đ warnings/tags: , established relationship, pure fluffiness, just Noah doing his boyfriend duties :3 // all of my writings are fictional only and none of it is actually accurate to anyone mentioned in real life, this is just for fun and entertainment!!
đïž ; rosieâs note ⊠! HELLLLOOO so sorry I disappeared again </3 life has been super busy lately, but after seeing the merch drop and that Noah had his nails painted!!! plus his hair is so long in the new photos!!!! It got me inspired to write a little something about painting his nails <3 đ„č
âSo you only want a star?â You asked, double checking again on what he wanted before you started drawing the design.
âMhm just like yours.â
Your heart warmed instantly.. Noah truly did mean every word he said whenever he had offered himself as tribute for you to practice on just a couple of weeks ago, when you had mentioned to him that you were interested in starting to do your own nails at home. Itâs been quite a journey but the fact that he was now wanting to match with you, was the sweetest gesture.
During his first set you vividly remember just how excited he was, mostly from his rambling while swapping out different colors about how it had been a long while since he had his nails painted again so this was nice. He also just didnât want to admit that he liked being pampered and seriously did all of that swapping just to choose black..
Another thing that would drive you nuts was no matter how bad or ugly some of the first few sets came out heâll absolutely refuse to let you take them off of him, despite how much you hated them. Noah literally walk around with them loud and proud.
Within time though the more practicing you did, the better you started getting. which Noah loved witnessing proudly, you guys would always either be listening to music, watching a show or movie, even just yapping away, however you would have to be calling his attention to stop moving around so much at times.
Because my goodness..
Obviously he waited until his hand was in the lamp to move, first by taking small steps like either playfully poking at your nose, gently squeezing your cheek or making a silly joke to get you to laugh, one way or another, all he wanted was to hear your laugh or at least a smile, especially after seeing you with such a serious face.
And of course the many amounts of little kisses and praises he would give you in between, was always a favorite.
âHave I ever told you that your the best boyfriend ever.â You spoke in a soft tone yet slowly, since you were trying to focus on drawing the black star on his middle nail, stabling your pinky against his other finger in order for your hand to not shake.
Noah stood quiet, patiently waiting until his hand yet once again returned into the lamp to respond, knowing that whenever you were drawing a design you needed to concentrate in silence, a view he loved admiring, or as he claims, thinks you look cute.
âA few times, here and there.â He remarked, pushing back a little strand of hair behind your ear that had fallen from your messy bun with his free hand.
You curved a sweet smile before leaning in forward to place a quick kiss on his lips âIâm serious, thank you for sitting through almost like two hours for this.â
He hummed in response, âwell my butt is a little numb but itâs 100% worth it, especially when I get these fire looking nails each time.â
You snorted out in a laugh. âOh god Noah.â
After the beep went off, you applied both cuticle oil and a bit of moisturizer in his hands. He always loved the little hand massage you gave him while doing so.
âSo cash or credit?â
Noah pursed his lips together as he took a good look at his new nails âhm Iâm afraid I have neither on me right now.â
âYikes.. better start thinking of a way to pay up then pretty boy.â You said, getting up to go start putting away your supplies but Noah reached out to grab your hands, stopping you in movement before he brought you over down onto his lap.
âCould cuddles be a possible payment?â He whispered into your ear, wrapping his arms around your torso as he trailed light kisses along the side of your neck.
âI could consider that offer.â
âI give good ones.â His kiss finally leading up to your cheek.
You rested your head against his and stroked your hand along his arm slowly, âI know, I get them everyday.â
âButâ he questioned, even though he already knew what you might of been wanting.
âI want food firstâ you announced, quickly standing up to drag him to the kitchen.
summary: so what if noah wants to spoil you? thatâs why you have his card.
warnings: little to none, suggestive near the end.
a/n: okay i donât know what this is really but i just had to get it out there. i cannot stop thinking of this pic of noah and just the thought of him being so insistent on spoiling you. enjoy!
the first time noah handed you his card, it was casual.
you were standing in his kitchen, barefoot on cool tile, wearing one of his hoodies and a pair of biker shorts, hair still damp from a shower. he was leaning against the counter, watching you scroll through your phone while you debated whether to order a new pair of shoes you had been eyeing for some time now.
âthose are cute,â he said.
âtheyâre expensive,â you countered, glancing at him. âi donât need them.â
noah tilted his head, eyes steady and unreadable in that way that always made your stomach flip. âhow much?â
âalmost three hundredâ
he didnât even blink. he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and slid his card across the marble like he was pushing poker chips. âuse mine.â
you laughed. ânoah.â
âiâm serious.â
âi have moneyâ you reminded him, crossing your arms. âi work. im not helpless.â
he pushed off the counter and stepped closer, hands sliding around your waist until your back brushed the island. his voice dropped, soft but firm.
âi know youâre not helplessâ he said. âthatâs not the point.â
âthen what is?â
his jaw flexed slightly. âi want to.â
there was something in his tone that made heat creep up your neck. it wasnât condescending. it wasnât dismissive.
it was possessive.
âyou donât have to take care of me like thatâ you murmured.
noahâs thumb brushed the hem of his hoodie where it swallowed your thighs. âbut i want to be the one who does.â
it started small after that.
you were half-curled against him on the couch, your legs draped over his lap while some show played ignored in the background. his fingers were absently tracing patterns along your calf, attention split between you and his phone. âgive me your phoneâ he said, already reaching for it.
you blinked. ânoah.â
âjust give it.â
you watch him type in your passcode, searching for apps, then type in some random number before handing your phone back.
you picked up your phone. his name sat there under the digital card like it belonged. sleek, black, and unmistakably his.
âwhat did you just do?â you asked, already knowing.
he finally looked at you. âso you donât have to worry about it anymore.â
âabout what?â
âpaying for things.â
your stomach tightened. You shifted upright, but his hand slid from your calf to your thigh, steadying you there. not trapping, just grounding. his thumb pressed slow into the soft of your skin.
âi can pay for my own thingsâ you said carefully.
âi know.â
there wasnât a hint of doubt in his voice.
âi donât want you to.â
your pulse fluttered. âwhy?â
his gaze dropped briefly to where his hand rested on you before lifting again.
âbecause I like itâ he admitted quietly. âi like knowing youâre taken care of.â
you tried to laugh it off, but your breath came out thinner than you meant it to. âyouâre pushyâ
his mouth curved faintly. âuou have no idea.â
the first time you used it, you held the phone over the pinpad, his card lighting up the top half of your screen. his name sat there at the top of your payment methods.
you were out with your girlfriends, as you tend to do on off days. there was a new store that opened downtown and was totally your style.
a few pieces had caught your eye, and youâve been wanting to expand your wardrobe.
so, there you stood at the checkout with noahâs card on display.
you inhaled and tapped.
approved.
your phone buzzed before you even got your items bagged.
noahđ€: you used it.
you: yeah, i did.
the typing bubble appeared almost instantly.
noahđ€: good.
another message.
noahđ€: thatâs my girl.
you stare at the screen longer than you should have. your friends were laughing about something, but their voices felt distant.
you didnât know why those three words settled so deep in your chest.
when you got back to his place that evening, he was sitting at the edge of the bed, elbows braced on his knees, phone loose in his hands.
he didnât look up right away. âhave fun?â
you leaned against the doorway. âi did.â you say, now moving around the bedroom to set your bags on the edge of the bed next to him.
now he looked at you.
âyou turned on notifications?â you ask, quirking up an eyebrow.
âi didâ he said.
âwhy?â
âi like knowing i pay for things.â
heat crept up your spine.
you swallowed âyouâre ridiculous.â
he stood then, closing the distance between you in two slow steps. his hand slid to your waist, fingers spreading just enough to make you aware of how easily he could pull you closer.
âi work hardâ he murmured. âlet me spend it on you.â
you stay in place, lookinh inti his eyes. you nod, âokay.â your voice is soft.
he leans in, pressing a kiss to the edge of your mouth. teasing. âgoodâ
it became routine faster than you expected.
coffee on your way to work? tap.
dinner with your mom? gap.
a rideshare when it was raining? yap.
at first, every single time made your stomach flip. youâd glance at your phone, waiting for the inevitable text.
and it always came.
noahđ€: use it babe.
noahđ€: good.
noahđ€: was lunch good baby?
he never asked what you bought. never asked for receipts. never questioned amounts.
he only cared that it was his card.
eventually, the hesitation faded. It became second nature. his name glowing at the top of your screen like it had always been there.
still, you made a rule.
nothing over six hundred dollars at once.
you didnât tell him. it was just something for yourself. a quiet line you wouldnât cross. a reminder that you could still stand on your own two feet.
the boutique was soft lit and quiet, the kind of place that made everything feel more expensive than it probably was.
you hadnât meant to find it.
the dress.
it hung near the back, silk that caught the light like water, low-backed, delicate straps, the kind of thing that would make noah go silent in that dangerous way he did when he was trying to hold himself together.
you checked the tag.
$1,120.
your chest tightened.
too much.
you stepped away immediately, heart already racing at the thought of it.
your phone buzzed in your hand.
noahđ€: still shopping?
you exhaled slowly.
you: yeah.
noahđ€: finding anything?
you: i did.
noahđ€: show me.
your fingers trembled just slightly as you lifted the phone and snapped a picture and sent it before you could overthink it.
the facetime call came seconds later.
you answered.
he was in the studio, dim lighting carving shadows along his jaw, black shirt clinging to his shoulders. his expression shifted the moment he saw the dress on screen.
âshow meâ he said quietly.
You did.
Silence.
âThat one.â he decided.
âItâs over a thousandâ you said quickly, showing off the tag.
âand?â
your throat went dry. âi donât spend that much at once.â
his eyes flicked back to your face.
âwhy?â
you hesitated.
âbecause i donât want to get used to this. because i donât want to feel dependent. because i donât want you thinking I need you for that.â
âit feels excessiveâ you admitted.
you watch him lean back in his chair, studying you like you were something fragile he was trying not to shatter.
âbaby.â he said softly, but there was steel underneath. âyou think i add my card to your phone for small purchases only?â
your pulse hammered. âitâs a lot of money, noah.â
âi know exactly how much it is.â
his voice dropped lower.
âi want you to use it. buy it.â
the boutique felt warmer. smaller. your thumb hovered over the screen again, the price glowing at you.
âyouâre sure?â
he didnât hesitate.
âi want to see it go through.â
your breath faltered.
you stared at the total for three long seconds.
then you tapped.
approved.
the sound of it processing felt louder than it should have.
on the screen, noah exhaled slowly
satisfaction.
âgoodâ he murmured.
your knees felt weak.
âbring it homeâ he added, voice darker now. âput it on for me.â
when you stepped into his bedroom later that night wearing the silk, the tension snapped tight between you.
he didnât touch you at first.
he just looked.
his eyes traveled slowly, deliberately, memorizing the way the fabric clung to your waist, dipped along your spine, traced your hips.
his hands slid slowly along the silk at your waist, reverent, possessive in a way that made your pulse stutter.
âlook at youâ heâd mutter quietly, breath hot on your skin. and the way his lips finally found yours. slow, controlled, almost grateful. he made it very clear that this had never been about the price tag.
his hand found the backside of the dress, his calloused palm splayed over your skin, causing goosebumps.
ânoahâ you say against his lips, but he says nothing. heâs too busy remembering the way your body feels under his touch, even when heâs done this a thousand times.
then, âi love knowing i take care of you.â he mutters against your skin.
âall pretty in a dress i paid forâ heâs absolutely drunk on you. âspoiling you..â
your hands fist the fabric of his shirt, âbabeâ you try again, but to no avail.
his nose brushes against the curve of your neck. his hands are everywhere.
he finally pulls away. he rests his forehead against yours. âtake it off.â
you blink.
âwhat?â
âtake it offâ he repeats. his hand reaches up to the strap of your dress.
ânoah, this dress was expen-â
he shuts you up with another kiss. it wasnât slow like the other ones. this one was messy and rough. âdonât care. take it offâ
heâs already working off the second strap.
âi want youâ he says, guiding the silk fabric.
Series summary: Nearly a year after Noah quit fighting, a suspicious death pulls him back into the underground scene, and this time, the truth may cost him everything.
Tw: gun violence, injury, physical assault, unethical medical experimentation, drugs, fighting, mentions of death
Series masterlist
Less than two days after you had handed the phone to Dean, you were sitting at your kitchen table with it placed between you and Noah.
Dean had told you that he had taken it to a guy heâd met years earlier in a bar outside of town, who lived around the fighting place area. His house was full of computers, electronic devices, and various cables, and it always smelled of marijuana. Within a few hours, he had unlocked the phone, saying it had been one of the easiest things he had done in his entire life.
It was late afternoon. The light coming through the window was dull and fading. Alpine kept weaving between your legs and Noahâs, tail flicking, and you reached down to pet her head for a quick moment.
Noah was the one who picked the phone up first.
You watched his hands. They were steady, but only because he was forcing them to be, just like when he wrapped them or when he was on the ring.
He unlocked it, and the screen lit up with a default wallpaper. Nothing personal, just something that looked like it had never been changed since the day it was bought.
He took a slow breath.
Then the two of you started digging.
You found photos, messages, emails and call logs.
You lost track of time. It must have been close to an hour of silent scrolling, leaning closer and closer over the table, occasionally exchanging looks.
There was a chat with a number saved only as âCâ and you didnât even need to say it, of course it was Costa.
Noah opened it.
The last messages were recent.
âSebastian and his girl know something,â Costa sent.
âYou know what to do.â
You scrolled up.
Older messages. A long chain of conversations that somehow managed to be vague and horribly specific at the same time.
âIf he doesnât accept, we take him by force. Iâll need your help.â
âOkay. Tomorrow?â
âYes.â
Another thread.
âA says the next dose will be ready soon. Marcus is losing his mind. For now we have him tied up and kept at the base.â
You stopped reading.
âWho the hell is A?â you whispered.
âAnd who is Marcus?â Noah added quietly.
Steveâs replies, every time, were short, obedient and efficient.
No questions and no hesitation.
Then an email caught your eye.
You opened it, you read it once and then again.
âDo not use weapons. Make it look like an accident and do not ask anyone for help. If I see even a single journalist suspect it wasnât a suicide, youâre next.â
Silence fell over the kitchen, and not the comfortable kind.
Noah was still staring at the screen.
âThey killed Elijah,â he said finally.
You didnât answer.
âTheyâre keeping someone locked up somewhere because he didnât react the way they expected to their drug,â he went on, eyes scanning the old messages again. âAnd then they tried to kill us.â
Another pause.
âAll of this is insane.â
The word insane felt too small for it.
He leaned back in the chair, dragging a hand over his face. For a moment he just stared at the ceiling, like he was trying to keep himself together by force.
You watched him swallow.
Inside his head, everything was louder.
Elijahâs name echoed.
A man tied up somewhere. âThe base.â
You.
You in the passenger seat while that car forced you toward the edge of the road. You gripping the door frame. You almostâ
His stomach twisted.
He loved you. That was the worst part.
If he didnât love you this much, maybe it would be easier. Maybe he would have walked away from all of this already.
Instead, every decision now felt like a calculation between justice and your safety, and he was failing at both.
He dragged you into this.
The thought was relentless.
You hadnât asked for any of it. Not the fights. Not the corruption. Not Costa. Not a cop trying to run you off the road.
And yet you were sitting here, in your kitchen, reading death threats because of him.
He felt anger rise in his chest, and it was a familiar feeling.
At Costa.
At the fights.
At the stupid underground world that had swallowed him whole and convinced him he was only worth something when he was bleeding in a ring.
At himself.
Mostly at himself and his stubborn mind. Because he went back to fighting.
And now you were in it too.
His hands curled into fists on the table.
âI donât even know what to do,â he admitted quietly.
That was the truth that scared him most.
In the ring, he always knew what to do. You move. You block. You hit back.
Out here?
Just shadows and threats and emails telling people to stage suicides.
And under all of it, something uglier twisted inside him.
A flicker of anger at you. Not because youâd done anything wrong.
But because you stayed. Because you kept choosing him. Because you looked at him like he was worth loving even when he felt like the worst person in every room.
Part of him wanted to shake you and say, Why are you still here?
Why are you risking your life for someone like me?
He hated that thought the second it appeared.
He hated himself for it.
His shoulders slumped.
You forced yourself to look back down at the screen, refusing to let the silence swallow the two of you whole, because if you stayed in that shock for even a minute longer you were afraid neither of you would move again.
âHey,â you said suddenly, as you leaned closer to the phone and scrolled back up through the thread. âWait. Look at this.â
Noah didnât react at first, still trapped somewhere inside his own head, but when you turned the phone toward him and tapped the small attachment beneath one of Costaâs messages, his eyes shifted and focused.
It was a location pin.
Just a set of coordinates sent without explanation, buried between short, obedient replies from Steve and Costaâs cold instructions.
You copied the numbers into your own phone and opened the map application, watching the screen zoom outward from your city to highways, then to rural stretches of land, and finally to an expanse of green that seemed almost endless.
The dot landed in the middle of nowhere.
Without marked businesses and no nearby houses, nothing but dense forest stretching for miles in every direction.
âThat has to be it,â you said, âthe base he mentioned.â
Noah leaned in, one hand braced on the table, his expression tightening as he studied the map as if staring hard enough might reveal a building hidden beneath the trees.
âItâs hours away,â he muttered.
âWhich makes sense,â you replied, your mind racing now, connecting pieces whether you wanted to or not. âIf theyâre holding someone somewhere, if theyâre producing something illegal, theyâd want isolation, no witnesses and no neighbors.â
âWe have a location now,â you continued, looking up at him. âThat changes everything.â
Noah straightened slowly, and you could see the familiar tension creeping back into his posture, the instinct to handle it himself flickering behind his eyes.
âWe can call the police,â you said before he could speak.
His gaze snapped to yours, wary and sharp.
âSteve is still in the hospital,â you added quickly, knowing exactly what he was thinking. âHe canât interfere from there.â
âYouâre assuming heâs the only one,â Noah replied, his voice low and edged with distrust. âYouâre assuming Costa doesnât have other people in uniform.â
âIâm not assuming anything,â you shot back, âBut we canât just sit here with this information. And we absolutely can't go alone. We have messages about kidnapping. We have an email ordering a staged suicide. We have coordinates to a place in the middle of nowhere. They have to at least check it out.â
He stood up and began pacing across the kitchen, running a hand through his hair.
âAnd what do we tell them?â he demanded. âThat we went through a copâs phone? That we stole evidence? You think theyâre going to thank us for that?â
âWe tell them the truth,â you insisted, stepping toward him instead of shrinking back. âWe tell them about the crash. About the threats. About what we found. If they choose to ignore it, thatâs on them. But at least we tried.â
He stopped pacing and looked at you.
âAnd if this blows back on you?â he asked quietly. âIf Costa finds out it was us?â
âIf someone is tied up in that place right now,â you replied, your voice trembling despite your effort to steady it, âthen weâre already past the point of worrying about our comfort.â
For a long moment, he didnât say anything, and you could almost see the battle inside him, the part that wanted to drive out there himself, fists first, versus the part that knew this was bigger than a fight.
Finally, he exhaled slowly, the tension in his shoulders shifting from resistance to reluctant agreement.
âOkay,â he said, though it sounded like it cost him something.
You picked up your phone before your courage had time to dissolve, your fingers slightly unsteady as you dialed the emergency number and lifted it to your ear, listening to the ringing with a heart that felt like it might break through your ribs.
The line was still ringing in your ear, when Noah finally sank back down into his chair as though his legs had given out beneath him, exhaling in a slow, uneven breath that sounded more like surrender than relief.
He dragged a hand down his face again, staring at the table without really seeing it, his mind spinning in circles he couldnât slow down.
He didnât know if you were doing the right thing.
He had never felt this lost before.
It was almost easier in the ring.
He reached for his own phone almost absentmindedly, mostly to check the time, to anchor himself to something normal and ordinary, maybe even to see if Nick had texted about the weekend so he could start thinking of another excuse to avoid going out with the guys, another lie to stack on top of the growing pile of them.
The screen lit up.
A new message notification.
Unknown number.
He tapped it, already feeling colder than usual.
The words were short.
âCome alone or she dies.â
For a moment, the world around him seemed to mute.
He didnât need a name attached to it.
He didnât need context.
He didnât need anything else.
He knew.
Costa.
Of course Costa.
Of course he had found out.
Of course he had traced something, connected something, realized Steveâs phone was missing, realized someone had accessed it, realized it had to be you two. Maybe through the crash report. Maybe through Steve waking up. Maybe through contacts. It didnât matter how.
He had found him.
He had found you.
How stupid had he been to think you were one step ahead?
To think you could quietly hand the phone over, read the messages, make a call, and nothing would ripple back?
He read the message again, as if the words might rearrange themselves into something less scary.
They didnât.
Come alone or she dies.
Across from him, you had just drawn a breath to speak into the phone.
âEmergency services, what is your situation?â a voice finally answered on the other end.
You opened your mouth.
Noah moved without thinking.
He reached across the room and placed his hand over yours, the one holding your phone, not violently, almost shaky, and gently began lowering it away from you.
You blinked at him, confused, mid-sentence.
âHello? Maâam? Are you there?â the dispatcherâs voice continued faintly through the speaker.
Noahâs face had gone pale in a way you had never seen before, not even after the crash, not even when heâd dragged Steve out of the ditch.
Slowly, carefully, he eased the phone from your hand.
You frowned.
âNoah?â you whispered.
On the other end, the voice grew sharper. âMaâam, if you can hear me, please respond.â
He ended the call.
The screen went dark.
âNoah,â you said again, this time louder, âWhat the hell?â
He didnât answer immediately.
His grip on his own phone tightened until his knuckles blanched through his tattoos, and for a split second you wondered if he was about to throw it across the room.
Instead, he swallowed hard.
His voice, when it came, was low and strained.
âWe canât call them.â
Your confusion deepened instantly, morphing into alarm.
âWhat are you talking about? We just agreedââ
âWe canât,â he repeated, voice almost helpless.
You stared at him as he left your phone on the kitchen table.
âWhy?â you demanded. âNoah, what happened?â
He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you again, like he was seeing you for the first time, or the last.
âTell me whatâs going on,â you said, your voice unsteady.
He kept looking at you in that unbearable way, like he was trying to carve the sight of you into his memory, like whatever was about to happen required him to remember every detail, the way your hair fell over your shoulder, the crease between your brows when you were worried, the way your fingers were still slightly curled from where he had taken the phone out of your hand.
âNoah. Tell me whatâs going on,â you repeated, softer now, fear beginning to outweigh frustration.
His throat moved as he swallowed, the tattoos on his skin following the movement.
Then, quietly, almost out of nowhere, he said, âYou know that I love you, right?â
The question hit you so unexpectedly that for a second you just stared at him.
âWhat?â you breathed. âNoah, what are you talking about?â
âPlease,â he said, âJust answer me.â
âI know,â you said slowly. âOf course I know. And I love you too. So can you please tell me what is happening?â
Something flickered across his face at that: relief, pain, something breaking open.
âI loved you from the first moment I saw you,â he said suddenly, âI noticed you before you even saw me, before i stepped on the ring. You were standing there pretending you werenât nervous, just because your stupid boyfriend cared about the fighting, while you just wanted to run away and throw up, and I remember thinking that you were the bravest person Iâd ever met. And I didnât even know your name yet.â
Your heart started pounding for an entirely different reason now.
âNoahââ
âI loved you when you yelled at me for fighting,â he went on, voice shaking slightly. âI loved you when you told me I was being stupid. I loved you when you stayed. Even when you shouldnât have. Even when I gave you every reason to walk away.â
Tears pricked at your eyes, confusion mixing with fear.
âWhy are you talking like this?â you whispered.
