Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 92

Chapter 92

Aiden

It felt as if someone was relentlessly hammering nails inside my skull, each blow sending sharp pulses through my aching head. The harsh sting of cheap whiskey lingered stubbornly on my tongue—sour, bitter, a cruel reminder of last night’s poor choices. The hangover wrapped around me like barbed wire, tightening with every breath.

Damn it… How on earth did I ever decide whisky was my go-to drink?

I downed two ibuprofens, gulped a scalding mug of coffee, and subjected myself to a cold shower, but none of it made more than a slight dent in the pounding inside my head.

I should have known better. Alcohol never solved anything—it only blurred the edges for a while, making the guilt that followed cut even deeper by morning.

My eyes drifted to the laptop resting on the desk. The message remained open, its black font stark and unyielding, mocking me silently no matter how many times I blinked at it. An invitation from The Dominium.

Still there. I hadn’t imagined it.

The Dominium. Exclusive. Prestigious. The kind of club most Doms only dreamed about joining, let alone being invited to. I should have been celebrating, pumping my fist in the air like a kid on Christmas morning. Instead, I sat frozen, staring through a fog of regret so thick it dulled every word, every promise, crushed beneath the heavy weight pressing down on my chest.

Then my gaze landed on Noah’s last text.

“Fuck you, Aiden.”

I picked up my phone again, hoping against hope I’d misread it the nineteenth time I’d checked. But no. The same three words stared back at me, sharp and unforgiving, like a knife pressed to my throat. I rubbed my temples until the edges of my vision blurred, my thumb hovering hesitantly over the keyboard. I could explain. Apologize. Beg. Hell, I almost did. But then revulsion crept up my spine, and I shoved the phone away.

What good could it possibly do? I’d already torn him apart.

The house felt oppressively silent without him—without his noise, his laughter, his attitude, the way he filled every corner simply by existing. I hated the emptiness. I hated myself even more for noticing how much I missed it.

So I tried to fill the void.

I cleaned the kitchen, stacking dishes into the sink and scrubbing until the metal squeaked under my fingers. I sat down with a book but couldn’t get past the first line. Tried to watch a movie but shut it off before the opening credits finished. Poured another coffee, then paced the length of the living room. Checked my phone again. Nothing. Pacing resumed.

Cooking was worse. I laid out ingredients for an omelet but stared at the eggs as if they might somehow remind me how to eat. Instead, my mind conjured images of him in my kitchen, scowling at a frying pan while pretending to know exactly what he was doing. My throat tightened painfully, and I shoved the pan aside.

I took a walk, sat on the porch, tried to nap—lying there staring at the ceiling until the ache in my chest became unbearable. I got up, paced some more, checked my phone again like a fool. Still nothing.

By nightfall, I was at my breaking point. My nerves were stretched so taut I feared I might snap in two. Walking the same floorboards, replaying the same fight, watching those same two words carve me open repeatedly—it was killing me.

So I did the only thing I could.

I grabbed my jacket, pulled on a baseball cap low over my brow, and stepped out the door toward Noah’s bike. It was still there, like a ghost haunting every step I took past it—his bike, his helmet, his scent. Tonight, I couldn’t bear it anymore.

I hauled the damn thing into the bed of my truck and started driving. The headlights cut through the thick Texas night as I gripped the steering wheel so tightly my knuckles burned. I told myself it made sense—practical, even. He’d need the bike for practice. A coach returning a player’s gear. Nothing more.

Bullshit.

I slipped through the crowd, head down, cap pulled low, unnoticed.

At his door, I rapped lightly. Once. Twice. My pulse pounded in my throat.

Nothing.

Regret washed over me in an instant. Stupid. I never should have come.

I started to turn away when a voice stopped me from behind.

“Coach Mercer?”

I spun around.

And froze.

Noah stood there, dripping wet, a towel hanging low around his hips, golden hair plastered against his forehead, water tracing rivulets down the defined lines of his chest. A toiletry basket dangled from one hand like he’d just stepped out of a shower commercial.

His eyes darted to the hallway, scanning the lingering kids, then locked back on me—guarded, sharp, unreadable.

“What the hell are you doing here?”