Crossing Lines Chapter 32

**Aiden**

I walked into the locker room just as laughter died. Low murmurs—too low. Like secrets sealed behind teeth the moment I stepped through the door.

Keon’s voice. Miguel’s, too. And Noah, standing still between them with flushed cheeks, eyes down, and Keon’s damn arm slung casually over his shoulder like they were lifelong friends.

I stopped cold as my chest tightened.

It shouldn’t have bothered me. It *shouldn’t* have.

But it did.

I knew what I was seeing. Friendship. Camaraderie. Comfort in shared struggle. And still—jealousy flared hot and mean in my gut.

He hadn’t answered my message.

He hadn’t checked in.

He’d come back from his little beach date with sand in his shoes and a ghost of a smile he tried to hide. And now he was here, in *my* locker room, finding comfort in others instead of facing me.

I wanted to drag him away.

I wanted to press him against the lockers, kiss the breath out of him—pump him full with my seed, just as I’ve been fantasizing to do since we met—until he remembered who he fucking belonged to.

I wanted to whisper in his ear that there would be no girls, no Keon, no distractions. That his place was here—*with me.*

But I said nothing.

I kept my steps even. Focused. I walked past them with a stiff nod and let the tension crawl up the back of my neck like a live wire.

I didn’t miss the way Keon’s hand dropped away from Noah’s shoulder.

Didn’t miss the way Miguel cleared his throat and muttered something about needing to hit the dining hall before it closed.

Didn’t miss how all of them scrambled, guilt written across their backs as they rushed to grab their bags and escape.

I said nothing, even when my instincts screamed to *stay*—to confront—to *claim*.

When the door finally shut behind the last of them, silence fell again.

Except for him—my Noah.

Still standing by the bench, half dressed, hair damp from his rushed shower, and eyes locked on mine with something that looked like guilt... and a thousand unsaid things.

He didn’t move, and neither did I. My hands flexed at my sides. My jaw ached from how hard I clenched it.

I wanted to yell.

I wanted to demand where he’d been after their little trip, who that girl was, if she fucking touched him—if he let her.

I wanted to punish him for not answering. For drinking. For leaving me to wonder. For talking to his friends before talking to *me*.

Unless… Unless he was talking about *me*—about **us**. After all, they were whispering, and they had seemed startled when I showed up…

We needed to talk about this, get it all in the open, but I knew this wasn’t the place.

Not here. Not now…. Not when we’d already drawn too much attention. So I breathed in deep. Let it out slow. And without a word, I turned and headed into the showers.

I didn’t see the way his face fell when I walked past him.

Didn’t see the way his shoulders slumped.

But I *felt* it.

And God help me, I wanted to turn around and fix it, but I didn’t, because if I did—if I broke again—this whole damn structure I’d built around us would collapse. And I wasn’t ready for that. I wasn’t ready to lose him. Noah was mine, and by God, I was not gonna let him let go.

I didn’t hear him at first. I felt him. The quiet shift in the air. The soft *click* of the door behind us. The way the space seemed to narrow with his presence—charged, fragile, trembling like a wire pulled too tight.

I didn’t turn around. Didn’t *have* to. Noah was watching me. Drinking me in with that same dangerous hunger I’d seen before—eyes full of something he didn’t yet understand, but I did. Because it mirrored mine.

I kept my back to him as I peeled off my shirt, fingers working slowly, methodically, like muscle memory could shield me from the way his stare burned into my skin. When I dropped my shorts, I caught the flicker of breath behind me. A soft inhale. Almost a gasp. I didn’t look—but I could feel him watching. My cock stirred. Damn it.

*Not here. Not now. Not like this.*

I turned slightly, just enough to face the row of tiles and angle myself away, hiding what had begun to rise. My jaw clenched. My shoulders tensed. Every instinct screamed for me to turn, to take, to *touch*—but I stayed rooted. Because if I gave in now, I’d lose everything.

He was getting closer. Tentative steps. The soft *whisper* of fabric sliding down skin.

I closed my eyes. His shorts. He was taking them off. Coming to me. I could picture it—Noah stepping toward the shower, bare, vulnerable, his skin flushed with shame and desire. The mental image was enough to make my whole body throb.

*Don’t*.

My fists curled at my sides. My voice came out low, sharp—cut from the edge of restraint. “Stop.”

He froze. I didn’t turn to look; I couldn’t afford it. The moment I saw his face, I would crumble.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” I said quietly, “but I haven’t given you permission to join me.”

His breath hitched. I heard it. Felt it. And it cut deeper than I expected.

“Get dressed,” I said. “Wait for me by the car at the usual time.”

I turned the water on—hot, punishing—just to drown out the sound of my own damn heartbeat. Behind me, nothing but silence. From behind the water jets, I took a quick glance at his motionless silhouette before perceiving the quiet rustle of movement. Clothes pulled on. A zipper. A hesitant step back.

He didn’t say a word. Neither did I. Because if I did, I’d say the wrong thing. If I looked, I’d take him. And if I took him here, in this place, with that door unlocked and a thousand futures at risk—I’d lose him. For good.

So I stood under the spray, fists clenched, jaw locked, water scalding my skin... and hated myself for doing the right thing.

****

By the time the day crawled to its final stretch, the heat had seeped into everything—skin, breath, bone. The second round of drills had left most of the team dragging, half-conscious shadows of their morning selves. 

I hadn’t spoken to Noah once.

The ache in my chest hadn’t dulled. If anything, the silence had sharpened it. Every time I looked at him, I remembered the steam curling around his bare frame, the way his muscles had tensed when I rejected him... and the look I hadn’t let myself see when I continued to look away.

By now, it was nearly five. The sun hung lower, a sharp eye blazing down on the parking lot as I approached the car, uncertain if he’d be there at all.

Part of me hoped he wasn’t.

Part of me prayed he was.

And when I saw him—leaning against the passenger door, arms crossed, jaw set like stone—it knocked the air clean out of me.

Noah was a picture of contradiction. That same tight athletic frame, glistening slightly from the heat, his eyes hidden behind a scowl so layered it could’ve been carved. Anger. Hurt. Pride. Shame.

But mostly… anger. And, oh, I *knew* that anger well—I’d taught it to him.

Taking a deep breath, I braced myself. This was going to be a *fun* evening.