âBecause I need you to understand something,â he said, stepping closer until he was right in front of you. âI have never been loved the way you love me. And I have never loved anyone the way I love you.â
Your hand instinctively reached for his shirt, gripping the fabric.
âYouâre scaring me.â
âIâm scared too,â he admitted.
âI should have protected you from all of this,â he continued. âFrom Costa. From the fights. From the crash. From every single thing that came after I stepped back into that ring. I should have kept you far away from it.â
âYou didnât drag me anywhere,â you said quickly. âI choseââ
âThatâs the problem,â he cut in softly. âYou keep choosing me.â
His thumb brushed over your cheek like he was memorizing the feel of your skin.
âAnd I keep putting you in danger.â
Your pulse roared in your ears.
âWhat happened?â you demanded again, your voice breaking now. âDid he contact you? Noah, pleââ
He didnât answer directly.
Instead, he leaned down and kissed you.
It wasnât rushed.
It was slow and deliberate and heartbreakingly gentle. His hand cupped the side of your face, and for a second you let yourself melt into it out of instinct, out of love, out of the familiarity of him.
But confusion lingered.
When he pulled back, his forehead rested briefly against yours.
âI want you to know,â he murmured, his breath warm against your lips, âthat whatever Iâm about to do, Iâm doing it because I love you. And I hope youâll forgive me. No matter how this ends.â
âNoah, youâre not making any sense.â
He closed his eyes for half a second, as if steadying himself.
âI love you,â he repeated.
Then everything happened too fast.
He firmly pushed you back. You stumbled slightly, more from shock than force.
Before you could react, he turned and moved quickly out of the kitchen.
You stood frozen for half a second, your brain lagging behind your body.
Then you rushed after him.
âNoah!â
The kitchen door opened.
Then slammed.
The sound echoed through the apartment like a gunshot.
You reached the doorway just in time to hear a scraping noise from the other side, something heavy dragging across the floor.
Your heart plummeted.
âNoah?â you called, your hand already reaching for the handle.
You twisted it.
It didnât move.
A dull thud sounded against the other side of the door.
He had shoved the media cabinet in front of it.
And then you realized.
You were locked in.
âNOAH!â you shouted, pounding against the door, your voice breaking as panic surged through you. âOpen the fucking door! What are you doing?!â
On the other side, there was no answer.
Only the fading echo of his footsteps moving away.
You kept shouting his name for almost a full minute, even though you had heard his footsteps retreating down the hallway, even though you had heard the front door slam, even though the sound of the engine starting and the car pulling away from the driveway had already confirmed what you didnât want to accept.
âNoah!â you screamed again, your fists pounding against the wood until your palms stung. âNoah, come back! Donât do this!â
Your voice cracked halfway through the last word.
Silence answered you.
Your breathing turned ragged, uneven, and for a moment you just stood there with your forehead pressed against the door, your entire body trembling, from anger, from fear, from the sudden, suffocating understanding that his little speech, had been a goodbye.
Because he thought he was not coming back from that place.
A soft meow behind you broke through the spiral in your head.
You turned around sharply.
Alpine had jumped up onto the kitchen table, her small body perched near the edge as if she had climbed up to get a better view of the chaos. Her wide, confused eyes were fixed on you, tail flicking slowly back and forth.
For a split second, the normalcy of it almost broke you.
Then you saw it.
Your phone.
Still lying on the table beside her.
Relief flooded your system so fast it made you dizzy.
Thank God.
Noah hadnât taken it.
âThank you, Alpine,â you whispered shakily, stepping toward the table and grabbing the phone with trembling hands.
Your mind was already racing ahead.
You knew exactly who to call.
You didnât even know how much time had passed.
Everything after the door had felt distorted, like you were moving underwater while the world kept rushing forward without you. You remembered Deanâs voice calling your name from the other side of the door. The sound of furniture scraping. The cabinet finally shifting.
And now you were in his car.
You could hear the loud sound of the engine as he drove fast, too fast, out of town, streetlights flashing across the windshield and disappearing behind you one after another.
Your hands were clasped so tightly in your lap that your knuckles hurt.
âHe went there alone because of me,â you said, staring straight ahead at the dark road. âYou know that, right? He did it because he thought theyâd hurt me.â
Dean didnât look at you at first, eyes fixed on the highway.
âDon't feel guilty.â
âYou didnât see him. He looked like he was saying goodbye.â
Deanâs fingers flexed on the steering wheel.
âWhat did he say?â
âHe asked me if I knew he loved me,â you said quietly. âOut of nowhere. And I thought he was just panicking, or overwhelmed, orâ I donât know. But he kept insisting. And... i don't know, he sounded like he was saying goodbye. Like he knew something bad was gonna happen to him.â
Dean glanced at you now, briefly.
âHe started talking about the first time we met. About how I stayed. About how I shouldnât have stayed.â
You let out a shaky breath.
âHe said whatever he was about to do, he was doing it because he loved me. And that he hoped I could forgive him. No matter how it ended.â
Dean swore under his breath.
âHe pushed me away and locked me in the fucking kitchen,â you added.
The car sped past a sign marking the edge of town.
âHe thinks he can trade himself for my safety.â
âYou donât threaten someoneâs girlfriend and then honor some unspoken deal. If anything, showing up alone makes him easier to eliminate.â
The word eliminate made your stomach twist violently.
âDonât,â you whispered. âDonât say it like that.â
âThen tell me what Iâm supposed to say,â Dean shot back. âThat this is romantic? That heâs some tragic hero driving into the woods to save you?â
Your eyes burned.
âHeâs not trying to be a hero,â you said. âHeâs trying to protect me. He's... god, he is so stupid.â
âAnd you think you wouldnât have chosen to go with him?â Dean demanded.
You hesitated.
That hesitation was answer enough.
Dean exhaled sharply.
âHe knows you,â he said. âHe knows you wouldâve followed him. Thatâs why he locked you in.â
Silence fell for a moment.
You stared out the window at the dark shapes of trees lining the road.
âThere were messages about someone named Marcus,â you continued, forcing yourself to keep talking. âThey said he didnât react the way they expected to their drug. They have him there. At the base. I think it's the man we heard talking with Costa that night.â
Deanâs sighed.
âAnd there was an email,â you added, your voice dropping. âTelling Steve not to use weapons. To make it look like an accident. To make it look like a suicide.â
âElijah,â Dean muttered.
You nodded.
âThey killed him,â you said. âAnd now Noah thinks he can just walk in there alone and⊠what? Negotiate?â
Dean didnât respond immediately.
âHeâs angry and scared,â Dean said finally. âAnd he fears he is gonna lose another persone he loves. You need to prepare yourself,â he said after a moment.
âFor what?â you demanded, panic flaring again. âDean, donât talk like that.â
âFor the possibility that when we get there, this wonât be a simple grab-and-go,â he said carefully. âWe donât know how many people are out there. We donât know if theyâre armed. We donât know if theyâre expecting him.â
âThey are,â you said immediately. âOf course they are. This is what they wanted.â
Deanâs jaw tightened again.
âAnd thatâs exactly why Iâm not letting you run in after him the second we get there,â he added.
You turned to him sharply.
âI am not staying in the car.â
âYou are if I have to physically keep you there.â
âDeanââ
âIâm serious,â he snapped. âIf something goes wrong, I need at least one of you not walking into the line of fire.â
The words made your heart slam painfully against your ribs.
âNothing is going to happen to him,â you said, but it sounded more like a plea than a statement.
Dean didnât answer that.
âHe has a gun, Dean. I'm scared,â
Deanâs eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. âFuck, Iâm scared too,â he admitted, âThat day... I held him back. I held Noah back when he tried to stop the match, when Tyler⊠died right there in front of us. I thought I was doing the right thing, but I didnât. And nowânow I canât⊠I don't want the same thing to happen again.â
You glanced at him. âDean...â
âAnd now we call the cops. Yeah, theyâre bureaucratic assholes. Yeah, theyâre slow and corrupt sometimes. God, I donât even care anymore. I donât care if theyâre the worst motherfuckers alive. We call them before before anyone dies.â
The road ahead grew darker as you left the last stretch of town lights behind.
Trees swallowed the horizon.
You stared into the blackness, your mind replaying Noahâs voice over and over.
I loved you from the first moment.
Whatever Iâm about to do, Iâm doing it because I love you.
You took your phone out of your pocket to call the police.
âJust drive faster,â you whispered.
Noah barely registered the drive out of the city. He remembered the twist of the key in the ignition, the violent slam of the front door behind him, and the way his pulse had been hammering in his ears as he backed out of the driveway far too fast. After that, everything dissolved into the long stretch of road unwinding beneath headlights that flickered slightly every time the damaged engine strained too hard.
The car was in terrible shape from the crash and the bullets. The cracked windshield distorted the glare of oncoming lights, and the plastic taped over the missing window snapped and fluttered wildly whenever he picked up speed. The steering wheel trembled constantly under his grip because the alignment was off, and each time he pressed the accelerator, the engine answered with a thin, high whine that sounded dangerously close to failure. He noticed all of it in a detached way, but none of it mattered.
He would have walked there if he needed to.
The highway eventually gave way to smaller roads, then to stretches of land that grew darker and emptier the farther he drove. Streetlights disappeared. Houses became sparse and then nonexistent. By the time he turned onto the last marked road, the world outside the car had narrowed to two pale beams of light cutting through dense forest. The GPS signal flickered once, then stabilized, guiding him toward coordinates that looked like nothing more than a smudge of green on a map.
When the asphalt ended, the car jolted hard as the tires met gravel and then uneven dirt. Branches scraped along the sides, leaving long, shrieking sounds in their wake. He slowed slightly, not out of caution but because the terrain forced him to. The suspension protested every dip and rise, and he briefly wondered whether the vehicle would actually give up before he reached his destination.
As the trees began to thin, the headlights caught the outline of a structure that did not belong to the forest. It was low and wide, built from concrete that had darkened with age and metal that absorbed more light than it reflected. From a distance, it could have passed for an abandoned warehouse, the kind of place no one would question if it remained untouched for years. But it wasnât abandoned. A faint glow leaked from somewhere within, subtle but unmistakable against the otherwise complete darkness.
He cut the engine and sat there for a moment, hands still wrapped around the steering wheel as the ticking of overheated metal filled the silence. The night air felt colder when he stepped out, and the smell of damp earth and pine immediately hit him. The forest was still.
The weight of the gun at his lower back felt more pronounced now that he was standing. It pressed into his skin through the thin fabric of his shirt, solid. He had told you he didnât want to use it. He still didnât. But wanting and reality had stopped aligning the moment that message appeared on his screen.
He moved carefully, circling slightly instead of walking straight up to the entrance, scanning the perimeter for any obvious movement. There were no guards posted outside, no visible cameras that he could immediately spot, and that absence unsettled him more than visible security would have. Costa was not careless. If this was a trap, it was one designed to look deceptively quiet.
The closer he got, the more the building seemed to loom over him, its walls rising stark and windowless except for one narrow strip of light near a side door. That had to be the entrance they expected him to use. They wanted him inside. They wanted him contained.
He stopped at the edge of the clearing and forced himself to breathe slowly, the way he did before stepping into a ring. In a fight, adrenaline could either sharpen you or ruin you, depending on how well you controlled it. This was no different. Charging in blindly would only give them exactly what they anticipated.
Still, despite every instinct warning him that he was walking exactly where they wanted him, he stepped out from the cover of the trees and crossed the open ground toward the metal door. If this was the price of keeping you out of their reach, he would pay it without hesitation.
When he finally reached the door, the faint light spilling from beneath it illuminated the dirt at his feet.
It was too late to turn back now. Not that he wanted to.
For a brief second he hesitated, then he reached behind him and pulled the gun out of his pants, the cold metal settling into his palm.
He lifted his hand and pushed the door open.
Inside, the air felt heavier, warmer and stale. The door closed behind him with a hollow echo that seemed far too loud in the otherwise quiet building.
The interior wasnât large. A narrow corridor stretched ahead, concrete walls painted a dull gray that had begun to peel in places. A single strip of fluorescent lighting buzzed faintly overhead, casting everything in a washed-out, almost sickly glow.
Noah stepped forward carefully, gun raised but slightly shaking, his finger resting alongside the trigger rather than on it. He passed one closed door on the left, then another, both unmarked. The deeper he moved into the building, the more the faint hum seemed to multiply, as though he were approaching the source.
Then he heard it.
Voices.
Low at first. Indistinct but of a male.
He followed the sound down a side corridor that opened into a larger room at the end. Before he even crossed the threshold, a familiar voice cut through the air.
âCome forward, Sebastian.â
Costa.
He stepped into the doorway, gun immediately raised and pointed straight ahead.
The room was bigger than the corridor but still not large. A few scattered chairs and a metal table placed near the center as if someone had tried to make it look like a meeting space without caring too much. Most of the room was empty, almost intentionally so, forcing focus toward one corner that was far more occupied.
That corner looked nothing like the rest of the building.
A long table was crammed with computers, multiple monitors glowing with lines of data and surveillance feeds, tangled cables spilling over the edges. Books were stacked unevenly, some open and face-down as though abandoned mid-research. Beside it, partially sectioned off, was something that resembled a makeshift laboratory: glass beakers filled with liquid, test tubes arranged in metal racks, syringes laid out in neat rows, vials labeled with small printed stickers.
It was a production site.
A few steps inside the room, Costa rose slowly from a chair, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve as if this were nothing more than a casual meeting.
Noah barely had time to fully take him in before he felt it.
A second gun aimed directly at his chest.
To his right stood a man he had never seen before. He was tall and broad-shouldered. His grip on the weapon was steady, but his expression was too blank, too distant, like his eyes were focused somewhere slightly past Noah rather than on him. There was no visible anger there, no visible fear either.
âLower the gun,â Costa said evenly, accent strong. âIf you lower it, no one gets hurt, okay? Marcus doesnât want to shoot. But he will if you donât listen.â
Marcus.
The name clicked instantly.
Noah didnât lower his weapon.
His gaze flicked briefly to the man holding him at gunpoint.
So this was Marcus.
Costa tilted his head slightly, watching the recognition settle. âYes,â he continued, almost conversationally, âheâs the one who didnât react very well to the serum some time ago.â His lips curved into something that might have passed for a smile in different circumstances. âI imagine you read about him in the messages you so kindly went through on the phone stolen from my dear friend. By the way, didnât anyone ever teach you that stealing is wrong?â
Noah let out a humorless breath.
âDidnât anyone teach you that sending someone after me and my girlfriend to kill us is wrong?â he shot back. There was a pause, his eyes flicking briefly toward the laboratory setup before returning to Costa. âAnd that creating⊠whatever the hell this is⊠is illegal?â
Costaâs expression didnât falter.
âIf youâre going to accuse me,â he replied smoothly, âat least be specific.â
Noah took another step fully into the room, adjusting his stance slightly so he could keep both Costa and Marcus within his line of sight. He could feel Marcusâs gun trained precisely on him, unwavering.
âElijah,â Noah said. âYou staged his death.â
Costa sighed softly, as if bored. âAllegedly.â
âYou crazy son of-â
âYou see,â Costa interrupted him, folding his hands loosely in front of him, âthis is why I asked you to come alone. Youâre emotional. Youâre impulsive. You interpret things without understanding context.â
âYou are a psychopath,â Was all Noah could say, gun still in hand.
âAnd yet,â Costa answered, glancing around the room theatrically, âYou came alone. Which means you did follow instructions. Thatâs good. That shows growth.â
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. Somewhere behind Costa, one of the monitors flickered.
âYou came because you love her,â Costa continued, studying him closely now. âAnd that makes you predictable. Love is the easiest variable to manipulate.â
Noah didnât blink.
âYou wanted me here,â he said.
âYes.â
âWhy?â
Costaâs smile returned, slow and deliberate.
âBecause,â he said softly, âyouâre much more valuable to me alive than deadâŠbut unfortunately, your girlfriend might be even more stubborn than you.â
Noahâs eyes narrowed. âWhat does that mean?â
Instead of answering, Costa slowly raised one finger.
âListen.â
At first there was nothing but the low hum of electricity and Marcusâs steady breathing. Then came the unmistakable crunch of tires over gravel outside.
An engine.
Close.
It slowed, then stopped.
Noahâs stomach dropped.
No.
A car door slammed.
Fuck.
Costa let out a quiet, satisfied laugh. âOh, Sebastian. Did you really think she would stay home?â
âYou said alone and Iâ,â Noah snapped.
âAnd you did,â Costa replied smoothly. âBut love makes people reckless.â
Another door shut outside.
âYou touch her,â Noah said coldly, âand I swear this ends badly for everyone.â
Costa smiled wider.
âShould we make it a party?â he asked lightly. âI do hate wasting good tension.â
You hadnât even realized youâd left the car until the cold night air hit your face.
One second you were outside, staring at the dark outline of the building through the windshield, your heart pounding so hard it made your hands shake, and the next, Dean was already moving, and you were moving with him, your body following instinct before your mind could catch up.
He had opened the glove compartment like it was the most normal thing in the world and pulled out a gun.
He just reached in and took it.
For a split second you had stared at it, stunned but not because it shocked you, but because nothing shocked you anymore. Not after the crash. Not after the messages. Not after realizing people were staging suicides and locking men in hidden bases.
Dean had checked the chamber quickly, efficiently, like heâd done it before.
âStay behind me,â heâd muttered.
You hadnât answered.
You just followed.
The building door was unlocked. You could hear voices before you understood the words. You didnât think. You just kept walking, footsteps echoing against concrete.
And then you saw them.
The room opened up, and everything happened at once.
Noah, standing with a gun raised.
Costa a few steps away, calm as ever.
And another man, tall, broad, expression emptyz pointing a gun directly at Noahâs chest.
The fighter.
Marcus.
He didnât look unstable. He didnât look sick. He didnât look like someone who had âreacted badly.â
Dean stepped fully into the room before you could even process it, lifting his gun and aiming straight at Costaâs head.
Marcus reacted instantly.
The gun that had been aimed at Noah shifted toward Dean, the movement sharp and precise. Now the barrel was pointed at you, because you were standing just behind Deanâs.
For half a second, everyone froze.
Noahâs eyes snapped to you.
âI locked you in the house for a reason,â he said, fury and fear colliding in his voice.
âAnd I followed you for the same reason,â you shot back.
Costa exhaled slowly, almost amused by the scene.
âWell,â he said lightly, âthis is becoming lively.â
Dean didnât lower the gun. âYou move,â he said to Costa, âand I shoot.â
Costa looked at him like heâd just made a mildly interesting comment at dinner.
âDo you even know what youâre interrupting?â Costa asked calmly.
âI know you tried to kill them,â Dean replied.
Costa smiled faintly. âAllegedly.â
Noahâs jaw tightened. âStop playing games.â
âIâm not playing,â Costa said, spreading his hands slightly, though he remained perfectly within Deanâs aim. âIâm offering opportunity.â
He gestured toward the corner of the room, at the computers, the cables, the lab equipment, the beakers filled with cloudy liquid, the syringes laid out in rows.
âWhat youâre looking at,â Costa continued, âis evolution.â
âItâs a serum,â he explained proudly. âA performance enhancement beyond anything currently on the market. Faster reflexes. Higher pain tolerance. Increased endurance. Recovery accelerated to levels that would make regulatory boards faint.â
Noahâs voice was cold. âYouâre experimenting on fighters.â
âIâm improving them.â
âYouâre drugging them.â Dean snapped, âIs this even with their consent? I bet you are lying to them toââ
Costa tilted his head. âConsent is such a flexible concept in competitive environments.â
Your jaw almost dropped.
âMarcus didnât react well at first,â Costa admitted casually. âSome instability. Aggression spikes. Disorientation. But nothing that couldnât be corrected with rest and adjustment to dosage. As you can see, heâs perfectly functional now.â
Marcus didnât react to being discussed like equipment.
âAnd Elijah?â Noah asked.
Costaâs expression cooled slightly.
âElijah was naive,â he said. âTalented, yes. Promising. But limited. He didnât understand that progress requires sacrifice. When he refused to cooperate and threatened to go to the police, he forced our hand.â
âYou killed him,â you whispered.
Costa didnât blink. âSteve handled the situation.â
âYou think this makes you powerful?â Dean said.
âI know it does,â Costa replied evenly. Then his gaze locked onto Noah with renewed focus. âAnd it would be a shame if you, already being here, refused to benefit from it.â
A chill ran down your spine.
âHell no,â Dean said immediately.
âYouâre not touching him.â You added.
Costa ignored you both.
âImagine stepping into the ring with no fear of injury,â he continued, voice smooth and persuasive. âImagine knowing you cannot be outmatched physically. You already have skill. With this, you would be...what's the word again? Oh, yes. Untouchable.â
âIâm not your experiment.â Noah said coldly.
âYouâre not an experiment,â Costa corrected. âYouâre an investment.â
You could feel the tension in the air, guns still raised, no one lowering them.
Then footsteps echoed from the corridor behind Costa.
Another figure entered the room.
Noah reacted instantly, shifting his aim toward the newcomer.
The man looked almost like a reflection of Costa, with the same black hair, similar build, same sharp features, but where Costa wore dark, tailored clothes, this man wore a white lab coat over a button-down shirt, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms.
He stopped just inside the room, glancing around at the tableau of weapons and hostility with surprising calm.
âDo we have guests?â he asked casually.
Costa didnât even flinch when Noahâs gun shifted toward the man in the lab coat. Instead, his smile widened slightly, as if this was all unfolding exactly as planned.
âAh,â he said smoothly, gesturing with an open hand. âPerfect timing. This is my brother, Ale. Heâs the mind behind the serum.â
Ale gave a small, almost polite nod, his gaze moving over each of you in turn.
âSal worked on it just as much as I did,â he corrected lightly, glancing at Costa. âHeâs better with funding and⊠logistics.â His eyes flicked briefly toward Marcus. âIâm just more skilled with the practical side.â
Deanâs voice was tight. âYou mean the part where you inject people like lab rats?â
Ale didnât react defensively. If anything, he looked mildly disappointed.
âThatâs such a reductive way to describe it,â he said. âDo you have any idea how many iterations failed before we stabilized it? How many formulas collapsed under their own volatility? Weâve been refining this for years.â
âYears,â Costa, or better, Sal echoed calmly. âDo you think something like this happens overnight?â
Noah didnât lower his weapon. âSo this was the plan all along? Build your own army of chemically enhanced fighters? Become rich winning underground fights?â
Ale clasped his hands behind his back, stepping a little further into the room despite the guns pointed at him. His composure was unnerving.
âNot an army,â he said. âEvolution. The human body has limits. Weâve simply found a way to push them.â
âYou killed someone,â you shot back. âThatâs not evolution.â
Aleâs expression shifted slightly at that, almost in irritation.
âElijah was unstable long before the serum,â he said. âParanoid. Emotional. He saw risk where there was opportunity.â
âHe saw you were doing something illegal and dangerous,â Dean snapped.
Costa sighed softly. âIllegal is temporary. Results are permanent.â
âYouâre not going to get away with this.â Noah said.
Ale let out a quiet breath through his nose, almost amused. âWe already have. For years.â
Costa stepped closer to the center of the room, careful not to make any sudden movements that might provoke Dean to pull the trigger.
âDo you think youâre the first person to question us?â he asked. âThe first to hesitate? Every advancement in history was called dangerous before it was called necessary.â
âYouâre drugging fighters,â you said. âYouâre manipulating matches.â
âWeâre perfecting performance,â Costa corrected. âAnd the results speak for themselves.â
âYou are killing people who refuses to be your rats!â Noah almost shouted.
Costa and Ale exchanged a brief look.
âWe canât allow years of work to collapse because of one personâs conscience.â Ale answered.
âYouâre insane,â Dean muttered.
Costa gestured toward Marcus with a slight tilt of his head. âThe initial reaction can be⊠intense. The body resists change. But once it adapts, the enhancement integrates. Strength increases. Pain becomes manageable. Fear diminishes.â
Marcus stood motionless, gun unwavering, like proof of concept.
