Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 147

Chapter 147

Noah

While he was still upstairs finishing his shower, I darted around the kitchen, moving as if my very survival depended on it. Sunday mornings were usually his domain—the sacred time when he took charge of breakfast—but today, I was determined to turn the tables. I needed to. The smell of bacon crisping in the pan filled the air, sausages popped and sizzled, and eggs cooked to a perfect golden softness. I burned my fingers on the toast in my quest for perfection, fumbling to get it just right. I poured his coffee exactly how he liked it—dark, sharp, no sugar—and squeezed fresh oranges until the countertop was a sticky mess of pulp and juice. This wasn’t merely breakfast; it was an offering, a silent plea, a clumsy attempt to mend the cracks I’d made.

When he finally appeared in the kitchen, hair still tousled from the shower, his eyes scanning me as if taking inventory, he gave a small, almost casual nod, inviting me to sit. I slid into the chair across from him, suddenly feeling shy—as if we hadn’t just shared an intense night together, not once but three times in the last twelve hours. At this rate, I was going to have to start carrying a water bottle everywhere. Not that I minded.

He studied me quietly, his gaze lingering long enough to make me feel foolish. Then, after a slow breath, he said the words I’d been bracing for since we’d shut the door behind us.

“Noah, we need to talk about last night.”

A grin spread across my face before my brain caught up—a leftover, dumb, hot smile that lived deep in my ribs because of the way he’d taken me in the shower. He raised a brow at me, slow and sharp.

“Not about that, Noah.”

The grin vanished instantly. My throat tightened. I set my mug down to steady the nervous tremor in my hands.

He was calm—too calm. “I asked you before,” he said quietly, “if opening things up… seeing other people was really what you wanted.” His eyes searched mine over the rim of his cup, like he was trying to catch any flicker of hesitation. “I’m going to ask you again.”

My heart pounded, and the words escaped me before I could stop them. “I don’t want it, Sir.” The statement came clean and sudden, carrying with it a flood of emotions—fear, shame, relief. “I don’t know how things will go. You’re right—opportunities might come, and paths might split. But while we’re together, I can’t imagine you with anyone else. I just can’t. I’m sorry I asked you to consider it. It felt selfish, like trying to have it all at once.”

He looked at me like he’d been waiting to hear those exact words. For a moment, his expression softened—something like pride mixed with a sharper edge, a wound that had been hurt but was choosing to forgive. He carefully set his mug down and reached across the table, covering my hand with his—big, warm, reassuring.

“I hear you,” he said. “I understand why you asked. And if the day ever comes when one of us needs something the other can’t give—when you decide to walk away—I will respect that. I’ll always respect your choice to move on if you need to.” He squeezed my fingers once, then released them as if that gesture cost him something. “But that doesn’t mean I can share you. If it ever happens, it has to be all or nothing. I won’t do halves. I thought I could, but I can’t bear being second place—being split.”

I swallowed hard, the coffee suddenly burning my tongue for no reason. His words landed like a boundary drawn in stone, but also a promise. He’d acknowledged the possibility of separation without softening the line he drew around us: it was either just him or no one at all.

He reached out again, brushing my knuckles with his thumb—a touch that was equal parts comfort and claim. I looked at him, and for a moment, no matter the storms waiting outside our door, they felt distant, almost irrelevant.

Once our conversation ended—and thank God, it turned out to be just a small lapse in our little sanctuary, lines and boundaries redrawn clearly—the rest of Sunday passed with an almost unnatural smoothness. We slipped back into our routines: training, lessons, chores, homework, drills. It was as if nothing wild had erupted on stage the night before. Normalcy settled over us again.

By the time Sunday ended, I felt like I had all the plates spinning again—Aiden, football, school, friends. Except for the looming conversation with Lexie, everything seemed in order, at least for now. What I didn’t realize was how quickly everything would begin slipping through my fingers.

My week started like a ton of bricks crashing down on me. Monday hit, and suddenly every second of my life felt scheduled by some sadistic mastermind who hated sleep—oh wait, he had.

Classes stretched from nine in the morning straight through to two in the afternoon. I pretended to care about the fundamentals of physics, the French Revolution, and poetry from the 1900s—yeah, like verse was going to save me on the football field. By three, I was out in the blazing sun for practice, lungs burning, legs pumping, giving Coach every ounce of effort because I knew he wanted me to shine. And God help me, I loved shining for him.

By five, I was stuck in tutoring with the super-hot girl Aiden had picked for me—God only knows why he thought she was the right choice. Smart? Absolutely. Gorgeous? Without a doubt. But what did he expect me to do with that? Well, eye candy, and I wasn’t complaining. When tutoring ended, I dragged my exhausted self to the gym, chasing muscle like it was the only thing keeping me upright. By seven, I was at Keon’s for guitar lessons, staring at frets and strings until my brain hurt more than my sore legs.

Holy hell. By the time I left, my muscles felt like lead, and my eyelids threatened to glue shut. But I didn’t care. Because every night, right after my workout, there was one ritual that made the madness worth it.

The showers.

I’d walk in silently, head down, ignoring everyone else, heading straight to the last stall on the right. And there he’d be—Aiden—completely naked under the steamy spray, water sliding over every carved inch of him like some risqué cologne ad. I’d strip quickly, my body buzzing despite exhaustion, then drop to my knees on the wet tile, exactly where I belonged.