since when do you sleep early?”
“Since always.”
“That’s boring.”
“That’s being responsible.”
He smirked. “That’s subjective.”
I stepped further into the lounge. “Noah, your recovery depends on proper sleep.”
“My recovery is fine.”
“You’re pushing your body every day.”
“That’s called training.”
“That’s called strain when you don’t rest.”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re doing the thing again.”
“What thing?”
“The lecture thing.”
“I’m not lecturing you.”
“You are definitely lecturing me.”
“I’m reminding you of basic physiology.”
He picked up the controller again. “You’re overthinking it.”
I reached forward and pressed the power button on the console. The screen went black and silence dropped into the room. He stared at the TV before slowly turning towards me.
“You just did not do that.”
“I did.”
“You turned off my game.”
“Yes.”
“In the middle of a match.”
“Yes.”
He stood up slowly. The energy in the room shifted instantly. “You can’t just control everything,” he said.
“I’m not controlling everything.”
“You just turned off my console.”
“You’re being irresponsible.”
“It’s a game.”
“It’s midnight.”
“So?”
“So you need sleep.”
“I’ll sleep.”
“When?”
“Later.”
“That’s not how recovery works.”
“That’s not how my life works.”
I crossed my arms. “Your life is the reason you’re injured.”
That landed and I saw it in the way his jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”
“It’s accurate.”
He took a step closer. “And what?” he said. “You’re going to fix that too?”
“I’m trying to help you.”
“I didn’t ask you to fix my entire life.”
“I’m not fixing your life,” I snapped. “I’m managing your rehabilitation.”
“It feels like the same thing.”
“Because you don’t separate the two.”
“Maybe because you don’t either.” The words hit harder than I had expected.
I frowned. “What is that supposed to mean?”
“It means,” he said, running a hand through his hair, “You treat everything like a schedule.”
“That’s because structure works.”
“Not everything needs structure.”
“Your recovery does.”
“My life doesn’t.”
“Your life affects your recovery.”
“And your recovery affects your entire mood apparently.”
I stared at him. “You think this is about my mood?”
“I think you’re frustrated.”
“I am frustrated.”
“Why?”
Because you don’t take anything seriously, you make everything harder than it needs to be. Because you...
I stopped. The words caught somewhere in my throat.
He watched me carefully. “Say it.”
I exhaled slowly. “You don’t respect the process.”
He didn’t respond immediately. He looked at me like he was trying to figure something out.
“You’re not just talking about rehab,” he said quietly.
“I am.”
“No, you’re not.” He said.
I shook my head. “This is about discipline.”
“This is about control.”
“This is about results.”
“This is about you needing everything to make sense.”
That stung. “Of course I need things to make sense.”
“Not everything does.”
“That’s not how success works.”
“That’s not how life works.”
I laughed softly. “That’s exactly why people fail.”
“And what?” he said. “You never fail?”
I didn’t answer. Because the truth was... I hated failing. I avoided it, I plan around it. I controlled everything I could to prevent it.
Noah stepped closer again, just enough to close the distance. “You don’t leave room for anything unexpected,” he said.
“That’s the point.”
“Maybe that’s the problem.”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Yes.”
“Noah...”
“You plan everything,” he continued. “Your day, your schedule, my rehab, your meals and your sleep.”
“Because it works.”
“But you don’t adapt.”
“I do adapt.”
“Only when it fits your plan.”
“That’s not true.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Then why does everything feel like a rule with you?”
I opened my mouth to argue but then stopped, because I didn’t have a clean answer.
He watched me closely. “You’re not just trying to fix my shoulder,” he said quietly.
“I know that.”
“You’re trying to fix me.” I didn't think about it like that. Was I?
“I’m not-”
“You are.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“Are you?”
“Yes.”
“Then why do you care this much?”
The question hit something deeper that was uncomfortable. “I care about my work.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
“It’s the same thing.”
“It’s not.”
Silence filled the room. The kind that felt heavier than noise.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair again and sat back down on the sofa.
For a moment, neither of us spoke. “You care too much about fixing me.” He said quietly.
The words weren’t mocking or sarcastic. They were… observant. And that made them worse.
I swallowed. “I care about my job.” The answer came out automatically, like a reflex... Something I've said before. But the moment it left my mouth... I knew it sounded wrong, flat and incomplete.. not entirely true.
Noah didn’t respond. He just looked at me. He didn’t look irritated, he looked like he understood something I hadn’t said, which somehow made it harder to breathe.
I turned away. “I’m going to bed.”
He didn’t stop me, he didn’t even argue or tease. He just sat there quietly as I walked back towards my room. I closed the door behind me, leaning against it for a second. My heart was still beating too fast. My thoughts were too loud, because the worst part wasn’t the argument, it wasn't the noise or his stubbornness. It was that question.
Why do you care this much?
And the answer I gave didn’t feel true anymore, which meant something had changed and I wasn’t sure I liked what that meant.