âAnd now,â Costa said, âwe have a new candidate worthy of the serum!â
âIâm not taking your serum.â
Costa smiled faintly. âYou say that now.â
Ale stepped closer to the lab table, fingers brushing lightly over a row of prepared syringes.
âWe are very close to something extraordinary,â he said. âYears of research. Testing. Investment. Sacrifice. We will not let three frightened people with guns derail that.â
Deanâs grip tightened.
Ale looked almost sympathetic.
âYou misunderstand,â he said softly. âThis project doesnât stop tonight. Not because of threats. Not because of you. Not because of moral objections.â
Costaâs voice dropped.
âWe are at the finish line. And you donât abandon a marathon when you can already see the victory.â
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead.
âAnd since youâre already here, Sebastian,â Costa added, his eyes locking onto Noahâs again, âit would be a terrible waste not to make you part of history.â
âWe didnât come here so you could turn Noah into one of your soldiers,â you said, forcing your voice not to shake.
Costa laughed, âOh? Then why did you come?â
âTo buy time,â you replied.
Aleâs brows drew together slightly. âTime?â
And then the sound reached all of you at once, engines outside, more than one, tires grinding over gravel, doors slamming in rapid succession. A split second later, a voice cut through the walls, amplified and commanding.
âCome out with your hands up!â
Everything shifted.
Costaâs expression sharpened instantly, while Aleâs posture shifted near the lab table. What happened next unfolded so quickly that your mind struggled to keep up.
Aleâs hand shot toward the syringes laid out in precise rows. He grabbed one and lunged toward Noah, the needle glinting under the fluorescent light. Dean reacted before you even understood what Ale was doing. The gunshot exploded in the confined space, deafening and violent, and Ale cried out as the bullet struck his hand. The syringe flew from his grip and skidded across the floor, leaving a thin streak of liquid behind it.
Marcus fired almost simultaneously.
Dean swore and grabbed you, pulling you sharply to the side as the shot cracked through the air where you had been standing a second earlier. The impact of hitting the ground knocked the breath from your lungs, and the room dissolved into noise, shouting, another gunshot, and the crash of metal as Noah tackled Marcus before he could fire again.
The two of them slammed into a table, sending a monitor and a tangle of cables crashing to the floor. Marcusâs gun slipped from his hand as they grappled, fists and elbows colliding. Ale was on his knees, clutching his bleeding hand and cursing. Deanâs weapon had fallen somewhere in the chaos. The police outside were shouting commands that overlapped and echoed through the building.
Then your head snapped backward.
Pain tore through your scalp as someone grabbed your hair and yanked you upright with brutal force. Before you could scream properly, something cold and solid pressed hard against your temple. You didnât need to look to know what it was.
Costaâs arm locked around you from behind, his grip twisted in your hair, the gun shoved against the side of your head. His body pressed into your back as he dragged you toward the door.
Costa pulled you backward through the corridor and out into the night air. The sudden flood of red and blue lights blinded you for a second, police vehicles forming a barricade in the clearing. Officers stood with weapons raised all around you.
âDrop the gun!â one of them yelled.
Costa tightened his hold, the barrel digging harder into your skin. You could feel the metal, cold and merciless, and his breath against your ear.
âYou let me walk,â he shouted at the officers, âor she dies right here!â
The clearing filled with shouted commands and overlapping voices. An officer tried to negotiate, telling him to release you, promising that things didnât have to escalate. Sal laughed harshly.
âLower your weapons!â he demanded.
You could feel your heartbeat in your throat, your legs barely holding you upright as he kept you pinned against him.
They probably started to lower their weapons, or at least, that's what you thought, since you couldn't see them clearly.
And then, suddenly, he shoved you.
You stumbled forward, barely catching yourself before falling on your knees onto the dirt. In the same motion, Costa turned and bolted toward the tree line, wanting to disappear into the darkness between trunks.
Police surged after him, shouting, boots pounding across gravel and earth. He fired blindly over his shoulder as he ran.
The sound split the air.
The police fired back.
At first, you didnât understand why the ground felt unstable beneath you. Then a burning, tearing sensation bloomed at your side, sharp and hot, stealing your breath in an instant. You looked down and saw the dark stain spreading across your clothes, shock arriving a second too late to soften the realization.
He had hit you.
The world tilted sideways as you collapsed, distant shouts blurring into muffled sounds. Officers ran past you, some chasing Costa, others already turning back when they saw you fall.
Noahâs voice cut through everything. You heard him screaming your name as he ran out of the building.
He dropped beside you so quickly he nearly slid in the dirt. His hands were frantic now, nothing like the fighter you had seen on the ring. He pressed one hand against your wound, trying to stop the bleeding, while the other hovered near your face as if he were afraid you might disappear right in that moment.
âStay with me,â he said, his voice breaking in a way you had never heard before. âPlease, please, stay with me.â
You could see the terror in his eyes.
There was blood on his hands, your blood.
He kept talking, words tumbling over each other, as officers shouted for medics and someone yelled that Costa had been tackled near the trees.
âIâm here,â he kept repeating. âIâm right here. Youâre okay. Youâre going to be okay.â
You could feel him shaking.
âI love you,â he whispered, voice cracking completely. âDonât you dare leave me. Not like this. Please.â
You felt the weight of his hands pressing against you, the frantic pressure on your side. Every sound, shouts from officers, the distant crack of gunfire, the rustle of leaves, slipped away, muffled, distant, like the world were slowly receding.
You tried to focus on him, on his face, on the trembling of his jaw, hjs wide, desperate, brown eyes, but the pain and the blood and the darkness pressing at the edges of your vision made it impossible. Your eyelids felt like stone. Your thoughts slowed.
Noahâs hands stayed on you, holding you. âIâm right here. Iâm right here,â he repeated, his voice breaking, but it was no longer enough. You couldnât respond. You couldnât move. The blackness was coming, inexorable, swallowing everything except for the faint echo of him.
You didnât think youâd open your eyes again. All that remained was the sound of him, the warmth of him, and the impossible wish that he would be safe when you were gone.
Series summary: Nearly a year after Noah quit fighting, a suspicious death pulls him back into the underground scene, and this time, the truth may cost him everything.
Tw: violence, injury, blood, addiction themes. Iâm not an expert in anything medical, so I may have gotten some details wrong in this chapter :/
Series mastelist
A couple of days passed.
On the surface, everything stayed the same. Noah kept going to class like nothing had changed. He kept showing up to the gym every night, wearing his gloves, hitting the bag until he was out of breath. He kept sitting across from his therapist once a week and he obviously kept lying.
You kept going to the tattoo shop. You kept telling Nick that everything was fine, smiling when he asked if you were okay. You kept telling Amber you were just tired, just busy, just behind on sleep. You worked until your back ached and your fingers were sore.
But Thursday still came.
You arrived early, like you always did when Noah was scheduled to fight. The place, of course, was already open. A handful of people lingered near the ring, some leaning against the walls, others clustered in small groups, chatting.
Not a full crowd yet. No Costa. No opponent.
Dean noticed you as soon as you walked in. His eyes locked onto yours, and he walked over.
âWe need to talk,â he said.
You sighed. âOh no. What is it this time? More bad news?â
âI donât know,â he said slowly. âHow do you personally feel about the idea that Costaâs fighters might be⊠mentally vegetative?â
âWhat does that even mean?â you asked.
Dean glanced around, then motioned for you and Noah to follow him a few steps away, closer to the corner where the noise dimmed.
âIt means somethingâs wrong,â he said. âReally wrong.â
Noah crossed his arms. âDefine wrong.â
Dean exhaled sharply. âThe last few days, Iâve been watching them. The guys Costa brings in. There are like... six of them in total, I think. They donât talk to anyone. They don't really do anything other than fighting. They just sit.â
âSit,â you repeated.
âOr stand,â Dean said. âAlways close to Costa.â
âThatâs not normal,â Noah said quietly.
âExactly,â Dean replied. âFighters are nervous. Aggressive. Wired. Even the quiet ones have tells. These guys?â He shook his head. âNothing.â
âMaybe theyâre just focused.â
Dean barked out a humorless laugh. âI thought that too. Until last night.â
The three of you moved toward the bar, perching on stools as the place gradually filled. Drinks clinked, people laughed, and you watched the door, waiting for Costa and his fighter to appear.
Minutes passed. And finally, Costa walked in.
He was impossible to ignore. He always had that look of someone used to controlling every room he entered, a human baron, calm, calculated, dangerous. You could imagine him commanding men like pieces on a chessboard.
And behind him⊠his fighter.
The man was enormous. Towering over most of the others in the room, all muscles. Nothing human seemed to move that way naturally, every step measured, controlled. His eyes scanned the room, but there was a flatness to them. No expression, no hesitation. Just him, and whatever Costa had made him into.
You didnât say anything. You just watched, your stomach tight, the same dread curling in your chest youâd felt when you first learned about the fightersâ condition. You reached for your phone, slipping it into your pocket, ready to record, ready to capture proof, ready to survive tonight.
Costaâs gaze swept the room, sharp and controlled, and finally landed on Noah.
His gaze lingered on your boyfriend for a moment longer, before he gave him a tiny, cold smile. Then, he turned and walked to his usual corner.
Noah went toward the locker room, taking his shirt off and, wrapping his wrists with tape. You trailed behind, just enough to watch. Your eyes followed every motion, checking the wraps were tight, the tape secure, making sure he hadnât missed a spot.
âCareful,â you murmured as you adjusted one of the wraps. âMake sure itâs snug, not too tight. You donât want it cutting off circulation.â
He gave you a quick smile. âIâve done this a hundred times.â
âI know,â you said softly, your fingers lingering a second longer on his hands. âJust⊠double-checking.â
When he was ready, you got out of the locker room and sat, waiting.
Minutes ticked by. The room began to fill. People edged closer to the ring, voices louder, drinks clinking.
Then you saw Costaâs fighter moving toward the locker room.
You started forward, determined to get close, see if you could talk with him. But just a few steps from the door, you collided with someone.
âOh, attenzione,â a voice said, sharp and amused in Italian.
You froze, then stammered, âOhâsorry! I didnât see you there.â
Costaâs smile was easy, unnerving. He switched to English this time. âDonât worry about it. Itâs nothing.â His eyes studied you, sharp but curious. âTell me⊠what does a pretty girl like you do in a place like this?â
You swallowed, trying to play it cool. âI⊠Iâm here with my boyfriend,â you said quickly.
Costaâs smile widened slightly. âAh⊠yes. Sebastian. That guy has potential,â he said, eyes flicking toward some point behind you. âA shame he is⊠so⊠docile. Such a place⊠it requires more.â
You forced a light laugh, faking the naĂŻve, slightly frightened girl, even tilting your head as if you were unsure how to respond. âDocile?â you repeated softly, sounding a little uncertain. âIâI think heâs strong. Isnât that⊠important?â
Costaâs eyes narrowed just slightly, studying you like you were a curious insect. âI think he has his... ideas. His character.â
You nodded quickly, playing along, a little flustered. âI guess⊠I donât know much about this world,â you admitted. âI⊠I try not to get in trouble.â
Costa chuckled softly, almost to himself, then leaned closer. âGood girl.â His tone wasnât threatening exactly, more⊠testing. âPerhaps⊠you are cleverer than you look.â
You gave a small smile, a little anxious, a little flustered, and tilted your shoulders like a timid schoolgirl. âI⊠I just try to stay out of danger.â
His gaze flicked to your eyes, measuring, then finally he stepped back. âBe careful, bella,â he said lightly, almost a warning, almost a compliment. âThe night is long, and in the ring⊠only the ones who make the right decisions can survive.â
You nodded, trying to keep your hands from shaking. âYes⊠Iâll⊠be careful,â you said, voice soft, heart hammering. You took a step back and let him pass, moving just in time to give the fighter the space to walk past.
The fighterâs eyes barely acknowledged you, flat, empty, obedient, and your stomach clenched. Whatever Costa had done, it had worked perfectly.
You walked back to Noah.
âEverything okay?â he asked.
âYeah,â you said quickly, forcing a smile. âIââ
Dean appeared beside you, interrupting you, âYou have two minutes. Get ready.â
Noahâs eyes flicked to you, searching. You leaned in, pressed your lips to his in a quick, tense kiss. âDonât worry about me. Good luck,â you whispered.
He gave a small, tight nod and slipped toward the ring.
You stood there, heart pounding so hard it felt like it might burst.
Costaâs fighter moved toward the ring.
Costa followed, calm. The human baron sizing up his pieces on a chessboard.
All you could do was watch, your stomach tight and your fingers gripping your phone. You already had a sense of how it might end, and you couldnât stop it.
They climbed onto the ring.
Someone yelled, âGo!â
The match started.
Noah moved immediately, instincts kicking in before fear could catch up. He circled left, light on his toes, hands up. He threw a fast jab to test the distance. It landed clean on the fighterâs cheek.
Nothing.
No flinch. No blink.
Noah frowned and fired again, a jab, cross this time. The cross snapped the fighterâs head a fraction to the side. The crowd reacted, a surprised murmur rippling through the room.
You leaned forward, breath held.
Noah added a low kick to the thigh. The sound echoed despite people shouting and cheering.
For a second, it looked like it mattered.
The fighter took one step back.
Hope surged painfully in your chest.
Then the fighter stepped forward again.
He closed the distance in two long strides and swung a punch that looked almost lazy. Noah barely slipped it, feeling the wind of it brush past his face. He countered with a hook to the ribs, then another, sharp and fast.
The fighter absorbed both like they were nothing.
Noah backed off, reassessing, breathing harder now. He feinted left, then came in with a knee. It connected to the fighterâs midsection.
The man didnât even grunt.
Thatâs when Noah hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second.
It was enough.
The fighter grabbed him.
One massive hand clamped onto Noahâs wrist mid-strike. The grip was inhuman. Noah tried to twist free, but the fighter yanked him forward and drove an elbow straight into his face.
The crack was sickening.
Blood sprayed instantly from Noahâs nose, splattering across the mat. His head snapped back, and he staggered, hands flying up too late.
You gasped.
Before Noah could recover, the fighter stepped in and slammed a punch into his ribs. You heard the air forced violently from Noahâs lungs as he doubled over with a strangled sound.
Another punch. Then another.
Noah tried to move, tried to circle away, but the fighter stayed glued to him, cutting off every escape. A kick smashed into Noahâs thigh, right where heâd kicked earlier. His leg buckled.
He dropped to one knee.
The crowd roared.
âGet up!â someone screamed.
Noah pushed himself upright, teeth bared, blood running freely now down his chin and onto his chest. His eye was already swelling, vision probably blurring.
The fighter didnât let him breathe.
He grabbed Noah by the back of the neck and slammed his forehead down into his knee.
Once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each impact made your stomach lurch. You felt tears spill down your face, your hands shaking so badly you had to grip the counter to stay standing.
Noah made a raw, animal sound, and stumbled back. He tried to raise his guard, but his arms were slow now, uncoordinated.
A hook caught him in the jaw.
Blood and spit flew.
Noah hit the ground hard on his side, rolling with the impact. He tried to scramble away, dragging himself, but the fighter was on him instantly.
A brutal kick landed square between Noahâs stomach.
You gagged, bile burning the back of your throat.
All of a sudden, it was as if you were back more than a year ago, reliving the first time you had seen Noah fight, with Kole still beside you. You had been concerned for a stranger then, someone whose brown eyes looked far too gentle for a place like that. You had no idea, back then, just how important he would come to be.
The fighter grabbed Noahâs arm and wrenched it backward with brutal force. There was a sharp, sickening sound, wet and wrong, like something tearing where it shouldnât. Noahâs shoulder jerked out of place, his whole body arching as the joint gave way.
He screamed, and it was the most terrible sound you had ever heard.
It ripped out of him, echoing through the room as his fingers spasmed and curled uselessly. He clutched at his arm, trying to pull it back to his chest, but it hung at an unnatural angle, his shoulder visibly wrong. Blood dripped from his mouth as he gasped for air.
âStopââ you whispered. âPlease, stop.â
The fighter hauled him upright again by the hair. Noahâs face was barely recognizable now: split lip, blood-soaked chin, one eye nearly swollen shut. His knees trembled, barely holding him up.
Another punch landed in his stomach.
Then one to his face.
Finally, Noah collapsed.
He hit the ground face-first, unmoving.
For a terrifying second, the room seemed to go quiet in your head, like the sound had been sucked out of the world.
The fighter shoved Noah with his boot, spinning him onto his back. Your stomach twisted and you braced for another blow.
Then Deanâs voice rang out: âGray wins!â
The next blow never came.
The crowd erupted, cheers and shouts filling the room, but everything around you felt muted. Noah lay there, blood dripping, his shoulder at an unnatural angle, his face swollen and bruised. Every breath he took was ragged, shallow.
You hadnât dared to look at Dean, though he had been only a few steps away the whole time, watching, tense, a worried expression painted on his face too.
All your focus was on Noah, on the mess of blood and sweat, the pain etched into his features. Your chest burned, bile clawed at your throat, and your hands shook violently. Youâd known this fight would end badly, but nothing, nothing had prepared you for the reality of seeing him like this.
A sob threatened to escape, but you swallowed it down.
Two men climbed into the ring. Each of them grabbed Noah under one arm. When they lifted him, Noah made a raw, broken sound, his body jerking as pain tore through him. His head fell forward again, blood dripping onto the mat, mixing with sweat as his legs threatened to give out beneath him.
You pressed a hand to your mouth.
They dragged him toward the exit. Noahâs feet scraped uselessly, his arm hanging at that wrong, impossible angle. The crowd was talking loudly and exchanging money now.
You pushed through the crowd and headed straight for the main entrance. You turned the corner of the building, boots scraping against the concrete as you took the long way around, toward the alley behind the venue.
You already knew where they dumped him.
The alley was dim, and it smelled like damp concrete, piss, and old smoke. Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt as you scanned the shadows.
Then you saw him.
Noah was on the ground, folded in on himself like something broken and discarded. One knee tucked awkwardly under him, his shoulder twisted at a wrong angle, his forehead pressed against the dirty pavement like the first time you met him exactly there. Blood had smeared beneath his face, dark and sticky against the concrete.
âOh my godâNoah.â
You dropped to your knees beside him without thinking. The cold seeped straight through your jeans, but you didnât care. Your hands hovered over him for a second, terrified to touch him, terrified of hurting him more.
âNoah,â you said again, your voice shaking. âHey. Hey, Iâm here.â
He let out a low, broken sound.
You slid one arm carefully around his back and the other beneath his good shoulder, bracing yourself before you moved him.
âOkay,â you whispered, breath shaking. âOkay, Iâm going to help you sit up. Slowly. Just... tell me if it hurts too much.â
A humorless huff escaped him, probably because it already did.
You swallowed and shifted your grip, easing him up inch by inch. His body was heavy with pain, uncooperative, and when you brought him upright, a sharp sound tore from his throat despite his effort to hold it back. His head dropped forward, chin nearly to his chest, breath coming in harsh pulls.
âIâm sorry,â you said immediately. âIâm sorry, I knowââ
âItâs fine,â he murmured. âIâm fine.â
The word was a lie. You could hear it. You could see it.
He was slumped against the brick wall now, legs stretched awkwardly in front of him, one arm cradled instinctively against his body while the other hung uselessly, shoulder grotesquely out of place. His face was a mess of swelling and blood, one eye barely open, his lips trembling from the effort of breathing.
You knelt in front of him, hands shaking as you cupped his face gently, thumbs careful to avoid the worst of the damage.
âYou scared me.â
He tried to smile. It came out crooked and pained. âStill breathing,â he said. âThatâs⊠usually a good sign.â
He shifted slightly, trying to get more comfortable against the wall.
The moment he moved, his breath hitched violently.
A sharp, strangled cry tore out of him before he could stop it, his whole body jerking as if heâd been shocked. His hand flew to his shoulder instinctively, fingers trembling, and his head dropped forward again.
âOhâfuckââ he gasped, voice breaking. âFuckââ
You froze.
He was shaking now, sweat beading at his hairline, jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscles jump. His breaths came fast and shallow, every inhale sounding like it hurt.
âThat....yeah. That did it.â he said through his teeth.
âItâs out of place. Noah, I don't think... I don't know what to do.â
He swallowed, eyes squeezed shut for a second, then opened them to look at you.
âI need your help,â he said quietly.
âWhat do you mean?â
He glanced at his shoulder, then back at you. âItâs dislocated.â
âNo,â you said immediately. âNo, no, Noah, you need professional help.â
He shook his head, a sharp motion that made him hiss again. âYou know how I feel about it.â
âI donât know how to do that,â you repeated, panic creeping into your voice. âI canâtâNoah, I donâtââ
âItâs not complicated,â he interrupted, trying to keep his voice steady, trying to make it sound smaller than it was. âIâve done it before.â
That didnât help. At all.
âYouâveâwhat?â
He exhaled shakily. âNot to myself. Iâve helped someone else.â He swallowed. âYou just⊠take my arm like thisââ he demonstrated weakly with his good hand, barely lifting it, ââand pull. Hard. That direction.â
He nodded slightly, indicating outward, away from his body.
Your stomach flipped. âNo. Absolutely not.â
âI know it sounds badâ He paused, still out of breath. âbut it works.â
âI am not doing that,â you said, shaking your head hard. âI donât know what Iâm doing. I could make it worse. I could...break something.â
âYou wonât,â he said quickly. âYou just have toââ
âNoah,â you cut in, your voice cracking now. âI canât even watch you bleed without feeling like Iâm going to throw up. You want me to yank your arm out of its socket?â
He closed his eyes, head dropping back against the brick wall.
âI canât do it alone,â he admitted quietly, "And it hurts.â
You stared at him, hands clenched in your lap, your whole body screaming no while your heart broke at the same time.
âIâm going to hurt you,â you whispered.
âI know,â he said softly. âBut itâll stop hurting like this after.â
âI donât want to be the one who does that to you.â
He looked at you for a moment. Bloodied. Exhausted. Still somehow gentle.
âYou wonât be hurting me,â he said. âYouâll be helping me.â
You shook your head again, breath coming fast. âIâm not strong enough.â
âYou are,â he said immediately. âYou donât think you are, but you are.â
âI'm not talking about physical strength.â
âNeither am I.â
There was a moment of silence.
Another tremor ran through him, his shoulder shifting just a fraction, and he cried out again, fingers digging into his thigh as his body curled inward.
âPlease,â he said, voice breaking completely now. âI canât stay like this.â
You tryed to steady your hands, trying to stop shaking.
âI donât know how,â you said again, weaker this time.
âIâll tell you exactly what to do,â he replied before flinching again. âIt's gonna be okay. I promise.â
You looked at his shoulder. The wrongness of it. The way his arm didnât belong where it was.
Then you looked back at his face covered in blood.
âOkay.â
âYeah?â
Your heart was pounding so hard it felt like it might break your ribs from the inside. You wiped your palms against your jeans, realizing they were slick with sweat, then hovered your hands uselessly in the air again.
âYeah. Iâm listening,â you whispered.
âSit closer,â he said. âIn front of me.â
You shuffled forward on your knees until you were right there, close enough to smell the blood and sweat on his skin, close enough to see the way his pupils were blown wide with pain.
âTake my wrist,â he continued, nodding toward his injured arm. âNot the hand. The wrist.â
âOkay.â
You wrapped your fingers around his wrist carefully, terrified that even that would hurt him. The skin was warm under your touch.
âNow,â he said, breathing shallow, âput your other hand⊠just under my elbow. Donât push it. Just support it.â
You did, your hands shaking so badly you were afraid he could feel it.
âI need you to pull straight out,â he said. âAway from my body. Hard. In one motion. Donât stop halfway.â
âI canâtââ you whispered.
âYou can,â he said immediately. His eyes locked onto yours. âAnd you have to do it fast.â
âOkay,â you breathed. âOkay. Just⊠tell me when.â
He sucked in a breath through his teeth, jaw tightening. His free hand fisted into the fabric of his shorts.
âOn three,â he said. âOne⊠twoââ
âWait,â you blurted out, panic surging. âWait, I...â
âThree,â he said firmly.
You pulled.
You didnât think. You just yanked his arm outward with everything you had.
Noah screamed.
It was loud and raw. Ripped straight out of his chest, echoing off the brick walls of the alley. His whole body jerked violently, his back arching as the pain slammed through him. You heard a loud pop.
The sound made your stomach lurch.
Noah cried out again, then collapsed forward with a choked gasp, his forehead dropping to your shoulder as his breath came in ragged, desperate pulls.
âOh my Godâoh my GodâIâm so sorry,â you babbled, hands flying to him instinctively, terrified youâd done something wrong, that youâd made it worse. âIâm so sorry, Noah, Iââ
âWait,â he rasped.
You froze.
For a second, he didnât say anything. He just breathed. Deep. Shaky. Then another breath. And another.
Slowly, carefully, he lifted his head.
His face was still twisted with pain, but it was different now.
His shoulder sat differently now, still swollen, but no longer grotesquely out of place.
He let out a long, trembling exhale.
âItâs⊠itâs back,â he said hoarsely.
âThank God,â you breathed, âBecause I swear, I would not have been able to do that again.â
A weak, breathless sound escaped him. Not really a laugh at first, but then it turned into a soft, shaky chuckle.
You looked at him. The blood crusting at the corner of his mouth, the swelling around his eye.
You softened your voice. âLetâs go home,â you said gently. âOkay?â
He blinked at you, tried to shift again, then stopped with a sharp inhale. âI⊠I donât think I canââ
Footsteps echoed at the mouth of the alley.
Both of you tensed.
âHey,â Deanâs voice cut in. He slowed when he saw the two of you on the ground, the blood, the way Noah was slumped against the wall. âHow bad?â
âPretty bad. We just wanna go home.â
Dean nodded immediately. âOkay.â His eyes flicked to Noah, then back to you. âWhereâs your car?â
You hesitated. âNot⊠not far. But not exactly close either.â
âIâll help you get him there.â He said.
He stepped closer, reaching instinctively toward Noahâs good side.
Dean froze, hands lifting slightly in surrender. âIâm just trying to help.â
âNoah,â you said quietly but firmly, turning back to him. âNot now. Please. You need help.â
He shook his head once, a sharp motion that made him hiss again. His eyes squeezed shut, breath shaking.
He didn't protest again.
Slowly, carefully, the two of you helped Noah shift. You stayed on his injured side, one hand braced against his back. Dean took most of Noahâs weight from the other side, moving inch by inch.
Every step was harder. Noahâs breath stuttered with it, teeth clenched. Once, he nearly buckled, and your heart leapt into your throat as you tightened your grip.
It took longer than it should have. The alley felt endless, and the walk to the car too. But finally, you reached it.
Dean opened the door and helped you ease Noah into the back seat, slow, making sure his shoulder stayed supported, his arm kept still. Noah slumped back with a low, exhausted sound, eyes closing for just a second.
Dean shut the door gently and looked in through the window.
âThank you.â You said. Dean just gave you a nod, glanced at Noah once more, then stepped back.
You slid into the driverâs seat, hands still trembling as you wrapped them around the steering wheel.
You pulled away from the parking lot slowly, carefully, every bump in the road feeling like a potential threat.
For a few seconds, neither of you spoke.
Then, softly, without taking your eyes off the road, you asked, âHow are you doing?â
There was a pause from the back seat. You could hear his breathing, still a little uneven, but steadier than before.
âIâm okay,â Noah said. His voice was rough, exhausted. âI mean⊠as okay as I can be.â
You nodded. âIf it gets worse. Or if you feel dizzy. Or anything changes, you tell me immediately.â
âI will,â he murmured.
You drove in silence for a bit, the city lights sliding past the windows.
After a few minutes, you glanced at the rearview mirror. His head was tipped back against the seat, eyes closed, jaw clenched slightly like he was bracing through a constant ache.
âNoah?â you said quietly.
âYeah?â
âIââ you started, then stopped. âI want to ask you again if youâre okay, but I know youâre not okay, and I know youâd just say you are to keep me calm, and now I donât know what Iâm supposed to say andââ
âNo,â Noah cut in gently.
You glanced up at the rearview mirror just in time to see him open his eyes (one of them swollen and bruised, barely open). He shifted a little, careful of his shoulder, then looked at you through the mirror.
âIâll be okay when Iâm home,â he said quietly. âWhen Iâve washed the three layers of blood off me and I can lie down.â
You sighed.
âI know I look like shit right now,â he went on. âBut Iâve been fighting for years. Iâm used to this. And you know that.â
You wanted to say that fighting for years wasnât an excuse, that being used to pain didnât make it any easier to watch, or any less terrifying.
But you didnât say anything.
Because right now, it wouldnât help. Because he was exhausted, broken down, and all that mattered was getting him home.
So you drove in silence.
The ride felt longer than it was. Every turn was careful, every stop gentle. When you finally pulled into the driveway, relief washed through you so hard your hands shook again.
You were out of the car first, already moving around to his door.
âEasy,â you murmured as you opened it.
He nodded, jaw tight, and swung his legs out slowly. He could walk now, barely, but the moment he stood, you saw the weakness hit him. His shoulders sagged, breath stuttering as he fought to stay upright.
You stepped in close, slipping an arm around his waist, the other braced against his good side.
âIâve got you,â you said quietly.
He leaned into you.
Inside the house, the lights felt too bright. You guided him down the hallway. Once or twice he faltered, and your heart jumped into your throat as you tightened your grip, refusing to let him fall even if he was double your height and weight.
In the bathroom, he finally sat on the toilet.
You pressed painkillers into his palm and handed him a glass of water.
âTake these.â
He did without comment, eyes closed as he swallowed.
Then, you took care of his clothes.
âOkay,â you said softly. âLetâs get you out of this.â
Your fingers were gentle as you worked, tugging fabric away slowly. He hissed once when you lifted his tank over his head, his bruises blooming dark and angry across his skin, visible even over some of his tattoos and face.
You swallowed and kept going.
When he was finally stripped down, the bathroom filled with steam as you ran the bath. You helped him step in, guiding him down slowly until the water covered him. Almost immediately, the surface rippled red, blood washing from his skin in thin streams.
You knelt beside the tub, soaked washcloth in hand, and started carefully. Slow strokes. Gentle pressure. You cleaned dried blood from his arms, his chest, his neck.
He leaned back against the tub, eyes closed, breathing evening out as the warmth seeped into his muscles.
When you washed his hair, you worked your fingers through it softly, careful. Pink-tinted water streamed down his face, over his jaw, into the bath.
Neither of you spoke.
When he was clean, you helped him stand again, wrapping a towel around him immediately. He swayed, suddenly unsteady, and you caught him, arms wrapping around his torso.
âIâm here,â you whispered again.
You dried him off slowly, carefully, patting instead of rubbing. Without the blood and grime, he looked different. Smaller somehow. All long limbs and slumped shoulders, despite being six-foot-three.
You guided him back to the bedroom and helped him lie down.
Then, you disappeared into the kitchen. He needed ice for his shoulder.
You opened the freezer.
No ice packs. No cubes. Nothing.
âGreat,â you muttered under your breath.
You rummaged a little, then spotted a half-empty bag of peas shoved into the back.
You grabbed it and headed back to the bedroom.
When you came in, Noah had shifted slightly against the pillows, eyes half-open, face still pale and bruised but calmer now. You held the bag up.
âWe donât have ice,â you said quietly. âSo youâre getting peas.â
For a second, he just stared at it.
Then a soft chuckle escaped him. âThank you.â
You places the cold bag gently against his shoulder, careful of the angle.
He winced but after a moment, he exhaled slowly as the cold seeped in, eyes closing again.
You sat beside him on the bed, the bag of frozen peas slowly thawing against his shoulder. The room was dim now, and quiet.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then Noah did.
âWhat if I never stop?â he asked suddenly.
You turned toward him. âStop what?â
He let out a short, bitter breath. âThis. Fighting. Going back. Letting it pull me in every time I swear Iâm done.â
You didnât interrupt. You could feel something opening in him.
âWhat if,â he went on, staring at the ceiling, âI spent this whole year just⊠waiting?â
He took a breath.
âWaiting for something bad enough to happen that I could use it as an excuse.â
âAn excuse?â you asked quietly.
âTo go back under,â he said. âTo say 'I'll fight again, but just because I have to'â
He turned his head slightly, enough to look at you. One eye swollen, the other full of sadness and maybe shame.
âDr. Morgan said something once,â he murmured. âA few months back. She said fighting can be seen like a drug.â
You stayed quiet, letting him go on.
âShe said it hurts,â he continued, âIt ruins your body, messes with your head, takes pieces of your life you donât get back. And you know all of that.â
A humorless huff left him.
âBut you keep doing it anyway. Because the pain comes with relief. Because for a few minutes, everything else goes quiet.â
You felt your chest ache.
âShe called it addiction,â he said. âBecause you know it hurts, but you canât stop.â
He flexed his fingers slightly.
âAnd I hated hearing it. Because it sounded too right.â
You shifted closer, your arm brushing his good shoulder.
âWhat if I already relapsed?â he said. âWhat if I keep saying Iâve left it for good, and I mean it every time, but I still end up back there?â
His voice dropped.
âWhat if this is just⊠my life? What if I'll always stay in the middle? One fight after another, one âlast timeâ stacked on top of the next, until thereâs nothing left of me?â
âNoahââ
He cut you off. âThis thing weâre doing,â he said, âThis investigation. Research. Call it whatever you want. Itâs not going anywhere. You see that too, right?â
You didnât answer right away.
âAll of this,â he went on, voice rough, âmy big idea. Itâs been a mess. A complete fucking fiasco. Because we know what is going on but we have no proof of anything.â
âIt hasnât been for nothing,â you said carefully.
âNo?â he asked, âBecause all I see is me back in a ring, you watching me get wrecked, and Costa still walking around like a king, probably making big money.â
He swallowed.
âOkay,â you said.
âOkay?â
âWe go back one more time. Not to fight. Just to watch.â
He exhaled through his nose.
âItâs not unusual for fighters to be there even when theyâre not on the card, right?â
âNo. Itâs⊠not unusual.â
âGood,â you said. âThen we go one last time. If we leave with something, then great. We follow that lead. And if we donât⊠then Iâm sorry. But this ends.â
He closed his eyes, head tipping back against the pillow.
âLast time,â he repeated quietly.
âYeah.â
Another pause.
Then he nodded once. âOkay.â
A wave of relief hit you, you almost couldn't believe he was agreeing with you.
But then his eyes opened again.
âYou ran into Costa.â
âYeah.â
âWhat did he say to you?â
You thought about it for a moment. âThat you had potential. And that you were⊠too docile,â you added. âOr something like that.â
âAnd?â he prompted.
âAnd it made me think,â you continued carefully, âthat either he suspects something about us, about why weâre really there, or he was already considering offering you whatever it is heâs giving his fighters.â
Noah went very still.
âAnd honestly? I donât know which option is worse.â
He stared at the ceiling again.
âAnd thatâs why next time is the last time if nothing changes.â You added.
He breathed out slowly, long and controlled.
âOkay,â he said again.
You watched his chest rise and fall, slow and heavy now. The tension that had been holding him upright seemed to finally loosen, draining out of him all at once. His eyelids fluttered, struggling to stay open, his body clearly past its limit.
âYou should rest.â You said softly.
He didnât argue. That alone told you how tired he was.
âYeah,â he murmured. âProbably.â
You shifted closer, careful not to jostle his shoulder, and eased yourself down beside him. He adjusted just enough to make room, a quiet wince crossing his face before he settled again. You curled in carefully, one arm resting across his chest, your head tucked against him.
He let out a slow breath.
âHey,â he said, voice barely above a whisper, âI love you.â
âI love you too.â
His hand found yours, fingers curling weakly around them.
Within minutes, his breathing deepened, evening out as sleep finally claimed him.
You stayed awake a little longer, listening, watching his face soften in rest.
Then, still holding his hand, you let your eyes close too. And for now, you slept, but his words were still in your head.
You can tell the moment you walk into his room and see heâs curled up under the blankets, hoodie pulled up over his head, nose a little red, eyes almost closed and glassy. He looks smaller somehow, a little grumpy pout on his lips, long brown locks slipping out of the hood around his face.
âHey,â you say softly, setting the mug down on the nightstand. âI brought tea.â
He peeks out from the hoodie. âMhh. Thank you,â he murmurs, voice scratchy.
âYouâre welcome,â you smile, sitting on the edge of the bed.
He watches you for a second, then lifts one arm lazily. Itâs not even a question. You slip under the covers beside him, and he immediately curls into you, forehead pressing against your neck with a quiet sigh.
âIt's cold,â he mutters.
âI know you're cold,â you whisper, tugging the blankets up around his shoulders, âbut youâre burning up,â you add gently, brushing your fingers through his hair. Itâs softer than usual, a little messy from sleep.
He hums.
You press a kiss to his temple. âHow bad is it?â
âThroat hurts. Head hurts. Everything hurts,â he mumbles. Then, quieter, âIâm being dramatic.â
You laugh softly. âI'll let you be dramatic when youâre sick.â
That earns you a tiny smile. He shifts closer, legs tangled with yours, breathing evening out as you rub slow circles into his back.
âI was supposed to finish that track today,â he mumbles, words slightly slurred. âThe bridge still isnât right. I had this idea last night, but my head was killing me and I couldnât even open my laptop.â
Even sick, even barely holding himself together, heâs thinking about music, his job, the pressure he is always feeling.
âNoah,â you murmur softly, tipping your head down so your cheek rests against his hair. âYouâre sick.â
âI know,â he sighs, frustrated. âBut I needed to get it done. Weâre behind and I hate feeling useless.â
That does it. You pull back just enough to look at him, thumb brushing under his eye where dark circles sit against his skin. âHey. Youâre human. And right now, you need rest more than you need a perfect bridge.â
He swallows, gaze dropping down. âI donât like this.â
âI know you donât,â you say gently. âBut your body already stopped for you. You canât outwork a fever, baby.â
The word baby makes him go quiet. His grip on you loosens just a little as the fight drains out of him, exhaustion finally winning. He shifts, nose brushing your neck, breath warm.
After a moment, he murmurs, almost shy, âUm⊠will you be mad if I drink the tea later?â
You pull back a fraction, surprised. âMad? Why would I be mad?â
He shrugs weakly, eyes still closed. âYou made it for me. I just⊠I think Iâm gonna fall asleep now.â
Your expression softens. You cup the side of his face, thumb brushing gently over his cheek. âNoah, itâs okay. I can reheat it whenever you wake up.â
âYeah?â he asks, voice sleepy.
âYeah,â you promise.
He lets out a soft breath, almost a laugh. âOkay,â he murmurs. âGood.â
His eyes stay closed, but his fingers shift, curling into the sleeve of your shirt. You feel his forehead settle more comfortably against your neck, his whole body going slack as sleep creeps in.
âI didnât wanna be rude,â he adds quietly, voice low and slow. âYou always take care of me.â
You tuck the blankets a little higher and press your lips to his hair. âYouâre not rude. Youâre sick. And you need to sleep when you're sick.â
He hums again, deeper this time, a sound of pure comfort. âYouâre nice to me.â
You canât help but smile. âI should hope so.â
Thereâs a pause, then he murmurs, barely audible now, âLove you.â
Slowly, you slide your hand under the hoodie, fingers grazing gently along his side, feeling the warmth of his skin.
âI love you too,â you whisper.
Soon, you feel his breathing evening out and sleep finally taking him.
do you ever think about ilya and just go a little insane? I mean, that's the guy who won the stanley cup for his dead mother. he wears his mother's necklace. he keeps ginger ale in his fridge for shane. he play fights with svetlana. he got nervous when shane kissed him on the forehead after they had sex. he tried to combe back his hair back before opening the door for shane. he asked shane to stay. he made shane a tuna melt. he played with kids in the pool. he gets scared of loon noises. he cried when he told shane he loved him. he confessed his love in russian first. he checked the meaning of compatible to make sure he understood what it meant. he wanted to hold shane's hand at the beach. he devoured those spaghetti. he loves being shane's boyfriend. he loves being part of a family that actually loves him. he is so full of love!
Series summary: Nearly a year after Noah quit fighting, a suspicious death pulls him back into the underground scene, and this time, the truth may cost him everything.
Tw: violence, trauma
Series mastelist
You had spent the night wrapped around Noah.
Your head had rested in the hollow of his neck, his arm tight around your waist, his breathing slow and steady against your ear. Every now and then, half-asleep, youâd pressed a soft kiss to his skin: his jaw, his collarbone, anywhere you could reach; small, silent reassurances given in the dark. He hadnât said much. Neither had you. Youâd fallen asleep like that, tangled together, pretending for a few hours that the world wasnât about to crack open again.
Morning came too fast.
You went to work like you always did. You unlocked the shop, set up your station, answered messages, smiled at clients. You went through the motions, muscle memory carrying you where your mind refused to settle.
Your hands were steady, but your thoughts werenât.
You kept replaying the night before. Elijahâs face on the screen. Noahâs voice breaking when he talked about Tyler.
And Nick noticed. Of course he did.
âYou good?â he asked at some point, leaning against the counter while you cleaned your station.
âYeah,â you lied automatically.
He raised an eyebrow but didnât push. You were grateful for that.
By the time you locked up and headed home, you were already anxious.
You didnât talk much with Noah when you got back. You cooked something light you barely touched. You showered. You changed. You sat together on the couch with Alpine between you for a while, until you realized it was already 8pm.
You both knew what that meant.
The drive was quiet.
Streetlights blurred past the windows, orange and white streaks against the dark. Noahâs hands were steady on the wheel, knuckles pale. You watched him more than the road, memorizing the curve of his profile, the way his focus sharpened the closer you got.
You didnât need to say anything. You both knew the plan.
The first night there, at least, wasnât about fighting.
Tonight was about announcing his return.
Letting Dean and the bosses know that Noah was back, that they should start lining up matches for him in the next few days. Like nothing had ever changed.
And in the meantime⊠you would listen. Watch. Pay attention.
The car slowed as you reached the familiar area.
You parked in the usual spot: not too close to the building, but not far enough to draw attention either. The same cracked asphalt. The same flickering streetlamp. The same uneasy feeling settling into your bones.
You nodded, even though your stomach felt like it was sinking. âYeah.â
You stepped out of the car together.
The night air was cooler here, a bit sharper. The building loomed in the distance, squat, ugly and covered in graffiti. You could already hear the voices, the metallic clang of something being moved inside.
It felt like stepping back into hell.
The smell hit you first as you walked closer: sweat, smoke, oil, iron. Familiar and deeply wrong. Your skin prickled, every instinct on edge.
Noah walked slightly ahead of you, like he needed to protect you from from what could happen.
At the entrance, the guard looked up, recognition flickering across his face.
ââŠSebastian?â he said, surprise clear in his voice.
Noah gave a short nod. âYeah. You missed me?â
The manâs eyes flicked to you, then back to Noah.
He opened the door and finally, you stepped inside.
The noise swallowed you immediately.
Some people were laughing, fighters pacing, wrapping their hands, stretching bruised muscles. Money changing hands. Eyes watching everything and nothing all at once. The "ring" still sat at the center, stained and waiting.
Dean stood near the edge, talking to two men. They turned when they saw Noah.
The conversation stopped.
âWell, look who decided to crawl back,â Dean said, a grin spreading across his face. âThought you were done with us.â
Noah didnât rise to it. âI took a break.â
Deanâs gaze swept over him.
Noah shrugged. âIâm ready to fight again.â
That got their attention.
âYou looking for a match?â Dean asked.
âYes. Soon. I want you to start setting things up.â
Dean laughed. âJust like that?â
âJust like that.â
Dean studied him for a long moment, then nodded. âAlright, Sebastian. Weâll see what we can do.â
Then, he clapped Noah on the shoulder. âWelcome back,â he said. âYouâve been missed.â
Dean still looked... Dean. But there was something slightly off in him that you couldn't really name.
âCome on,â he said, already turning away. âLetâs see.â
He moved toward the bar, weaving easily through the crowd. Behind the counter, the bartender was pouring a neon-colored drink into a low glass, sliding it toward a woman leaning against the bar. She wore a short skirt and a thin tank top, one strap slipping lazily off her shoulder. She laughed at something the bartender said, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.
Dean stopped beside them, pulled a worn agenda from the inside of his jacket, and flipped it open like this was any other workplace.
You and Noah followed, taking the empty stools at the counter.
âSomething non-alcoholic,â Noah said to the bartender.
âTwo,â you added.
The bartender nodded, already reaching for glasses.
Dean rested his elbows on the counter, pen tapping against the page as he scanned through dates. âYou good for tomorrow?â he asked Noah, not looking up yet.
Dean finally looked up at him, eyebrow lifting slightly. âYou sure you wanna jump back in that fast?â
Noah shrugged. âI didnât come back to watch.â
Dean smiled faintly at that. âFair enough.â
You watched him as he wrote something down, the pen moving quickly.
âSo,â you said, keeping your tone casual, âhowâve things been around here since Noah left?â
Dean leaned back slightly, considering the question. âBusy. Same as always. New faces, some old ones gone.â He paused for half a second, then added, âMoneyâs still flowing. Fights are still drawing crowds.â
Noah nodded slowly. âAny big changes?â
Dean shook his head. âNot really. Rules are the same. So no rules. Just keep things moving, keep people entertained, keep problems quiet.â
The bartender slid two tall glasses toward you, filled with ice and something citrusy. Condensation was already forming on the sides.
You wrapped your fingers around yours, grateful for the cold.
Noah took a sip of his, eyes never fully leaving Dean. âYouâve had any trouble?â
Dean gave a small laugh. âTroubleâs kind of the business model here, Sebastian. But nothing out of control.â
You noticed how he answered: vague, but not defensive. Open, but careful.
âAnd fighters?â you asked. âAny good ones lately?â
Dean tilted his head. âA few promising ones. Some really good kids.â His gaze flicked briefly to Noah. âAnd there's Costa with his fighters too now.â
You frowned slightly. âCosta?â you asked. âWhoâs that?â
Dean opened his mouth to answer, but before he could, a voice cut through the noise from the other side of the room.
âDean!â
A tall man near the far wall lifted a hand, gesturing sharply. He looked impatient, already half-turned away as if expecting Dean to follow without question.
Dean sighed under his breath and snapped the agenda shut. âDuty calls,â he said, pushing himself off the bar. He looked back at you and Noah. âSee you.â
Noah gave a short nod.
Dean clapped the bar once with his palm and walked off, swallowed almost immediately by the crowd.
You watched him go.
You stayed at the bar with Noah, leaning slightly toward him so your voices stayed low, even though the noise of the room would probably drown you out anyway. The conversations, laughter, and cigarette smoke drifted around you. No one had stepped inside the ring yet; the first round hadnât started, but you knew it wouldnât be long. People kept joking, arguing, passing drinks back and forth.
You finally turned to Noah.
âSoâŠâ you started quietly, leaning closer, âwho do you think this Costa guy is?â
Noah shrugged, eyes scanning the room. âNo idea,â he said.
âAnd Dean? Do you think he knows anything?â
Noahâs eyes flicked toward the space Dean had disappeared into, âThat piece of shit works here. He knows something, I guarantee it.â
You could hear it not just the certainty, but all the rage and the resentment in his tone. You knew Noah was still mad at Dean for letting the match happen where Tyler died, for holding Noah back when he wanted to intervene, for keeping him from acting that night.
Noah leaned closer to you, his voice low. âAlright,â he muttered, eyes still tracking the room. âWe need to get closer to someone else.â
You didnât hesitate. âLeave it to me.â
He frowned slightly, turning toward you. âWait... what are you planning to do?â
You didnât answer right away. You just gave him a quick look. âTrust me,â you said softly. âJust⊠come over once Iâm already talking.â
Before he could argue, you reached for your drink.
You scanned the room, slow and casual, letting your eyes drift over faces until you found him. Tall, but still shorter than Noah. Short hair. A fitted short-sleeved shirt that showed off a few tattoos curling around his forearms. Relaxed posture. Slightly glassy eyes. Already a couple of drinks in.
Perfect.
You slipped off the stool, phone in hand, pretending to scroll as you walked. Your steps were unhurried, distracted on purpose. You adjusted your path at the last second, and bumped straight into him.
The glass tipped.
Cold liquid splashed across his shirt.
âHey, watch where youâre going!â he snapped, instinctively stepping back and looking down at the mess.
Your heart jumped, but you played it perfectly.
âOh my God, Iâm so sorry,â you said immediately, wide-eyed, genuinely apologetic. âThat was completely my fault. I wasnât paying attention.â
He looked back up at you.
And then his expression changed.
His irritation softened, replaced by a small, crooked smile. âHey,â he said, holding up a hand. âItâs okay. Really. No big deal.â
Relief washed over you. You smiled back, sheepish. âStill. I feel awful.â
Right on cue, Noahâs voice cut in.
âThere you are,â he said, stepping up beside you, clearly catching on. His tone was casual. âEverything okay?â
You glanced at him, then back at the man youâd just soaked. âI think so,â you said lightly. âI may have just made a new friend.â
The man laughed, clearly amused now. âAlready friends, huh?â He offered his hand. âMason.â
You took it, shaking it warmly, and said your name. âNice to meet you, Mason.â
Noah nodded once. âNoah.â
Masonâs eyes flicked between the two of you, a grin spreading across his face. âWell, lucky me.â
You tilted your head, still smiling. âIs there any way I can make it up to you?â
Mason pretended to think about it for a second, then shrugged. âYou could sit with me for the night. If your boyfriend doesnât mind sharing.â
You glanced at Noah, then back at Mason, batting your eyelashes just a little. âWhat if we all sat together?â
Mason laughed. âYeah,â he said easily. âI donât see why not.â
You smiled wider. Hook, line, and sinker.
âPerfect,â you said, already moving.
The three of you sat at the table. The surface was sticky, scarred with old burn marks and dried spills. Around you, people laughed too loudly, someone coughed through a cloud of smoke, and metal clanged somewhere near the ring as they started getting things ready.
Mason leaned back in his chair, stretching his arms. âThis place never changes,â he said with a half-smile. âSame noise. Same mess.â
You nodded, playing along. âIs that a good thing or a bad thing?â
He chuckled. âDepends on the night, I guess. But people keep coming back. Thereâs something about it.â
Noah stayed mostly quiet, listening, his posture relaxed but alert. âYouâve been coming here long?â he asked.
âLong enough,â Mason replied. âYou learn how things work. Who to bet on. Who to avoid.â
You let your gaze drift briefly toward the ring, still empty for now. âFeels like nothing ever stops here.â
Mason huffed a short laugh. âYeah. I honestly thought theyâd shut it down for a bit after what happened the other day. But nope. This place just keeps going.â
âWhat happened?â you asked, keeping your voice light, even though you already knew.
Mason leaned forward, lowering his voice slightly. âOne of the fighters. Guy who came here pretty often. He⊠hung himself.â
Noahâs jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
Mason frowned, searching his memory. âWhat was his name again? Elliott⊠noââ He snapped his fingers. âElijah. Yeah. Elijah.â
Your fingers curled around your glass.
âIâd seen him fight a few times,â Mason continued. âHe was kind of becoming a favorite around here. Didnât always win, but damn, the kid had heart. Real grit. People liked that. Crowd got loud when he was on.â
Noah didnât say anything.
âTheyâre saying it was suicide,â Mason added, shrugging. âI think the police closed the case this morning or something.â
You nodded slowly, forcing yourself to stay neutral.
But inside, your thoughts spiraled.
Suicide.
Was that really all there was to it? Had Noah filled in the gaps with anger and suspicion, seeing patterns that werenât there? Or was this just the surface, another version of the story meant to be easy, neat, and unquestioned?
You looked around the room again.
Your attention shifted before you even realized it had.
A sudden ripple moved through the crowd near the ring; voices rising, a few sharp whistles, someone shouting something you couldnât quite catch. You followed the sound and saw him.
He was tall, broad, with wide shoulders, arms thick with muscle that stretched the fabric of his sleeveless shirt. Every movement he made was controlled, like he was fully aware of the space his body occupied. When he passed near the ring, a few people yelled his name, others just stared.
You leaned slightly toward Mason. âIs he fighting tonight?â
Mason glanced over your shoulder and nodded. âYeah. Thatâs him. One of Costaâs men.â
There it was again.
Costa.
âCosta,â you repeated. âWho is he, exactly?â
Mason hesitated, scratching his jaw. âHonestly? Hard to say. He showed up some months back. Brought fighters with him. Big ones. Strong. They win. A lot.â He shrugged. âCould be their trainer. Manager. Something like that. Heâs always around them.â
You exchanged a quick glance with Noah before looking back at Mason. âIs Costa here tonight?â
Mason didnât answer immediately. Instead, he scanned the room, eyes moving past the tables, past the bar, toward the darker edge of the building. Then he stopped.
âOh,â he said quietly. âYeah. There he is.â
You followed his gaze.
Costa stood near the back, slightly removed from the chaos. He wasnât imposing in the same obvious way his fighter was. In fact, he looked almost⊠understated.
He was tall, but lean. His posture was straight, composed, hands clasped loosely behind his back as he watched the ring with calm interest. He wore a dark coat despite the heat inside, tailored perfectly, the fabric expensive. His hair was neatly styled, dark and slicked back, not a strand out of place. His face was sharp, angular, with high cheekbones and a composed expression.
He looked like he didnât belong here. And yet, somehow, he fit perfectly.
When the fighter passed near him, Costa leaned in just slightly, murmuring something in his ear. The man nodded immediately, like receiving instructions rather than advice.
Costa smiled faintly.
Your skin prickled.
There was something unsettling about him.
You glanced at Noah again.
If Elijahâs death was connected to anyone in this place, you had a feeling Costaâs name was going to keep coming up.
You stayed at the table. Mason kept talking, about old fights, about how the crowd had gotten bigger lately, about how the money had changed hands faster than it used to, but your attention kept drifting back to the ring. And beyond it. Toward the corner where Costa stood, still and observant, like a chess player watching the board.
Noah sat close beside you, one arm resting casually along the back of your chair, but you could feel the tension in him now. The way his knee bounced slightly. The way his eyes kept tracking movement, never settling for long.
Someone shouted something.
The noise in the room sharpened instantly.
People crowded closer to the ring, voices rising. Two fighters climbed in from opposite sides. One of them you recognized immediatelyâCostaâs fighter.
Up close, he looked even more intimidating.
His shoulders were massive, chest thick, arms corded with muscle that looked almost sculpted rather than trained. He rolled his neck once, slow.
Across from him, his opponent was solid too, but shorter, compact, well-planted. A seasoned fighter, by the look of him. His stance was tight, guard up, eyes sharp. He didnât look scared. If anything, he looked focused, ready.
âGo!â Someone, probably Dean, shouted. It was always like that, no bell, just someone shouting and the match starting.
The fight started fast.
Costaâs fighter didnât circle. He stepped forward immediately, cutting the distance in two long strides. His opponent threw the first punch, a sharp right aimed at the jaw.
Costaâs fighter slipped it like heâd known it was coming.
He countered with a brutal hook to the ribs, the sound of impact dull and sickening. The other man grunted, stumbling half a step back. Before he could reset, a knee came up, hard, driving into his midsection.
You leaned forward without realizing it.
The opponent tried to recover, threw a quick combination, fists moving fast, trying to overwhelm him. Costaâs fighter blocked most of it with his forearms, barely reacting, then answered with an uppercut that snapped the other manâs head back.
Someone in the crowd shouted.
The opponent staggered, but he didnât go down. He was tough. He planted his feet again, swung wide.
Costaâs fighter caught his wrist mid-punch.
Caught it.
With one sharp twist, he yanked the man forward and drove a fist straight into his face. Blood sprayed instantly. The opponent collapsed to one knee, coughing, trying to push himself back up.
He didnât get the chance.
A kick to the side sent him crashing onto his back. The mat echoed with the impact. Costaâs fighter followed him down, relentless, raining blows with precision.
Punch. Elbow. Punch.
Each one landed exactly where it would hurt the most.
The opponent tried to cover up, arms shaking, body curling inward. He was being crushed. Reduced. You could see it in the way his resistance slowed, in the way his movements lost coordination.
The fight was over long before anyone officially stopped it.
When someone shouted the name of the winner, late and almost pointless, the opponent didnât get up. He lay there, breathing shallow, face swollen, blood streaking down his temple and chin.
Costaâs fighter rose smoothly, barely winded.
Not a scratch on him.
The crowd erupted with cheers, shouts, and money changing hands again. You barely heard it.
Your eyes drifted back to Costa.
He hadnât moved. He hadnât reacted. Just watched, head tilted slightly, hands still clasped behind his back. When his fighter stepped out of the ring, Costa nodded once. That was all.
Just approval.
A chill crept up your spine.
You couldnât tell if what youâd just witnessed was raw talent, brutal training⊠or something else entirely.
And that almost felt worse than any clear answer ever could.
You stayed at the table for a while longer, listening to Mason talk, laughing quietly at some story he was telling.
Then, a man approached Mason, sliding a thick envelope across the table. Mason looked down at it, counting the bills. âYeah, thatâs what I expected,â he muttered, pocketing the money. The man gave a short nod and walked away, disappearing into the crowd almost immediately.
You glanced at Noah. âNow,â you whispered. He nodded slightly, understanding without words.
You pushed your chair back quietly, standing. Noah followed. You slipped past the cluster of spectators, past the sound of chatter, and toward the exit as Noah started muttering something about how Mason deserved a punch in the face for that "sharing" comment.
Outside, the air, despite not being too cool, immediately hit you sharply, clean after the smoke and sweat inside. The night felt empty here, quiet, almost peaceful. A streetlamp flickered lazily above, two people sat on the curb in the corner, sharing a cigarette, their whispers lost in the night. The door guard leaned against the wall, arms crossed, bored but alert. Beyond them, the cracked pavement stretched toward the street.
You and Noah took a deep breath.
âThat guy⊠was strong,â Noah said, voice low.
âYeah,â you agreed, brushing a strand of hair from your face.
âToo strong,â he muttered.
âThink he was on something?â you asked.
âI donât know,â Noah admitted. âBut did you see how he blocked that punch?â
You frowned, thinking it over. âI don't know but... Thereâs something off about this, Noah. About all of it. Costa⊠thereâs something beneath the surface.â
He didnât reply immediately, eyes narrowing in thought. You could see the flicker of something from the past in them, that haunted look that had come out before in other situations. He pushed a hand through his hair, a quick motion. But you noticed it was shaking.
You put a hand on his arm, gentle.
âLook at me,â you said softly. He turned, meeting your gaze. The world outside the club seemed quieter, slower, allowing this moment between you. His eyes held something you knew too well: the fear, the guilt, the anger, and you felt it hit you in your chest.
âIâll drive back,â you said.
âOkay,â he murmured.
As you opened the door of your car and slid in, you cast one last glance at the club behind you, at the dim figures in the corner, at the guard, at the faint glow of neon through a tiny window.
The drive home was quiet.
Streetlights passed rhythmically, illuminating Noahâs profile for a split second at a time before sinking back into shadow.
You were processing it too.
Being back there.
The smell, the noise, the violence.
Watching a man beat another until his body gave out.
Feeling that cold, sinking doubt take root in your chest: that maybe Elijah hadnât chosen to die at all.
You broke the silence only once.
âAre you okay?â you asked quietly, eyes still on the road.
âYeah,â Noah answered immediately.
Too fast. Too automatic.
You didnât call him out. You just nodded, even though you knew it wasnât true. It couldnât be. And if he wasnât okay, neither were you.
Then, you finally got home. You kicked off your shoes and changed your clothes.
Soon enough, you were in bed.
You lay on your side facing Noah, your leg draped over his, your head resting against his bare chest. His skin was warm beneath your cheek, his heartbeat steady, grounding. His eyes were closed, his breathing even.
But you knew him too well.
He wasnât asleep.
And he wasnât calm.
You shifted slightly, fingers tracing absentminded patterns over his ribs.
âNoah,â you whispered.
âYeah?â His voice was low, already awake.
You hesitated, then asked softly, âHow was it⊠going back there?â
He was quiet for a long moment. His chest rose and fell beneath your palm.
âLike going back to the place that killed my best friend,â he said finally. âAnd that maybe⊠killed someone else too.â
You swallowed, tightening your hold on him just a little.
After a beat, you spoke again, your voice barely above a whisper. âAnd if tomorrow they put you in the ring against one of Costaâs men?â You lifted your head slightly to look at him. âThe ones who never seem to lose?â
His eyes opened then, staring at the ceiling.
âThen it means Iâll lose,â he said simply.
âNoahââ
He turned his head toward you, finally looking at you. His expression was serious, but gentle, like he was trying to soften what he was saying.
âListen to me,â he murmured. He slid an arm around your back, pulling you closer until your body fit perfectly against his. âIf that happens⊠donât think about me during the match.â
You shook your head slightly. âI donât think I can do that.â
âTry,â he said quietly. His thumb brushed your cheek, slow and tender. âDonât even watch, if it makes you feel better. Focus on talking to people. Getting them to talk. Figuring out who Costa really is. Where his men come from. What heâs doing.â
Your eyes burned a little. âI hate the idea of you in there while I pretend everythingâs fine. Pretend that you want to be there and that I'm okay with it too.â
âI know,â he said, softer now. He kissed your forehead, lingering there. âAnd I'm sorry. But you said you wanted to help, and I need your help.â
You curled into him fully, burying your face against his chest, breathing him in. His arms wrapped around you instinctively, protective and warm, one hand resting between your shoulder blades, the other tangled in your hair.
âIâm scared,â you admitted.
âSo am I,â he whispered back.
You stayed like that, pressed together, your legs intertwined, his chin resting on the top of your head. He kissed your hair once, then again, slow and absentminded.
After a moment, he exhaled softly, almost a sigh.
âYou know what scares me the most?â he murmured.
âWhat?â
âSomething happening to you,â he said. âYou being there. Digging. Getting close to people who donât play fair.â He brushed his thumb along your temple, gentle, reverent. âI can take a punch. Iâve always known that risk. But the idea of something happening to you because of this?â His voice broke just a little. âThat terrifies me.â
You swallowed, eyes stinging.
âIâm more scared for you than Iâve ever been for myself,â he admitted. âAnd I donât know how to protect you from that.â
You shifted up, pressing a soft kiss to his chest, right over his heart. Then another. Then you tucked yourself back against him, holding him as tightly as you could.
âWeâll be careful,â you whispered. âBoth of us.â
He nodded against your hair, arms closing around you like he could shield you from the whole world if he just held on hard enough.
You fell asleep like that.
Curled into him, your leg hooked over his, your cheek resting on his chest, his arm wrapped around you.
Sometime in the middle of the night, you woke up.
At first, you werenât sure why. The room was dark and quiet. Then you felt something subtle, but wrong. Noah shifted beneath you. Not violently like when he was having a really bad nightmare. Not enough to jolt him awake. Just a slight tension, a restless movement in his chest and shoulders that you noticed immediately because your head was still resting there.
His breathing had changed.
It was uneven now, shallow for a few seconds, then too deep.
Your heart clenched.
Slowly and carefully, you lifted your head just enough to look at his face.
You reached out and turned on the bedside lamp, keeping the light low and soft. The warm glow filled the room gently, not harsh enough to wake him.
You were already preparing yourself to calm him, to whisper his name, to rub slow circles into his skin, to pull him back without breaking his sleep, when you saw it.
His face twisted for just a second. His brows drew together, his jaw tightening, lips parting as if he was about to say something that never came. It was gone almost immediately, his features smoothing out again.
And then, a tear slipped free.
It traced a slow line from the corner of his eye, sliding along his temple before soaking into the pillow beneath his head.
Your breath caught.
Another followed.
He didnât make a sound. No sobs. No cries. Just silent tears, falling steadily while he slept, like his body couldnât hold the pain in anymore, even if his mind was trying to.
He was crying in his sleep.
Your chest ached so badly it almost hurt to breathe.
This was how much coming back had damaged him. How deeply it had reopened wounds that never really healed. The ring. Tyler. Elijah. The guilt, the fear, the memories piling up until even sleep wasnât safe anymore.
âOh, loveâŠâ you whispered, your voice barely there.
You reached for him gently, careful not to startle him. Your fingers brushed his cheek, wiping a tear away with your thumb. His skin was warm.
You slid closer, wrapping your arms around him again, pressing your body against his side like. One hand combed slowly through his hair, over and over, a steady, soothing motion.
âItâs okay,â you murmured softly, even though he couldnât hear you. âYouâre safe. Iâve got you.â
You pressed a kiss to his temple, then another to his cheek, letting it linger. His breathing hitched slightly, but he didnât wake. The tension in his shoulders eased.
You stayed there, whispering reassurances under your breath, repeating his name.
âIâm here. Iâm right here. Nothingâs going to hurt you tonight. I'm so sorry, Noah.â
Gradually, his breathing evened out again. The tight line of his jaw softened. His arm loosened around you, settling back into its familiar, protective hold.
The tears stopped.
You didnât move for a long time after that.
You just held him, keeping the light on low. Your heart felt heavy, full of love and sadness.
You only fell asleep again once you were certain he would be okay for the rest of the night. When you finally closed your eyes, you hoped with everything you had that morning would come without memories of the nightmare.
Series summary: Nearly a year after Noah quit fighting, a suspicious death pulls him back into the underground scene, and this time, the truth may cost him everything.
Tw: death, suicide, grief, mental health struggles
Morning sunlight poured through it, warming the wooden tables. The place wasnât crowded yet, and soft music was playing somewhere in the background.
Amber was leaned back in her chair, legs crossed, looking effortlessly put together as always. Her blonde hair fell in loose, styled waves around her shoulders, catching the light every time she moved. She was dressed like sheâd walked straight out of a fashion shoot like she always did, with tailored pants, a cropped jacket, sunglasses pushed up on her head even though you were indoors.
Viv sat beside her, one arm slung casually along the back of Amberâs chair. Her long black braids were falling neatly down her back, a few silver rings catching the light when she moved her hands. She wore a simple top and jeans.
You were in the middle of a story, already laughing as you told it.
âSo,â you said, lifting your phone and gesturing with it, âthis person DMs me last night. Sends me a photo of a tattoo they want. And Iâm like, okay, cool, I ask the usual, like where do you want it, what style, all that.â
Amber raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow. âOkay.â
âI ask how big they want it. You know. Very important detail.â
Viv nodded. âExtremely important.â
âAnd they reply,â you continued, scrolling through your phone and holding it up, ââSame size as in the photo.ââ
Amber snorted immediately. âNo.â
âYes,â you said, laughing. âJust that. âLike in the photo.â Bro. In the photo compared to what? The screen? A phone screen? A laptop? A billboard?â
Viv laughed, shaking her head.
You continued. âLike, hello? The size changes depending on the screen. That tattoo could be two inches or half their back. I need context.â
Amber leaned forward, elbows on the table, grinning. âPlease tell me you replied something sarcastic.â
âI behaved,â you said. âBarely. I just said, âCan you tell me the measurements in inches?â But I wanted to say so much more.â
Viv laughed softly, eyes warm as she looked at you. âYou deal with dumb costumers way too often.â
âEvery week,â you said. âMinimum.â
The three of you sat there for a moment, sipping coffee, laughing quietly, completely relaxed.
Outside, people passed by in the sunlight, the city slowly waking up around you.
Then, Vivienne tilted her head slightly, one hand wrapped around her cup as she watched you over the rim.
âSo⊠is Noah at work?â she asked casually.
You nodded, a small smile pulling at your lips before you even realized it. âYeah. He left really early this morning. He had to help Matt set up some equipment at the gym, and then heâs got a class right after.â
You glanced at your phone out of habit, checking the time, then sighed lightly. âIâve got about two hours before I need to be at the shop, by the way.â
Amber hummed. âReady to torture someone?â
âYep. Nickâs probably already there,â you said. âHe usually starts early when heâs got a full day. I wouldnât be surprised if heâs already tattooing someone.â
âYou two are always so busy.â Vivienne said.
You nodded. âIt finally feels⊠right. Busy, but good.â
Amber studied you for a second, her expression shifting into something more observant. Then she smiled, leaning back in her chair again.
âYou know,â she said, âyou seem happier with your work since you started tattooing full-time.â
You didnât even hesitate. âI am.â
âThat's so good,â Viv commented.
âI love it,â you continued. âI mean, itâs exhausting sometimes, and people are⊠people,â you added with a small laugh. âBut it feels like mine. Like Iâm actually doing something that fits for me and that I really like.â
Amber smirked. âYeah. You complain less. Thatâs how I know.â
You laughed, shaking your head. âThat might be the biggest compliment youâve ever given me.â
You stayed there a little longer; the conversation moved from random clients to food, from a show Amber had binged the night before to a trip Viv wanted to plan soon.
Standing a few steps away was a girl with light brown, straight hair falling neatly past her shoulders and big green eyes that lit up the second Vivienne met her gaze.
âChrissy?â Viv said, already smiling as she stood.
They walked toward each other and hugged for a second.
âOh my God,â Chrissy laughed. âHow long has it been?â
âSo long,â Viv replied. âWhat are you doing here?â
âI moved back a few months ago,â Chrissy said. âIâm working at the hospital now.â
âWait, really?â
âYeah,â Chrissy nodded proudly. âIâm a doctor now.â
âThank you,â Chrissy smiled. âAnd you? What are you up to?â
Before you could hear Vivienne's answer, Amber glanced at you from across the table, her expression already tight, eyes flicking between the two women. You could practically see the jealousy forming in real time.
You leaned closer to her and whispered, âProbably just a friend.â
Amber didnât look convinced.
They chatted for another minute or two, until Chrissy glanced at her phone.
âI should get going,â she said. âBut it was really good seeing you, Viv.â
âYeah,â she smiled. âYou too.â
They hugged again, before Chrissy waved goodbye and walked toward the door. You smiled and lifted your hand in a small wave as she left.
The second she was gone, Amber turned slowly toward Viv.
ââŠWho was that?â
Viv took her coffee like nothing had happened. âMy ex.â
Amber blinked. âIâm sorryâwhat?â
âWe broke up on good terms,â Viv said calmly. âThatâs it.â
Amber stared at her. âI would not hug my ex.â
Viv sighed dramatically. âBabe, please. I hadnât seen her in forever. You know I love you.â
Amber crossed her arms, unimpressed. âIâm watching you.â
You bit your lip to keep from laughing.
Viv rolled her eyes. âJealousy is not cute on you.â
âIt is when Iâm right,â Amber shot back.
You finally cracked, laughing into your coffee.
You stayed there for a while and at some point, you realized your cup was empty and the sunlight had shifted, no longer hitting the table directly.
âAlright,â you said, reluctantly pushing your chair back. âI should probably head out if I donât want Nick to text me asking if Iâve fallen off the face of the earth.â
Amber groaned. âRude. Abandoning us for needles and ink.â
âYou know Iâd choose you over needles,â you said, grabbing your jacket. âBut needles pay my bills.â
Viv stood as well, leaning in to hug you briefly. âGo make art,â she said.
âI'll try my best!â you replied with a smile.
Amber slid her sunglasses down from the top of her head and gave you a pointed look. âText me later. And tell Noah hi.â
âI will,â you said, slinging your bag over your shoulder. âHave fun doing⊠whatever it is rich, hot people do before noon.â
Amber laughed, flipping you off affectionately as you walked away.
You had spent hours bent over skin and ink, answering calls between clients, writing down appointments in your agenda and joking with Nick. By the time you kicked your shoes off at home, your body was tired, but in a good way, as always.
You were stretched out on the couch, legs tucked under you, when Alpine climbed up beside you. She settled herself close, her warm body pressed against your thigh, her head resting comfortably there.
âHi baby.â
âMeow.â
Your hand moved, fingers sliding through her fur in slow strokes. She purred instantly, loud and soft.
The apartment was quiet for a while, and then, you heard the front door open.
âHi!â Noahâs voice called out, cheerful and familiar.
âHey,â you answered back, smiling without even thinking about it.
There was a pause, followed by the sound of him setting his bag down. âSo,â he said carefully, âI did a thing.â
You raised an eyebrow, still petting Alpine. âA good thing or a bad thing?â
âI donât know,â he replied. âYouâre gonna have to tell me when I walk into the living room. And...uh...donât be mad.â
That got your attention. You turned slightly on the couch. âWhy would I be mad at you?â
Another pause. Then, almost sheepish, âBecause you told me not to cut my hair.â
âOh. Oh, Noah. You did not.â
You heard him taking a breath, like he was bracing himself, and then he stepped into the living room.
Heâd changed after class. He was wearing a clean hoodie and loose shorts, looking comfortable and soft in that way he always did at home. And then you saw his hair.
It was not dramatically different or shaved. But shorter. The front pieces were trimmed, the longer strands gone, and the back was neater too. Still him, but noticeably shorter than before.
He stopped a few steps away from you, watching your face closely.
ââŠDo you hate it?â he asked.
You didnât answer right away. Instead, you patted the spot next to you on the couch. âCome here.â
He hesitated for half a second, then sat down beside you, turning his body toward yours.
You reached out, cupping his face with both hands, thumbs brushing lightly over his jaw. Then you leaned in and kissed him, soft and quick.
When you pulled back, you smiled.
âYouâre cute,â you said simply.
He blinked. âReally?â
âReally,â you said, kissing him again, just a little longer this time. âVery cute.â
His shoulders relaxed instantly. âSo you like it?â
You sighed softly, fingers sliding up into his hair out of habit. âI will forever miss your long hair,â you admitted. âForever. Iâm going to complain about it at least once a week. Maybe once a day.â
He laughed quietly.
âBut,â you added, smiling up at him, âyouâre still very very pretty. With or without it.â
He grinned. âIâll take that.â
Alpine shifted between you, stretching lazily before turning her attention to Noah. She sniffed at his hoodie, whiskers twitching, then stepped right onto his thigh.
âOh, hello,â Noah laughed softly.
Alpine answered by placing one paw firmly on his chest and staring up at him, unblinking.
âSheâs judging your haircut,â you said.
Noah gasped. âTraitor.â
He reached out carefully, scratching under her chin the way she liked. Alpine immediately melted, her back arching slightly as her purring kicked up another notch. She leaned into his hand, completely giving up her tough act.
âOh,â he murmured, smiling. âNever mind. Weâre good.â
You watched them for a moment. Noah leaned back into the couch, and Alpine climbed fully onto him, circling once before settling across his lap.
Noah shifted closer to you, draping an arm around your shoulders. You leaned into him easily, resting your head against his chest. Alpine stayed exactly where she was, purring loud enough that you could feel the vibration through both of you.
âThis is nice,â Noah said quietly.
âYeah,â you agreed. âIt is.â
He pressed a small kiss to your hair, fingers tracing lazy patterns against your arm. Alpine kneaded his hoodie absentmindedly.
âJust so you know,â Noah added, glancing down at her, âthis hoodie is not yours.â
Alpine yawned and closed her eyes.
You smiled.
For dinner, you and Noah cooked together, like you often did when neither of you was too exhausted. Youâd made a simple but comforting meal: lemon chicken with roasted vegetables, and youâd reheated some leftover pasta from the night before that was still sitting in the fridge. It wasnât fancy, but it smelled good, and it felt⊠domestic.
You were sitting at the small kitchen table, plates half full, glasses of water between you. Alpine was perched on the chair beside you, very clearly hoping something might fall.
Noah twirled his fork absentmindedly, then glanced up at you. âOh, by the way,â he said casual. âI told Mr. Morgan that the nightmares have been getting a bit better. Or at least⊠that I donât wake up hyperventilating anymore.â
You paused mid-bite. âWhat did she say?â
He shrugged lightly. âSame stuff as always. She said thatâs progress. That even if some dreams are still there, the way my body reacts to them is hanging and that's a big deal.â
You nodded slowly, listening. âDid she say anything else?â
âYeah,â he said. âShe wants me to keep paying attention to the physical stuff. Breathing, heart rate, tension. She says my bodyâs still learning that itâs safe, even if my brain hasnât completely caught up yet. It's been months now... but yeah. Same stuff.â
You nodded.
He shrugged a little. âShe said that itâs probably a mix of things. Routine. The breathing exercises. Not training at night anymore.â He glanced at you. âAnd⊠having someone next to me when I wake up.â
âMhh.â
âShe asked if you do anything specific when I wake up from a nightmare, so I told her. That you usually just pull me closer or tell me to breathe instead of asking a million questions.â
You smiled faintly. âI learned not to interrogate you at three in the morning.â
He laughed quietly. âShe said that was good. That consistency helps. Same reaction every time, so my brain doesnât spiral.â
You leaned back in your chair. âSo basically, Iâm part of the routine now.â
âYeah,â he said, like it was obvious. âShe didnât mean it in a pressure way or anything. Just⊠that youâre already doing the right things.â
You tilted your head. âDid she say anything I should stop doing?â
He thought about it for a second. âShe said not to try to pull me out of it too fast. Like, let me wake up fully instead of rushing to make it go away.â
You nodded slowly. âOkay. I can do that.â
âYou already do that. She also said,â he added, âthat if I wake up already calmer, I shouldnât feel bad for going back to sleep instead of thinking about it every time.â
Alpine chose that moment to hop down from the chair and rub against Noahâs leg, tail high. He bent down automatically, scratching under her chin.
âTherapy-approved grounding technique,â you said dryly. âCat.â
Noah snorted. âShe didnât mention that one.â
âShe should,â you replied. âIt clearly works.â
He reached across the table, bumping your knee lightly with his. âAnyway⊠I just wanted to tell you. And remind you that I'm grateful. For everything you still do.â
âAnd Iâm glad itâs getting better. Even if itâs slow.â
He nodded, âYeah. Slowâs okay.â
You noticed what he didnât say more than what he did, sometimes.
He hadnât mentioned Tyler. Not even in passing. No update, no careful wording about progress or setbacks, no therapist-approved language about grief or closure or any of the things people were supposed to reach eventually. The conversation had stayed safely on the surface: breathing, heart rate, sleep. Manageable things. Measurable things.
You knew that grief lived somewhere quieter, deeper, and he only ever let it out in pieces. Usually at night. Usually when his guard was down.
You thought about those moments in bed, when the lights were off and his voice was low, when he told you how the guilt didnât feel the same anymore. How he no longer believed he had to suffer in order to deserve being alive. How that constant, punishing thought â I shouldnât be happy â had finally loosened its grip.
But he hadnât âmoved on,â of course.
The space Tyler had left was still there inside him, hollow and probably unfillable, existing alongside everything else he carried: the trauma of years spent fighting and the instinct to survive by hurting himself before the world could do it first. Those things didnât disappear just because life got quieter or better.
They just learned how to coexist, for now.
You watched him across the table.
He had plenty of time to heal from certain things, and you would never rush him.
The TV had been on the whole time, nothing more than background noise filled with low voices, generic music, and images changing without you really seeing them.
Then something in the tone of the reporterâs voice shifted.
You frowned slightly and reached for the remote, turning the volume up.
On the screen, a woman stood in front of a still image, her expression serious and professional.
âWe are following a developing story tonight,â she said. âAuthorities are investigating what appears to be a suicide involving a twenty-five-year-old man found yesterday.â
Your hand stilled around the remote.
The woman continued.
âAccording to police reports, the man was discovered in his apartment. Officials have stated there are no immediate signs of foul play, and the case is currently being treated as a suicide by hanging.â
The image beside her changed.
And your fork slipped from your fingers, clattering loudly against the plate.
You barely heard the sound. Your eyes were locked on the screen.
The photo showed a young man, maybe around twenty-five. Light eyes. Strawberry-blond hair. A soft face, caught mid-smile in what looked like an old picture, the kind someoneâs mother or girlfriend might have taken.
You stared.
You knew that man.
You turned your head slowly toward Noah.
He was already staring at the TV, frozen. His fork was suspended in mid-air, forgotten. The color had drained from his face, his jaw tight, eyes dark and fixed.
You didnât need to say the name out loud.
He remembered.
You remembered too.
And his name was Elijah.
You had only seen him almost a year earlier, in a place filled with sweat and noise and violence. Back when you and Noah werenât together yet. Back when Kole was still in your life. That night, Noah had fought him, and won.
Noah had stepped out of the ring and gone to him, following him outside. Heâd crouched beside Elijah, checking on him, asking if he was okay. It was a small, human gesture, one no other fighter had ever shown Noah when he was the one on the ground.
That had been one of the many moments youâd thought Noah was a good man.
On the screen, the reporter kept talking.
âThe victim has been identified as Elijah Evan Beckett,â she said, âFriends and acquaintances describe him as a private individual. Authorities have stated there is no indication at this time that anyone else was involved.â
The words felt wrong.
Elijah was there on the screen.
And Elijah was dead.
The reporter continued. Now it showed a woman with short black hair standing just outside a building. Her eyes were red and swollen, mascara smeared down her cheeks. She was wrapped in a coat that looked too big for her, her hands shaking as she clutched the sleeves.
The reporter spoke over the footage.
âEarlier today, we spoke briefly with Elijah's partner, who says she is struggling to understand what happened.â
The audio cut to the womanâs voice.
âIâI donât get it,â she said, her words breaking apart as she spoke. âHe was⊠he was happy. We were planning our wedding. We had just picked a date.â
She wiped at her face with the back of her hand, breathing hard.
âHe didnât seem⊠he didnât seem like someone who would do this,â she continued. âHe was tired sometimes, sure, but arenât we all? He talked about the future all the time. About kids. About moving somewhere bigger.â
Her voice cracked completely then.
âI donât understand how someone who was so excited about his life could just⊠leave it.â
The footage ended abruptly, cutting back to the reporter in the studio.
You didnât hear the rest.
You looked back at Noah. His expression was⊠disturbed wasnât strong enough. Like a door had opened somewhere in his chest that heâd never intended to look behind again.
The TV kept going. But at your table, dinner had gone cold.
Noahâs breathing had changed. You noticed it immediately, the way his chest rose too fast, the way his hands curled tightly against the edge of the table like he needed something solid to keep him anchored.
âNo,â he said suddenly. His voice was quiet at first, almost to himself. âNo. That doesnât make sense.â
You turned fully toward him. âNoahââ
âHe didnât kill himself,â he said again, louder now, shaking his head. âThereâs no way.â
You reached for the remote and muted the TV, the room falling into an uncomfortable stillness. âHey. Okay. Letâs breathe for a second.â
He pushed his chair back slightly, running both hands through his newly cut hair, pacing a step before stopping again. âIâm serious,â he said, words tumbling out faster now. âThat place...where we fought...shit happens there. Bad shit. And this... this has something to do with that place.â
âNoah,â you said gently, standing up and moving closer, âyou donât know that for sure.â
He turned to you sharply. âI do. I do know.â
âYou met him once,â you said carefully, keeping your voice low. âYou fought. And talked for two minutes. You donât know what was going on in his life.â
His hands were shaking now. âNo. This is different.â
You reached out, resting a hand on his arm, feeling the tension under your fingers. âListen to me. I know this is upsetting, but you canât jump to conclusions like this.â
âHe was getting married,â Noah snapped, then immediately swallowed hard, his voice cracking. âHe was talking about the future. You saw her. Even she doesnât believe it.â
âThat doesnât mean someone killed him,â you said softly. âIt just means they didnât see it coming. Someone can look happy and still... struggle.â
âNo,â he insisted, backing away from your touch like he didnât usually do. âYou donât understand. That place ruins people. It chews them up and spits them out. People gather there to deal drugs and sell weapons, other than for gambling and other illegal activities.â
You stepped closer again, placing both hands on his shoulders to stop him from pacing. âNoah, look at me.â
His eyes flicked to yours, wild and unfocused.
âYou are spiraling,â you said gently but clearly. âI need you to slow down.â
He laughed once, short and humorless. âIâm not spiraling. Iâm seeing it for what it is.â
âYouâre panicking,â you said. âAnd thatâs okay. But that doesnât make this theory true.â
He shook his head again and again. âThey did this. I know they did. He did something someone didn't like. Or saw something he wasn't supposed to see.â
âYou donât know what he was dealing with privately.â
âI know what that world does to people.â
You softened your grip, sliding one hand up to his chest, feeling his heart hammering under your palm. âHey,â you murmured. âBreathe with me. Please.â
He tried, but the breath caught halfway in.
âI canât just pretend I didnât see that,â Noah said, voice tight, breath still uneven. âI canât sit here and eat dinner and go on with my life like nothing happened.â
âNo oneâs asking you to pretend,â you replied, âIâm asking you not toââ
âNoâ, He interrupted you as he ran a hand down his face, pacing again. âYou donât get it. If I donât do something, Iâm complicit. That place...they keep killing people and then they hide it. I can't do this again.â
You watched him for a second. âOkay,â you said slowly. âSo what does doing something look like to you?â
He stopped pacing.
âI need to go there,â he said. âIn person. Ask around. See what people say.â
Your stomach dropped. âHell, no.â
âSomeone has to know something. Someone will say something about it.â
âNoah,â you said sharply now, âlisten to yourself. After months you'll just appear again asking questions? And you expect answers?â
You already knew where this was going, and it made your blood run cold.
âIâll start fighting again,â he said. âThatâs how I get close. Thatâs how you hear things.â
A moment of silence. You hoped he was joking.
âYouâve lost your mind,â you said flatly.
He turned to you, âIâm serious.â
âSo am I,â you shot back. âYou left that place behind. You fought to leave it behind. And now you want to walk right back in?â
âIâm not walking back in,â he snapped. âIâm going in with my eyes open.â
âYou think they wonât suspect anything?â you said, incredulous.
âThey will think I just want to fight again,â he insisted.
âTheyâre not stupid,â you said. âAnd neither are you...at least you werenât, five minutes ago.â
His shoulders tensed. âI can handle myself.â
âThatâs not the point!â you raised your voice despite yourself. âYou are talking about deliberately going back to hurting yourself. Youâre talking about undoing months of progress. Therapy. Sleep. Healing. Everything youâve worked so hard for.â
âThis isnât about progress,â he said. âSomeone is dead.â
âAnd what about you?â you shot back. âWhat happens to you if you get dragged back into that cycle? If the nightmares come back worse? If you get hurt again? Or worse than hurt?â
He hesitated for half a second. Just half.
âI canât live with myself if I do nothing,â he said quietly.
You stared at him. âSo your solution is to go back to letting people beat the shit out of you?â
âIâve already decided.â
Something in you snapped.
âNo,â you said, voice shaking now. âYou donât get to make a decision like this alone. Not when it affects everything. Not when it affects us.â
He turned back sharply. âThis isnât about us.â
âIt absolutely is,â you shot back. âYouâre my boyfriend. And I love you. Iâve watched you wake up gasping for air. Iâve held you through panic attacks. Iâve watched you learn how to exist without destroying yourself. And now you want to throw yourself back into the one place that almost killed you?â
Noah closed his eyes and took a deep, shaky breath.
âTylerâŠâ he said quietly. Then he swallowed and opened his eyes again, looking at you. âTyler only had me. He didnât have a girlfriend, no one planning a wedding with him. Only me left to grieve him.â
He shook his head slowly. âElijah did.â
You said nothing. You couldnât. Your throat felt too tight, your eyes burning.
âHe had her,â Noah went on. âMaybe friends. Maybe family. People who loved him. People who deserve to know what actually happened to him, if this wasnât what theyâre saying it was.â
He looked away for a moment, then back at you.
âIâm sorry,â he said. âIâm sorry that this is the only way I know how to do this. I wish it wasnât. I wish there was another option that didnât involve me going back there.â
He took a step closer.
âBut I want to know what happened,â he said. âAnd if someone did this to him⊠I want justice.â
That was it.
You felt the tears finally spill over, hot and silent, blurring your vision. You didnât wipe them away. You just stood there, looking at him, heart breaking in slow motion.
Noah noticed immediately.
He softened, all the tension draining from his face as he closed the distance between you. Carefully, gently, he reached up and tucked a strand of your hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering there.
ââŠAre you mad at me?â he asked quietly.
You nodded, a small, shaky movement, sniffing as another tear slipped down your cheek.
He let out a breath. His thumb brushed under your eye, wiping the tear away with so much care it almost hurt more.
âCan I⊠can I hold you?â he asked. âPlease.â
You nodded again.
He pulled you into him slowly, wrapping his arms around you. You buried your face against his chest, fingers clutching the fabric of his hoodie as the tears came harder now. You didnât sob. You just cried, with quiet, shaking breaths that soaked into his sweatshirt.
Noah held you tighter, one hand pressing firmly between your shoulder blades, the other cradling the back of your head. He pressed a soft kiss to your hair, then another, lingering there.
âIâm sorry,â he murmured again. âI hate that this hurts you. I promise this wonât go on for long.â
You stayed like that for a moment, letting yourself cry, letting him hold you. Alpine circled your legs once, confused, then jumped up onto the couch.
Eventually, you pulled back just enough to look at Noah.
Your eyes were red, your nose probably was too, and your voice trembled when you finally spoke.
ââŠIâm coming with you.â
He froze.
âWhat?â he said immediately, pulling back slightly to look at you properly.
âIf you go,â you repeated despite the tears, âI go too.â
âNo,â he said instantly, shaking his head. âAbsolutely not.â
âYes,â you said.
âNo way,â he replied, âThatâs not happening.â
âYouâre not going back there alone,â you said, wiping at your face with the back of your hand. âI wonât let you.â
He ran a hand through his hair again, âThat place is dangerous.â
âI know.â
âItâs not safe for you.â
âItâs not safe for you either,â you shot back. âThat didnât stop you from deciding to go.â
He murmured your name.
You kept going. âIâd lose my mind. Iâd be imagining the worst every second.â
He looked so torn now, panic mixing with anger and fear. âI donât want you anywhere near that place again.â
âI donât want you there either,â you said softly. âBut if youâre going, Iâm not staying behind.â
âThis is different,â he argued. âThis could get ugly.â
âThen we face it together,â you replied. âLike everything else.â
He searched your face, desperate, conflicted. âWhat if something happens to you? You know I wouldââ
You swallowed. âWhat if something happens to you?â
Silence fell between you.
Noah exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping like the fight was draining out of him.
âI hate this,â he whispered.
âSo do I,â you said. âBut Iâm not letting you do this alone.â
He pulled you back into his arms, holding you tight.
ââŠYouâre stubborn,â he muttered into your hair.
âYou love that about me,â you replied weakly.
He huffed a breath that was almost a laugh. Almost.
Whatever was coming next, you knew one thing for sure.
If Noah walked back into that world, you would be right there with him.
âą reader has a name (Ella Thompson, but the story is written in 'your' POV)
Warnings: 18+ / MDNI / main character death / blood / death scene description / knife / stabbing / let me know if I need to add something else
Words: 2,7k
Author's note: reposting becauase I'm dumb, I AM SORRY / please read warnings for this one / @respectfulrebel 's beautiful brain came up with this ideađ€
frat boy Noah masterlist
Blood, so much blood everywhere. You stood in the doorway of Noahâs apartment and couldnât bring yourself to move. Your feet felt like two stones keeping you in place as you scanned the room.
It was the middle of the night, but the lamp in his living room brought enough light for you to see the bloody handprints on the white walls. Youâd expect noise, any noise, watching the bloody scene in front of you, but there was complete silence and it scared you.
The floor was covered in the dark red liquid, puddles of blood in some places and then the red smeared in other places.
âNoah?â you finally gathered up the courage to call out his name. Instead of a call, just a whisper came out of your mouth. Impossible for him to hear, but would scream be better? Is he alive? Can he hear you at all?
You started moving towards the living room, closing the door with your shaking hand. You thought about that twice, thinking that maybe you should keep the door open in case youâll need to run, to escape whatever is waiting for you in there. But you closed it anyway.
You kept your shoes on, what was the point of taking them off when there was blood everywhere. You tried to step on the clean spaces on the floor, almost impossible, but stepping on his blood felt wrong, like youâd be the one making him bleed.
âNoah?â you tried again, louder this time. âItâs just me.â
Your voice was shaking, he could hear the tremble. He wanted to call back and tell you that heâs okay, but he couldnât open his mouth. He didnât want to scare you, he didnât want you to see this. Any of this.
Noahâs eyes looked in the direction of your voice and when he saw the look on your face he just wanted to die. Death would be much easier than seeing you like that. Scared, shocked, terrified.
He wanted to get up, pull you into his chest and tell you everythingâs okay.
Except that nothing was okay.
You finally see him and you feel relief, but not even for a full second. Heâs hurt, thereâs blood and heâs laying in the middle of it.
You see a big sharp knife next to his body, the silver part hidden under the layer of red. His right hand is on his chest in an attempt to stop the bleeding. Heâs not putting any pressure on it, he doesnât have the strength for that, but he put it there anyway.
Heâs bleeding. Quickly. Heâs still breathing, but with every second you notice his breaths grow uneven and shorter, every breath looks like it gives him so much pain and takes a lot of his energy.
âIâm sorry.â he whispers and blood starts running down his chin, heâs dying.
You want to say something back, tell him to keep fighting and to not leave you alone. What are you going to do without him? He canât leave you, not like this.
But itâs like you lost the ability to speak, you open your mouth, but nothing comes out. You realise youâre crying.
You canât hear him anymore, the world around you goes silent, which only makes the scene in front of you worse.
Heâs not looking at you anymore, his eyes are closed, his hand still on his chest, but his chest is not moving.
âElla, oh god, Ella please wake up.â Clara is at the verge of tears when she hears you yelling and crying. She ran out of her bed to see whatâs happening, but she only found you asleep and having a nightmare.
Sheâs relieved when you finally open your eyes.
âOh Ella.â she doesnât give you any space before she sits down on your bed and hugs you.
Youâre so confused, your eyes are scanning the room, your breathing is quick and your heart feels like itâs going to jump out of your body any minute.
âNoah.â you mumble against Claraâs hair. Youâre still not hugging her back or listening to anything sheâs saying, instead you reach to get your phone and call Noah.
The phone starts to ring, you wait, but heâs not picking it up. You end the call, but immediately press the green button again.
Thereâs no way youâre going back to sleep unless you at least hear his voice.
Youâre praying for anything. Youâd be happy if heâd pick up the phone and yell at you for waking him up. Or even if wonât pick up and just send a text, just something to show that heâs alive.
âI need to go.â you say and push Clara aside.
âWhere? Ella itâs three in the morning.â
âI need to see him.â youâre looking like a crazy person. Frantically running around the room, looking for your keys, for the spare key to his apartment, for something to wear, for a cab number.
âYou canât go out now. Iâm sure heâs not picking up because heâs asleep Ella. It was just a nightmare.â Clara tries to calm you down, but it does the exact opposite.
âHe was dead, he was hurt and bleeding. I need to see him.â
âHow are you gonna get there?â she asked with worry in her voice. She didnât try to stop you anymore, knowing thereâs no point, so she just needed to make sure youâll get there safely.
âA cab, Iâm gonna call a cab.â
But she took your phone out of your hand before you could dial the number and did it herself. She ordered a cab, helped you put your clothes on, get your stuff and then she went with you.
She sat in the back of the car with you, she held your hand and kept saying calming words to you, even though she knew you were not listening.
Once she saw you disappear behind the main door of the big building, she told the driver to drive her back to the campus.
You felt sick when you arrived at his door. It was exactly like in the dream and you were scared to let yourself in.
You also thought about how youâre going to explain yourself if heâs okay. But he said you can use the key in case of an emergency, and this is an emergency, right?
After three deep breaths you slowly unlocked the door and opened it. Lights are off, itâs dark and you canât see anything. You canât see the blood.
You close the door and take your shoes off. No need to keep them on, because there is no blood, right?
You slowly start walking in the direction of the living room and hold your breath. What if heâs there in a pool of blood? What are you going to do?
But heâs not there. No signs of blood even after you turn the lights on and you can finally breathe.
âOkay.â you say and turn your head towards his bedroom door. Youâre still not fully convinced that heâs okay, so you hypnotise the door for a few minutes, hoping he will come out. But he doesnât.
Five long steps is all it takes for you to be able to reach for the door handle and you hold your breath again when you open it.
Your eyes take a few seconds to get used to the darkness, but youâre already looking for him.
And there he is. Laying in the middle of the bed on his back, the blanket covering him from waist down. One of his hands is propped under his head and the other one is resting on his chest, just like in the dream.
But heâs okay.
You quickly walk closer to the bed and the light from the open door lands on his face, obviously waking him up.
Heâs wiggling his nose and his brows are furrowed, but then he opens his eyes. Thatâs all it takes for you to throw yourself at him.
âYouâre okay.â you say and before he has a chance to say something, you start crying.
Heâs confused, half asleep and not far from throwing a punch to your face. Until he feels your touch and hears your voice, until he knows itâs you.
Your crying wakes him up and heâs wrapping his arms around you immediately.
âWhatâs wrong? Are you okay? Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?â you can hear the worry in his voice.
âNo.â you shake your head no in the crook of his neck and squeeze his shoulders even tighter.
âOkay baby, youâre scaring me now, whatâs wrong?â one of his hands is going up and down your back while the other one is holding your head in place. Heâs holding you tight, his actions telling you that youâre safe. And you know you are, because with him, you always are safe. Heâs your safe place.
That goes on for a few more minutes. His heart hurts from the endless tears running down your cheeks and then down his bare chest, but he knows you better than to make you talk. Youâll get there on your own and heâll wait for how long you need.
He notices when your sobs calm down, your grip on him loosens a little bit, but youâre still holding him as if someone was threatening to take him away.
Noah gently pulls you off of him, adjusting the both of you so you sit in his lap, but he can see your face now. His heart breaks a little bit more when he sees your red swollen eyes and wet cheeks, but itâs the way youâre looking at him that gets him the most.
Your eyes canât stay still, theyâre running all over his face and body, as if you couldnât believe heâs really there.
âWhatâs wrong baby?â his voice is soft, but still hoarse with sleep. His hands are caressing your face, trying to calm you down, giving your eyes something to focus on.
âI-â you start, but immediately stop. Telling him what you saw in your dream will make you go to that place again and you donât want that. You donât want to imagine his powerless body again.
âThatâs okay, take your time.â he pulls you to his chest and lays you both down.
With your ear pressed to his ribs you can hear his heart. Heâs alive, heâs there, heâs holding you. Your Noah is okay.
Heâs rocking you from side to side, expecting you to fall asleep, but you donât. You started tracing your fingers over his bicep and he follows every movement you make. Heâs tired, but he refuses to fall asleep before you.
The worst scenarios cross his mind, but he doesnât want to assume. He noticed that youâre in your pajamas, so you must have come to his place from your dorm, which means you were not out and that calms him down.
âDid you have a fight with your mom?â he says into the dark and feels you shake your head against him.
âWith Clara or Molly?â he tries again, knowing that will be a no too.
âIs it anxiety? Is your head full of thoughts again?â he refers to that one time when you begged him to make your head silent, to make the thoughts in your head stop because it was too much.
When he runs out of ideas he lets the silence take over again, offering physical comfort for now.
When it feels like youâve cried all of your tears you sit up again, holding yourself up with your hands on his chest.
His long fingers close over your smaller ones, giving you supportive squeeze.
âI had a nightmare.â you start and part of him is relieved that nothing actually happened. âAnd you were in it. I, I came here, but when I opened your door there was blood everywhere and then I found you stabbed and laying on the floor. Noah you died, I saw you die and I couldnât do anything to help.â you finished with a sharp breath because saying it out loud felt too real again.
You felt like you couldnât breathe, your throat was closing and your vision was getting blurry again.
âHey.â Noah dragged one of his hands over your arm, neck and then cheek just to caress your face again. You leaned into his touch, wrapping your hands around his wrist to keep him there.
Closing your eyes and taking a few deep breaths for the hundredth time that night you started to calm down again.
âI was so scared that something happened to you and you were not picking up your phone so I panicked and called a cab and got here.â you admitted and he smiled. That asshole just smiled.
âYou were worried?â he found it extremely cute, but he had to ease the situation with his own technique which was humor.
âShut up, of course I was worried. I called you like 20 times and you were not picking it up. Did you lose your phone or what?â and his technique worked, he saw the anxiety slowly leave your body and instead he could see you getting angry with him for teasing you.
âI have it on do not disturb during the night.â he just shrugged his shoulders.
âBut what if someoneâs calling you?â
âThen they have to wait until the morning.â
âWhat if itâs an emergency?â
âWho would be calling me in an emergency? The boys when they have a house full of people?â he didnât have to finish his sentence for you to know that he meant that he has no one else who could need him. But thatâs not true, you need him. You would call him in an emergency.
âI would.â you whisper and his face softens. âYouâd be the first person Iâd call if I needed help Noah.â
âIâm gonna turn it off for you, okay?â his voice was soft, almost vulnerable.
âYeah.â you nodded, your hands still holding his wrist in place.
Silence took over and you just kept looking at him, making sure he was really okay.
âI can leave if you want to.â you said and started to get off his lap.
âYouâre not going anywhere woman. You broke into my apartment so youâre staying.â he gripped your wrist and pulled you off his lap so you were laying next to him.
âI did not break into your apartment!â you slapped his arm, but couldnât help the chuckle.
âSay what you wanna say, but I think you did.â he covered you with his blanket, pulling it over your face to make you shut up.
âI thought you were dead!â your voice was muffled by the blanket, but he could still hear you.
âAnd you gave me the key!â
âYeah, thatâs just using it against me.â even when he ran out of the bedroom to turn the lights off he could still hear you rumbling about how you did not break into his apartment.
He used the only way he knew how to make you shut up and that was by kissing you.
Gently he took your jaw in his hand and turned your head to face him. The kiss cut off your sentence somewhere around âBut when you need me to suck your dick you donât call it breaking into your apartment.â and you could feel his smile against your lips.
When he pulled away you were silent, just staring at him with the softest eyes heâs ever seen.
âThat was nice, do it again.â you whispered.
He leaned down and captured your lips with his again, this time kissing you more passionately. Thatâs his way of saying âIâm grateful that you care.â and you know it. You never pressure him into saying stuff like that out loud and he appreciates that too.
âLetâs sleep baby.â you frowned at his words which earned you a forehead kiss.
âGood night Noah.â you turned onto your side, your back pressed against his chest.
âNight baby.â he said and wrapped his arms around you.
You intertwined your fingers with his at your front, squeezing them to make sure heâs real and okay before you let sleep take over.
âHow many times have I been stabbed? Did I look like a dying hero at least?â his voice echoed through the room and you couldnât help but roll your eyes.
âShut the fuck up.â
This story is a work of fiction, with the plot and characters entirely made up. The appearance and name of the main male character are inspired by Noah Sebastian Davis, but the storyline bears no connection to the real person. Please do not steal or repost this work on other platforms without permission.
Summary: This will be a series of follow on shorts from a role play that I did with a friend over on rpnation. This is older Noah navigating life as a single Dad.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
Ivy pulled her coat around her a little tighter while she waited to see her Dadâs truck pull up. Heâd been late nearly every day that week so far and she was almost ready to ask to take the bus again but then she would remember how everyone stared and, especially on the bus, she could hear the other kids talking about her. About how she was the kid with the dead brother and a dead Mom.
Sheâd managed to go back to school in September and whilst she had taken more days off than would normally be acceptable in the Davis household things had gone mostly okay on the academic front. She was a couple days away from being on winter break as well, half tempted to ask if she could just stay home from today. It had been hard to have to listen to all of her classmates talking excitedly about their family Christmas plans when this would be the first year she didnât have her Mom around at all. Even when her parents had gotten divorced she had at the very least got a phone call and a present from her Mom and whilst she used to complain about that, now she would give anything for a few minutes of being able to hear her voice.
She looked up when she heard a car horn and smiled a little as she saw the large black truck pulling up so she rushed over, being careful to not slip on any ice, and jumped in the passenger side. Immediately she was bombarded with her dog licking all over her face which illicited a few giggles. âOh Rocky.â She laughed, wiped her cheek and pulled her seatbelt on while her Dad peeled away from the sidewalk.
âSorry bug, I lost track of time in the studio today and then Rocky wanted to come with me but he wouldnât sit still to get his collar on⊠Itâs been a day.â Noah chuckled as he looked over at his daughter.
âItâs fine.It was only ten minutes today.â
Noah sighed as he noticed her putting her earbuds in. It had been a hard year for everyone but he was very well aware that his little girl, who wasnât so little anymore, had been struggling more as they approached the holiday season.
âHey, before you put your music on, I wanted to talk to you about something.â He glanced over to check if she was listening only to find, for just a brief moment, his late wifeâs face staring back at him and a pang of grief hit. He quickly swallowed it down and continued, âSo you know that Iâve been working on some music with Nick and Jolly again donât you?â
âYeah? What about it?â She nodded slowly, still watching him a little warily,
âWell⊠Weâve been having some talks about doing a reunion tour, recording a few new songs, getting back out there. It wonât be until the summer at least but I figured you could come with us if you want, go on tour with dear old Dad for a few weeks of summer break.â
Ivy had never known her Dad while he was in Bad Omens. She had listened to a fair bit of their music and she was aware that a lot of their fans followed both her and Jake on their social medias. Her brother had even run a fan account for the band for a while as a joke and only revealed it was him doing it after he had made a joke about their Mom being dead and people had dog piled on him. She hadnât found it funny, she knew her Dad had been a bit disappointed about too and yet, both of them could definitely admit that Carmen would have laughed about it.
âDo I have to give you an answer now?â She asked him, absentmindedly scratching Rockyâs head while they headed home.
âNo, God no. This isnât even definitely happening yet. Just wanted to gauge your interest levels. Might even be hoping that you havenât decided that youâre too cool to hang out with me yet.â
âDad-â
âI know, I know⊠Iâm only asking you to have a think about it. I donât plan to start touring nonstop but a couple reunion tours⊠Just think about it please.â He repeated.
He let her put her earbuds in then, turning his own music on and focused on getting them home, taking it gentle on the winding roads back to the house they had lived in for almost 20 years now. Even with all of the tragedy they had experienced in the past year he couldnât bring himself to sell it and move. The kids had grown up there and the good memories outweighed the bad.
He got out with her and watched her take the dog round the back to go through the kitchen like they usually did while he headed in the front and took his shoes off, greeting the dogs then went straight to the kitchen to get a drink.
âIâm thinking Korean friend chicken tonight, rice and broccoli, that sound okay?â He asked Ivy, âYou uh, you got any homework? Got your eye on any cute boys? Or girls?â
âOh my God! Dad!â She rolled her eyes, a red hue creeping across her cheeks.
âAlright, alright. I was just asking.â He chuckled a little, âThatâs part of my job as your Dad, to be embarrassing.â
âWhatever. When is Jake coming home next?â She hadnât seen her brother in a few weeks now and with it being just her and Noah, she was starting to go a little stir crazy.
âUh, I think on Wednesday, said he would stay through to next Monday but him and Jess are going on vacation to see her parents before Christmas then heâs gonna be with us. You sure that youâre still happy to go to LA for it?â
âYeah, itâs better than being here for it.â Ivy mumbled as she grabbed a couple of extra snacks then turned to disappear upstairs with Rocky to start to unwind from the day.
He knew just how difficult this Christmas was going to be for all of them. They had been hard enough after losing his other son and then when his wife had started to spiral, leading to her drug use and their divorce and ultimately her death. Now that she was gone completely though it was different. He loved his kids more than anything but he still felt so lost without Carmen. Sheâd been with him through so much and even after the divorce he never thought of her as his ex-wife. Heâd only done it to keep their kids safe from her devolving habits.
He was all too aware that this year there would be an even bigger empty space than before and the thought of spending the holiday in the house was too much so he had hired someone to come watch all the animals and he was taking the kids across the opposite side of the country to LA with the hope that some sunshine and more company would make things at least bearable. It would be nice as well for him to have someone to lean on for a minute.
Once Ivy had gone upstairs, all was quiet again so Noah went to busy himself with the goats out in the back yard, the routine that he ran through with them had been second nature for several years now and for all the extra work they created, he knew that if he ever thought about giving them away Carmenâs ghost would haunt him for the rest of his life. Even now he could recall when he came home from a work trip to find she had snuck them in while he was away.
Noah walked through the house after dumping his bags, expecting to find his wife and children in the kitchen or their rooms but it was suspiciously quiet and he was about ready to call Carmen when he looked out the back window and noticed at the very end of the garden, next to the chicken coop was another structure that looked to be a large garden shed from this distance but as he got closer he realised it was more like a small barn. It hadnât been there when he left for LA a week ago.
Carmen was sat inside the pen, Sebastian and Jake sat across from her and little Ivy between them while she held, on her lap, one of the two baby goats she had picked up a couple days ago and gave it a bottle of milk.
âJust like with the dogs and the cats we have to be really gentle guys and I think tomorrow maybe you boys can start to have a go feeding them. We gotta decide what names we want for them as we- Hey puppy!â She called as she looked up and noticed Noah striding down to meet them.
âHey, so whatâs all this?â Noah chuckled, grunting a little as both the boys had jumped up the moment they had spotted him and bolted over, smacking into him at the same time. âOh I missed you guys so much!â He pulled them both in tighter for hugs.
The twins were both near on carbon copies of Noah, tall for their age, fluffy brown hair and the same dark eyes. Sebastian had more of his motherâs bone structure and her nose but at a quick glance most people assumed they were identical.
âDaddy! Daddy me! Daddy!â Ivyâs little voice shrilled towards him as well as she ran across the grass.
âOh hello little Miss Ivy.â He called.
At just shy of three she wasnât as quick as her brothers yet who had almost eight years on her and for now there was hardly any evidence that she was his child at all with Carmen often joking that it was like his genes hadnât even tried.
He crouched to reach for her once the boys had gone back to their Mom and scooped her up into his arms to place kisses all over her tiny face while she squealed excitedly and held on tight to him until he let her get down once she was bored and took her small hand to walk towards his wife.
Carmen had finished feeding the goat and stood, brushed herself off and finally closed the distance between them once he was inside the pen.
âHey.â She smiled and reached up to slip her arms around his neck, âSo itâs entirely possible that I got a couple goats and had Jon from the feed store come and help me put up an enclosure on the weekend.â
âOh⊠Really? I hadnât noticed.â He chuckled, his hands coming around her waist to rest on the small of her back before he leaned down to kiss her, opting to ignore the sounds of disgust from the twins. âWhat am I gonna do with you?â He murmured.
âLove me⊠Buy me more goats.â She laughed a little
He rolled his eyes but pecked her lips once more then pulled away and let the kids tell him all about the latest addition to their family. She knew that while he was pretending to be disappointed, he really didnât mind at all. Theyâd had the agreement for years now that she could have what animals she liked as long as she was the one who looked after them or organised someone to do so for her.
Those had been some of the best days of his life. Heâd give anything to go back and treasure it more. If he could only go back and make sure they kept Sebastian home that day, if he had just paid more attention to how Carmen was handling the loss of their son⊠Things might have turned out very differently.
Series summary: Noah didnât expect that his one night stand from 2020 would keep a secret from him for years. But now, in 2024, as Bad Omens is back in Oregon, he wasnât expecting to run into you while trying to buy some energy drink so he could endure the tour.
You looked even prettier, yes, but what caught his attention wasnât your beauty, or the fact that you looked like youâd just seen a ghost just by looking at him.
It was, in fact, the little girl holding your hand, telling you she liked his hoodie. He really wasnât prepared for was seeing himself reflected in that little girl who loved bees and cookies, not expecting to change his entire life for good.
author's note: I'm kind of insecure with this one cause I wasn't that inspired, I've been having some personal issues lately that gave me a hard time writing, but I gave my best <3 Hope you guys like it, EON is three chapters away from the end so I hope everyone likes the last three chapters that are coming!!
masterlist
The house, once bright and full of laughter, suddenly felt too small, as if the walls had inhaled sharply the moment that photo hit the internet and were now pressing inward, squeezing the air from your lungs.
The morning light that had felt warm and golden an hour ago now looked harsh, clinical, exposing every corner of the life youâd dared to believe was safe.
You stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen, arms hanging useless at your sides, the phone still burning in Noahâs white-knuckled grip. The image was branded behind your eyelids: Karaâs tiny profile turned up toward him, his own face softened in a way the world had never been allowed to see, the unmistakable mirror of their features side-by-side.
A stranger had stolen that moment and turned it into ammunition.
A small tug at the hem of your shirt snapped you back.
âMommy?â Karaâs voice was tiny, threaded with that instinctive whine children get when they sense the emotional barometer in the room has plummeted. She was wearing crooked fairy wings, her cheeks flushed from sleep and leftover syrup. âWhy is your face all scrunched and sad?â
Your throat closed. You opened your mouth and nothing came out.
Noah moved before you could, dropping to one knee so fast the fairy wings fluttered like startled birds. He scooped her up in one fluid motion, settling her on his hip the way heâd learned to do in the last few days, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hand splayed across her back, big and protective, fingers spanning almost her entire torso.
âHey, little bug,â he murmured, pressing his cheek to her curls for a second, breathing her in like oxygen. His voice was calm, trying to stay steady for her. âMommy and Daddy have to do some super boring grown-up talking right now. How about we set up Bluey on the big TV with the special headphones? AndâŠâ he bounced her once, earning a surprised giggle, âI happen to know where the emergency gummy stash is. The good kind. The ones with the sour ones you like.â
Karaâs eyes went comically wide. âThe green-and-red ones?â
âExtra green-and-red ones,â he promised solemnly.
She considered this bribe for half a second, then nodded with the gravity of a diplomat signing a peace treaty. âOkay. But Bee has to watch, Bun-Bun too.â
âBee gets the best seat on the couch, so does Bun-Bunâ Noah vowed.
He carried her into the living room, wings bouncing with every step, and you followed a few paces behind, feeling like you were floating outside your own body. He settled her into the mountain of pillows heâd started calling âthe nest,â tucked the giant noise-canceling headphones over her ears as they swallowed half her face, and handed her the iPad already queued to the newest Bluey episode. Then he produced the contraband Haribo from the highest cabinet, the one she couldnât reach even with her step stool, and poured a small, colorful mountain into a bowl shaped like a dinosaur. That mountain would undoubtedly rot her teeth but buy you the twenty minutes of desperate peace you needed.
Karaâs entire face lit up like the sunrise.Â
She immediately shoved three gummies into her mouth at once, cheeks bulging like a chipmunk, and gave Noah a sticky thumbs-up. He kissed the top of her head, lingered there for a long second, breathing her in again, then walked back to you.
The mask slipped the moment he crossed the threshold into the kitchen.
His shoulders sagged, the calm evaporating like smoke. âItâs everywhere,â he rasped, scrolling with a thumb that shook. âReddit, TikTok, Instagram⊠someone already made a side-by-side of her face and mine from when I was younger.â
He turned the phone toward you. The numbers climbed in real time, obscene and dizzying. Quote tweets, reaction videos, conspiracy threads. Someone had slowed down an old Twitch clip of Noah saying he wanted kids someday and layered it with the grocery photo. Another account zoomed in on Karaâs little hand clutching his finger and captioned it âDNA doesnât lie.â
Your knees buckled. You caught yourself on the counter, the granite cold under your palms. âTheyâre talking about my baby like sheâs⊠evidence. Like sheâs a plot twist.â
Noahâs jaw flexed, a hard, tight line. He locked the phone and set it face-down on the counter as if it were radioactive, a poisonous thing. âIâm calling Matt. Right now.â
He stepped into the hallway, and you heard the low, furious rumble of his voice. You caught fragments, sharp and clipped: âDo I really need to expose my baby to this?... I get it, Matt, I know itâs for her safety in the long run⊠no, we are not denying anything⊠yes, sheâs mine, of course sheâs mine⊠I will draft a statement within the hour⊠and I want that original photo taken down, I donât care what it costs, make it disappearâŠâ
Your legs could no longer hold you. You slid down the cabinet until you were sitting on the cool tile, drawing your knees to your chest, arms wrapped tightly around them as if you could physically hold yourself together. The unbridled joy of the last few days, the lazy mornings, the shared laughter, the feeling of a complete family, felt suddenly fragile, like spun glass. One careless stranger with a phone camera had shattered it, and everything youâd so carefully built in your little bubble was now exposed, laid bare for the world to pick apart.
Noah came back ten minutes later looking like heâd fought a war and only barely won. The lines around his eyes were deeper, carved with a new kind of exhaustion. He crouched in front of you, hands settling on your knees, grounding.
âHey.â His voice was soft, urgent. âLook at me.â
You did. His eyes were red-rimmed, but blazing.
âMattâs handling the takedowns. Iâm writing the statement myself. No PR fluff. Just the truth.â He brushed a tear from your cheek you hadnât realized had fallen. âWe are acknowledging her. Iâm acknowledging you. And then we ask nicely for privacy. And if they donât give it, we go scorched earth.â
You laughed once, a broken, wet sound. âPeople are going to hate me.â
âSome people,â he corrected, his voice gentle but firm. âA very loud, very small fraction of people who donât know the first thing about us. And the ones who matter? My friends? Theyâre already sending texts. Theyâre worried about her, theyâre happy for me. For us.â He reached out, brushing a thumb across your damp cheek. âIâm not ashamed of either of you. Iâm proud. Iâm so damn proud it hurts. I just hate that the world gets to have an opinion on the best thing thatâs ever happened to me before we were ready to share it.â
From the living room, the faint, tinny sound of the Bluey theme song drifted in, followed by Karaâs delighted, uninhibited giggle at something Bingo did. You both turned toward the sound instinctively, like flowers turning toward the last patch of sunlight on a stormy day.
âShe doesnât know yet,â you whispered. âTo her, youâre just Daddy. The one who makes ceiling pancakes and lets her put sparkly clips in your hair and sings the bee song off-key.â
Noahâs smile was small, heartbreaking. âI want to keep it that way for as long as humanly possible. I just want to be âDaddy.ââ
He helped you stand, arms sliding around your waist, forehead pressing to yours. âWeâre still getting on that plane tonight. You go tie up your life in Oregon. And when you come back, we do this right. Out in the open. No more hiding.â
You nodded, breathing him in. âOkay.â
He kissed your temple, then rested his cheek there. âIâm in love with you,â he said quietly, like it was the simplest truth in the world. âYou and Kara are my entire universe.â
The confession settled over you like the softest blanket and the heaviest armor all at once.
âI love you too,â you whispered back, the words trembling but sure.
He laughed once, watery, relieved and kissed you properly then, slow and deep and desperate, like he was trying to pour every promise he couldnât yet say into your mouth.
The rest of the day was logistics wrapped in tenderness.
Noah wrote the statement in the notes app on his phone while Kara napped on his chest, her little hand curled around one of his necklaces, rising and falling with his breaths. When she woke, he let her âhelpâ him type, her sticky fingers adding random letters and emojis until the draft looked like abstract art. He kept every single one.
He posted it at 4:17 p.m.
âA private photo of me with my daughter and her mother was shared without our consent. Yes, I have a daughter. She is three years old and the absolute light of my life. Her mother and I are committed to raising her together and ask that you respect our familyâs privacy, especially our childâs. We will not be addressing this further. Thank you.â đ
He deactivated comments immediately.
Within minutes, the tone online began to shift. The ugliness was still there, it always would be, but it was being drowned out by an ocean of support from his true fans. They posted old Twitch stream clips of a younger Noah talking wistfully about one day having a family, created beautiful edits of him on stage with the bee emoji overlaid, and flooded the mentions with messages that simply read, âWelcome to the world, little one,â and âWe love you, Noah.â
The original photo disappeared from every major platform by sunset.
You watched the tide turn from the couch, a sleeping Kara a warm, heavy weight against your side, her breath puffing softly against your arm. Noah sat beside you, his hand resting on your thigh, his touch a constant, quiet reassurance, as if he needed the physical contact to believe this new reality was real.
Later, as the sun bled orange across the sky, Noah drove you to the airport. Kara, emotionally wrung out, fell asleep twenty minutes in, head heavy on your arm, Bee clutched in a death grip.
At the terminal, Noah carried both suitcases and a cranky, half-asleep Kara who refused to be put down. He held her the entire time, through baggage check, through security, all the way to the gate, her little face buried in his neck, arms locked like a baby koala.
When the boarding call came, he finally set her down, crouching so they were eye-level.
âOkay, bug,â he said, voice gravel-rough. âTime for your big adventure with Mommy.â
Karaâs lip wobbled. âI want you to come too, Daddy.â
His breath hitched. âI know, baby. I know. But Daddy has to go sing for a little bit. And then Iâm coming to get you, and weâre never ever being apart again for a long long time. Okay?â
Tears spilled down her cheeks. âPromise?â
He held up his pinky, still faintly purple from her crayon tattoo. âBiggest pinky swear in the history of pinky swears.â
She hooked her tiny finger around his and squeezed with all her might.
Then she launched herself at him, arms around his neck, and he caught her, holding her so tightly you saw his arms shake. He pressed his face into her curls and you watched his shoulders heave once, twice, a silent, wrenching sob he refused to let her feel.
âI love you,â he whispered against her hair. âMore than all the stars, more than all the chocolate chips, more than-â
âMore than bees love flowers,â she finished, voice thick with tears but steady.
âYeah,â he choked. âExactly that.â
He stood, and then it was your turn.
He didnât speak.Â
Just pulled you into him, one arm iron around your waist, the other hand cradling your skull like you were made of glass. You felt his heartbeat, wild, frantic, against your ribs.
âIâll fix this,â he whispered fiercely against your ear. âEverything. Iâll protect you both. Just come home to me.â
You nodded, tears soaking his hoodie.
He kissed you once, hard, desperate, tasting like salt and promises, then rested his forehead against yours.
Kara slipped her small, warm hand into yours, looking back at him over her shoulder every three steps, her little face a picture of longing, until you finally turned the corner toward the jet bridge.
The last thing you saw was Noah standing alone in the middle of the terminal, tall and heartbreakingly still, hands in his pockets, tears tracking silently down his face as he watched the space where his whole world had just disappeared.
The plane ride home was quiet. Kara, exhausted from the emotional whirlwind, fell asleep again halfway through the flight, her head a comforting weight in your lap, Bee still clutched in a death grip. You stared out the window at the endless expanse of clouds, the same ones sheâd once thought were made of cotton candy, and felt the full, aching swell of a love and a fear so immense it felt too big for your body.
Your phone buzzed.
Noah [8:12 PM]: Land safe. Call me when youâre home. Iâll be awake. I love you both.
You attached the photo youâd secretly taken at the gate, Noah crouched, forehead pressed to Karaâs, both of them laughing in their own private bubble.
Noah [8:14 PM]: Setting this as my lock screen. Forever. My whole world, right there.
You smiled through your tears and typed back.
You [8:15 PM]: See you soon, Daddy. đ
And for the first time in three years, the word âsoonâ didnât feel like a lie.
⯠Heâs an absolute champ at bedtime. To the point where your daughter insists that heâs the one who tucks her in
⯠They have little talks about her day while he gets her ready for bed. He wants to know whatâs happening in her little life, how she sees the things they do. Also, it makes everything a little easier because sheâs thinking more about her day than the fact that heâs getting her ready for the worst thing in the world: brushing her teeth
⯠They always pick out a story or two. Noah does voices for the stories, and sometimes it's a little counterproductive because it turns her into a giggly little mess when she should be getting sleepier.Â
⯠More often than not, he sings her a little lullaby. Sometimes it's just a little hummed tune, other times itâs a ârealâ lullaby or some other tune.Â
⯠He stays until sheâs fast asleep, and sometimes heâs just so comfy that you have to wake him up an hour after he went upstairs to tuck your daughter in. A part of you wants to let him sleep -- they just look so comfortable and cosy -- but you know that he'll complain about his back in the morning.
⯠Naturally, Noah has planned for the inevitable case of him being away on tour. The evening after heâs left, as youâre preparing yourself to break the bad news to your daughter, Noah lets you in on a secret project of his. He has prepared two CDs. One with her favourite bedtime stories and another with a collection of lullabies just for your daughter. And maybe heâs even included an original â that maybe later makes its way onto a BO album in a slightly altered version because the original will always be for your daughter's ears only.
Series summary: Noah didnât expect that his one night stand from 2020 would keep a secret from him for years. But now, in 2024, as Bad Omens is back in Oregon, he wasnât expecting to run into you while trying to buy some energy drink so he could endure the tour.
You looked even prettier, yes, but what caught his attention wasnât your beauty, or the fact that you looked like youâd just seen a ghost just by looking at him.
It was, in fact, the little girl holding your hand, telling you she liked his hoodie. He really wasnât prepared for was seeing himself reflected in that little girl who loved bees and cookies, not expecting to change his entire life for good.
author's note: once again, I wrote it in my native language and used two different tools to translate it, so if anything is weird, please tell me.
masterlist
Kara had drifted off so peacefully the night before, her little chest rising and falling in that perfect, untroubled rhythm that only kids seem to master. She loved the day before, meeting his bandmates and being the center of their attention.
She felt like a princess.
Youâd watched her for a long moment after tucking her in, the guest room bathed in the soft glow of the nightlight sheâd insisted on bringing from home, her purple lamp, the one with the twinkling stars that made her feel like she was sleeping under the sky. The second night in Noahâs place, and everything had felt⊠tentative, but hopeful.
Like maybe this patchwork family thing could stitch itself together without too many frayed edges.
You were hopeful.
But mornings, especially the ones that follow a fragile peace, have a way of unraveling everything.
It starts with the smallest sound; a tiny sniffle, barely audible over the hum of the city waking up outside the window. Then another, followed by a muffled, heart-tugging âMamaâŠâ, like a string tied straight to your soul.
Youâve already gone through your morning routine on autopilot: splashing water on your face, pulling your hair into a messy bun, brewing coffee you havenât even tasted yet. But the moment you tiptoe back into the guest room, pushing the door open with that familiar creak, the air shifts.
Heavy. Thick with something unspoken.
There she is, your sweet girl, curled into the tightest blanket burrito imaginable, her wild curls spilling out like golden threads caught in a storm. Her nose is an angry shade of red, glistening at the tip, and her cheeks burn with that telltale flush, the kind that screams fever even before you touch her.
Her eyes, usually sparkling with mischief and endless questions, are glassy now, like polished marbles catching the slivers of sunlight sneaking through the half-drawn curtains. She looks so small, so vulnerable, and it hits you like a punch to the gut. This isnât just a cold; this is your baby hurting, and you hadnât seen it coming, you hadn't noticed it when you first got up.
âHey, sunshine,â you whisper, your voice softer than you intended, kneeling beside the bed and brushing a damp curl from her forehead. Her skin is warm, too warm, and she groans dramatically, burying her face into the pillow with all the flair of a tiny actress in her big debut.
âDonât wanna⊠sunshine,â she mutters, the words muffled against the fabric but laced with so much raw feeling it makes your throat tighten. Kara loves being the sunshine. Itâs her thing, her bright, beaming smile that can light up the darkest days. Hearing her reject it now? Thatâs the first crack in your heart, the red flag waving furiously in the back of your mind.
You press the back of your hand to her forehead again, confirming what your instincts already scream. Warm, bordering on hot. Another sniffle escapes her, wet and pitiful, and you sigh, sinking onto the edge of the bed like the weight of the world has just settled on your shoulders. âOkay, bug,â you say gently, trying to keep your voice steady for her sake. âLooks like someoneâs got a little cold brewing.â
From the hallway, Noahâs voice floats in calmly, but you can hear the undercurrent of worry threading through it, the same one that mirrors your own racing thoughts. âNeed me to grab the medicine? Or⊠anything?â
Karaâs head pops up just enough for her to whisper, âNowahâŠâ before a stuffy sneeze explodes out of her, spraying your arm and the blanket in a tragic, misty arc. You canât help but wince, even as a reluctant smile tugs at your lips. âRight. Tissues first, bug. Letâs get you cleaned up.â
By the time Noah appears in the doorway, his hair tousled from sleep and his eyes already shadowed with concern, Kara has fully descended into meltdown mode. The world, in her fever-fogged mind, is a cruel, unfair place.
Too small, too stuffy, too everything.
Her lower lip quivers like itâs holding back a flood, her tiny hands balling into fists against the sheets. âMy nose is broken,â she declares, her voice so small and tragic it could shatter glass.
Noah crouches beside the bed, his broad frame folding down to her level, and you see him bite back a laugh even as his heart breaks a little, you can tell from the way his eyes soften. âBroken, huh? Thatâs some serious business, kiddo.â
She nods miserably, tears welling up in those glassy eyes. âItâs drippinâ.â
You have to turn your face away for a second, hiding the grin behind your hand because oh god, sheâs so dramatically perfect even in her misery. âThatâs⊠kinda what noses do when theyâre all stuffed up, sweetheart.â But Kara isnât in the mood for logic.
Not today.
She wants the park with its swings and slides, pancakes drowning in syrup instead of plain old toast, no yucky medicine, all the toys scattered across the floor, her purple lamp glowing like a beacon, Nanaâs warm hugs, a nap, no nap, the entire universe handed to her on a silver platter, and she wants it now.
And just like that, the storm breaks.
It starts with tears, the fat, rolling ones that streak her flushed cheeks and soak into the pillow. Then comes the coughing, rough and insistent, which only fuels the sobs into a heartbreaking symphony: hiccups intertwined with coughs, her little body shaking with the force of it all.
You kneel beside her, pulling out every trick in your mama arsenal: gentle words whispered like secrets, soft circles rubbed on her back to ease the ache, promises of cartoons with her favorite characters, distractions with her stuffed bunny and a pile of blocks. You dose her with the cherry-flavored medicine that she hates with a passion, waiting for it to kick in and chase away the feverâs grip. But nothing works. Nothing pierces the fog of her misery.
âNo!â she wails, flailing her small arms like she can push the whole world away, kicking the blanket off her legs in a tangle of frustration. âI donât wanna stay here! I wanna go home!â
Your chest tightens so hard you can barely breathe. Noahâs eyes meet yours across the room, a storm of worry and helplessness swirling in their depths, reflecting back everything you feel but canât say. âBaby,â you murmur, brushing her curls back with trembling fingers, âweâll go home soon, I promise. You just need to rest a little-â
âNo!â The word slices through the air like a knife, sharp and unrelenting. âI want my bed! My room! My purple lamp!â Her sobs hitch violently, shaking her whole tiny frame. âI want Nana!â
The homesickness crashes over you then, wave after wave, sharp and unrelenting. Sheâs only three; too small to process the feverâs confusion, the unfamiliar walls closing in, the ache in her chest that isnât just from coughing. It all collides inside her, a perfect storm of overwhelm, and your heart shatters into a million pieces watching her crumble.
âI know, sweetheart,â you whisper, pulling her into your arms despite her weak protests, rocking her gently as tears sting your own eyes. âYou miss Nana so much, huh? Itâs okay to miss her.â
She nods against your shoulder, her hot tears soaking through your shirt. âAnd I donât like my nose, and I donât like my tummy, and-â another hiccup, gut-wrenching and raw â-I donât like here!â
The words land like a punch, a deep sting in your chest you hadnât braced for. This was supposed to be a step forward: Noahâs place, a few days to bridge the gaps, but now it feels like youâve dragged her into a nightmare.
Noah moves then, careful and deliberate, crouching in front of her with one hand hovering like he wants to comfort but is afraid to overstep. âHey, bug,â he murmurs, his voice a low rumble of tenderness. âItâs okay. You donât have to like it today. Weâre right here with you, yeah? Mama and me.â
But Kara is lost in the haze, beyond reason or gentle words. âStop, youâre not daddy!â she blurts out suddenly, the words exploding from her in a burst of angry, childish conviction that hangs in the air like smoke.
Time freezes.
Your breath catches in your throat, heart lodging somewhere painful and unreachable. Noah stiffens beside you, his jaw clenching tight, eyes darkening. Not with anger, never that, but with a quiet, piercing hurt that you recognize instantly because it mirrors the ache in your own soul.
Her little face crumples the second the words leave her lips, realization dawning like a storm cloud. Tears cascade faster, her sobs turning into desperate hiccups. âI didnât mean it! I didnât mean it!â
You gather her closer, rocking her trembling body as she clings to you, hot and feverish and utterly broken. âShh, baby, itâs okay,â you whisper over and over, your voice cracking. Noah hovers nearby, his presence a hesitant shadow, his own emotions raw and exposed in the lines of his face, the way his shoulders slump just a fraction, the unshed glimmer in his eyes.
Eventually, the storm ebbs.
Her sobs fade into sniffles, her fingers twisting into your shirt like lifelines she canât bear to lose. âI didnât mean it,â she whispers again, so fragile it breaks you all over.
Noah forces a faint smile, tight around the edges, his voice steady despite the wince you see flicker across his features. âI know, bug. Itâs okay. Really.â But you can see it, you can notice the sting lingering behind his bravado, that silent note of hurt echoing in the quiet.
She melts against you then, exhaustion claiming her at last, her breathing shallow and rhythmic. You carry her to the couch, her weight a familiar comfort in your arms, and she stirs just enough to mumble, âNowah, stay.â
Heâs there in an instant, crouching beside you, his hand brushing hers with infinite gentleness. âYeah, bug. Iâll stay. Promise.â
The house settles into a hushed quiet after that. A bone-deep exhaustion that follows hours of coaxing her to sip soup (which she dramatically declares tastes like âsad cloudsâ), a lukewarm bath to bring down the fever, and endless rounds of temperature checks and whispered reassurances.
Kara finally crashes in Noahâs bed, a small, tangled lump under the blankets, her bunny tucked protectively under one arm like a faithful guardian. The fever has broken at last, leaving her sniffling but breathing easier.
You stand by the window now, staring out at the city lights blurring through unshed tears, trying to piece your thoughts back together. Behind you, the couch creaks as Noah sinks into it, elbows on his knees, running a weary hand through his hair. âSheâs really out,â he says quietly, his voice rough from the dayâs emotional toll.
âYeah,â you whisper back, nodding without turning. âFinally.â
Silence stretches between you, not the awkward kind, but heavy-laden with the echoes of Karaâs words, that sharp, innocent dagger of âyouâre not daddyâ still splintered in your chest. Noah stares at the floor like he can replay the moment, his jaw tightening, looking more lost than youâve seen him in years.
âShe didnât mean it,â you say softly, finally turning to face him.
He lets out a dry, humorless laugh, shaking his head. âYeah, I know. Sheâs sick, wiped out, scared⊠kids say stuff. ButâŠâ His voice trails off, raw and edged with vulnerability. âIt hit harder than I expected. Like a gut punch I didnât see coming.â
You cross the room, sinking beside him on the couch, your shoulders brushing in that accidental way that feels anything but. âI know. God, Noah, I know.â
âShe looked right at me,â he murmurs, his gaze distant, voice low and aching. âAnd in that second, I saw it clear as day... She doesnât know. Not really. Iâm just⊠what? Momâs buddy who flips pancakes and hums off-key lullabies? Thatâs not⊠thatâs not enough.â
The truth youâve both been skirting for weeks hangs there now, heavy and breathing, impossible to ignore. Your hands twist in your lap. âI wanted to wait,â you admit, your voice barely above a whisper. âUntil she felt safe with you. Until you werenât some stranger dropping into her world with big claims. Sheâs only three, she doesnât get the weight of it, what it meant for me to keep her from you, for us.â
Noah tilts his head toward you, his eyes gentle despite the storm inside. âShe does know me, Y/N. Maybe not the label, but the feeling. She knows I love her fierce, and she loves me back, even if itâs just in the way she lights up when I clap for her drawings.â
A faint smile tugs at your lips, bittersweet and warm. âSheâs attached already. Youâre the first one she runs to with her âmasterpieces,â demanding applause like a little diva.â
That pulls a real grin from him, small but genuine. âYeah, and I give it every time. She says I âclap like music.â Kidâs got standards.â
You chuckle softly, the sound easing some of the tension in your chest. âBecause you do. Itâs all dramatic and enthusiastic, she eats it up.â
His expression softens again, the laughter fading into something deeper. âI donât want to keep this from her. Even if itâs just omission. She deserves the truth, Y/N. Even if âdaddyâ is a big word sheâs not ready to wrap her head around, I know I'm not the best person to demand it, but I want it, I want the label, I want to be her dad.â
You rub your thumb over your palm, thoughts swirling. âYouâre right. Itâs scary, though. Telling her means opening up everything... What I did, why I kept it hidden, the years she didnât have you. I didnât want her thinking she was missing pieces this whole time.â
Noah leans back, his shoulder pressing warmer against yours. âDon't blame yourself, you've been the perfect mother all this time... Sheâs... She's not missing anything. Sheâs finding it. Finding me.â His voice drops, almost pleading, laced with a love so profound it makes your eyes sting. âLet her find me. Please.â
The words settle over you, soaked in sincerity, fear, and a love that's growing day after day. You look at him, seeing the exhaustion etched in the lines around his eyes, the tenderness he hides behind quiet jokes, the way his gaze flicks to the bedroom door every few seconds, like he still canât believe sheâs his.
Real.
Here.
âIâll talk to her,â you say after a long, heavy pause. âTomorrow. When sheâs better.â
He shakes his head gently. âWeâll talk to her. Together. Like a team.â
You swallow hard, nodding as tears prick at the corners of your eyes. âTogether.â
You donât move for a while, the city lights dancing across the room in flickering patterns. You lean your head back against the couch, and Noah shifts closer, his hand finding yours in the dim light, natural, unthinking, a quiet anchor.
âSheâs so small,â you whisper, voice cracking just a little. âAnd sheâs already turning our worlds upside down.â
He squeezes your hand, his thumb tracing a soft circle. âSheâs got my stubborn streak and your huge heart. Weâre doomed, but in the best way.â
A quiet laugh escapes you, eyes burning. âThatâs⊠terrifyingly accurate.â
âHey,â he murmurs, turning toward you.
You meet his gaze.
âSheâs gonna be okay. Weâre gonna be okay. One messy step at a time.â
âYeah,â you breathe, willing yourself to believe it. âWe will.â
Silence wraps around you again, two exhausted souls adrift in something too vast and real to name. Then, from the bedroom, a faint sniffle and a sleepy, âNowah? Mommy?â
Heâs up in a heartbeat, moving toward the door with that instinctive pull. âIâm here, bug,â he calls softly, peeking in.
You follow, heart twisting as Kara reaches out a tiny hand, eyes fluttering half-open in the dim light. âStay.â
Noah smiles, that soft, genuine one that crinkles his eyes, and sits beside her without hesitation. âAlways.â
He brushes her curls from her face, humming a low, familiar tune under his breath until her breathing evens out again. You linger in the doorway, watching the scene unfold like something out of a dream youâre afraid to wake from. Because in that quiet moment, the fear melts away. It isnât about the hurt anymore, or the unknowns. Itâs about a father whoâs clawed his way to his little girl, and a child whoâs felt the pull of him all along, even without the words.
Sheâs sprawled across his pillow now, bunny clutched tight under her chin, curls a wild halo, cheeks still pink but peaceful. Her little hand fists in the fabric of his hoodie, holding on like heâs her anchor in the night.
Noah glances up, catching your eye. âShe finally stopped fussing,â he whispers, voice reverent.
âSheâs asleep for real,â you reply, stepping closer. âYour hummingâs magic.â
He chuckles quietly, fingers lingering on her forehead. âGuess I got the touch.â
You lean against the doorway, just taking it in, this fragile piece of peace that feels too precious to disturb. Then Kara stirs, mumbling incoherently before whispering something incoherent.
Your hearts clench in unison. She scoots blindly in her sleep, one hand reaching toward you without waking.
You sigh, soft and fond. âSheâll wake if I try to move her.â
Noah looks up, a small, knowing smile curving his lips. âThen donât. Câmere, you look dead on your feet.â
Hesitation flickers through you, an emotional one, not logical, but exhaustion wins. You crawl onto the bed on her other side, the mattress dipping gently. Kara mumbles something, her tiny fingers latching onto yours under the blanket immediately.
Noah lies back too, his arm draping loosely across her middle, protective, instinctive. Warmth radiates from them both, Karaâs quick little breaths syncing with Noahâs deeper, steadier ones, grounding you in a way you hadnât realized you needed.
No one speaks for a while.
The city murmurs outside, distant and unimportant.
Then Noahâs voice, barely a breath: âShe fits right here. Like she was always meant to.â
You turn your head, meeting his shadowed gaze. âShe kinda was.â
The air hums with something electric, not romance, but depth.
History.
Hope.
All knotted together.
âI donât think Iâll sleep,â he admits after a beat. âFeels too good to be true. Like if I close my eyes, sheâll be gone. Another dream I wake up from alone.â
You reach across her small form, your fingers brushing his wrist. âSheâs real, Noah. Youâre both here. Weâre here.â
He looks at your hands, then back at you, exhaling shakily. âYeah. Guess we are.â
Kara sighs in her sleep, rolling toward you, face nuzzling your shoulder while one foot kicks out onto Noahâs leg. You both freeze, then dissolve into soft, weary laughter.
âSheâs a wild sleeper,â you whisper.
âWonder where she gets that,â he teases, grinning faintly.
âDonât you dare blame me.â
âHey, Iâve never kicked anyone!â
The laughter fades into a peaceful hush, the kind that settles after the worldâs spun too fast. Noahâs voice comes again, secret-soft: âWeâll tell her soon. When sheâs ready. But tonight⊠I just want this.â
âMe too,â you murmur.
He shifts closer, his arm brushing yours across her, warmth seeping through. No more words needed. Youâre a tangled constellation, imperfect, unforeseen, but undeniably real.
Kara hums drowsily, fingers twitching in yours.
âSheâs dreaming,â you whisper.
âPancakes, probably,â Noah says.
âOr bees and bunnies.â
âGood taste, either way.â
The night wraps you gently, three heartbeats falling into rhythm.
And as sleep pulls you under, for the first time in forever, you donât feel alone.
The three of you, a mother, a father, and a little girl who was already the best parts of both, lay tangled together beneath the same blanket, in a city that suddenly didnât feel so big or lonely anymore.
