Crossing Lines Chapter 67

**Aiden**

My skull felt like someone was hammering nails from the inside out. The burn of cheap whiskey still coated my tongue, sour and punishing, a hangover wrapped tight around me like barbed wire. 

Holy fuck… How did I ever choose whisky as my drink of choice?

Two ibuprofens, a scalding mug of coffee, and a cold shower barely made a dent.

I should’ve known better. Booze never fixed anything. Just blurred the edges before the guilt cut sharper in the morning.

My gaze slid to the laptop on the desk. The message was still open, mocking me in pristine black font, no matter how many times I blinked at it. An invitation from *The Dominium.* 

Yep, still there. I didn’t dream it…

Exclusive. Prestigious. The kind of club most Doms only dreamed of stepping foot in, much less being recruited to. I should’ve been celebrating, fist-pumping the air like a kid. But all I could do was stare at it through a haze of pounding regret, every word dulled by the heavier weight crushing my chest.

Noah’s last text.

*Fuck you, Aiden.*

I picked up my phone again, like maybe I’d misread it the other nineteen times I’d checked. But no. Same three words. Same knife to the throat. I rubbed my temples until my vision blurred, thumb hovering over the keyboard. I could explain. Apologize. Beg. Jesus, I almost did. But then I shoved the phone away, disgust crawling up my spine.

What good would it do? I’d already gutted him.

The house was too quiet without him. Without his noise, his laughter, his attitude, the way he filled every damn corner just by existing. I hated the silence, hated myself more for noticing it.

So I tried to fill it.

I cleaned the kitchen. Piled dishes into the sink, scrubbed them until the metal squealed. Sat down with a book—didn’t get past the first line. Tried a movie—turned it off before the opening credits finished. Poured another coffee. Paced the length of the living room. Checked my phone. Nothing. Paced again.

Cooking was worse. I set out ingredients for an omelet, stared at the eggs like they might remind me how to eat. But all I could picture was him in my kitchen, sleeves pushed up, scowling at a frying pan while pretending he knew what the fuck he was doing. My throat burned, and I shoved the pan away.

Took a walk. Sat on the porch. Tried to nap. Lay there staring at the ceiling until my chest hurt. Got up. Paced. Checked my phone again, like an idiot. Nothing.

By nightfall, I couldn’t take it anymore. My nerves were strung so tight I thought I’d snap in half. Pacing the same floorboards, reliving the same fight, watching the same two words carve me open over and over—it was killing me.

So I did the only thing left.

I grabbed my jacket, put on a baseball cap, and walked out the door and toward Noah’s bike. Still there like a ghost, taunting me every time I walked past. His bike. His helmet. His smell. Tonight, I couldn’t stand it anymore.

So I hauled the damn thing into the bed of my truck and drove. Headlights cutting through the Texas night, my grip so tight on the steering wheel my knuckles burned. *Makes sense*—I told myself. Practical. He’d need it for practice anyway. A coach returning a player’s property. Nothing more.

Bullshit.

I pulled onto campus, and the noise hit me before anything else—bass thundering from dorm windows, voices carrying through the warm night air. Another party. Jesus Christ. Did these kids ever stop? Every corner I passed was packed—beer cans, laughter, couples pressed against walls, lips locked, and hands wandering like they didn’t give a damn who was watching.

My chest clenched. What if he was one of them? What if he was upstairs right now, drunk, his mouth on someone else’s, hands all over her—or worse, him? My gut twisted until I almost couldn’t breathe.

I killed the engine, dropped the tailgate, and unloaded the bike onto the asphalt. The excuse. My shield. Perfectly normal.

The kickstand hit the pavement, and for a second I just stood there, staring at it like leaving it behind would somehow cut the thread between us. Like it wasn’t the last piece of him I had.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and started walking toward his dorm. No one even looked twice. To them, I was just another shadow slipping through the chaos, blending into the blur of beer and music and hormones.

At least, that’s what I thought.

With each step I kept rehearsing the lines in my head, trying to pass them off as reasonable. He needed to hear my side of it—the why behind what I’d done. Why I had to keep things strictly professional at practice, strictly physical at home. Why I couldn’t let it bleed into something messier. If he wanted to be a pro, he had to stay focused. This couldn’t be romantic. It couldn’t be emotional.

Because feelings led to slipping. To mistakes. To exposure. To losing everything he’d worked so hard to earn.

I told myself that’s why I was here. To give him an explanation and to apologize for lashing out.

But the lie scratched raw inside me.

The closer I got to his hall, the more the noise pressed in. Bass rattled the walls, a swarm of kids laughing, shouting, bodies crowding the corridor. Right outside his door. I clenched my jaw. No way he was getting proper rest in this chaos, no way he’d survive the year in a place like this. I made a mental note—maybe I could pull a string, get him a quieter dorm, maybe even a slot in the frat house. Something better than this mess.

I slipped through the crowd, head down, cap low, nobody sparing me more than a glance. At his door, I rapped lightly. Once. Twice. My pulse thudded in my throat.

Nothing.

Regret flooded in fast. Stupid. I never should’ve come. I started to turn away when a voice hit me from behind.

“Coach Mercer?”

I spun.

And froze.

Noah stood there, dripping wet, a towel slung low around his hips, golden hair plastered against his forehead, water tracing rivulets down the cut of his chest. A toiletry basket dangled from one hand like he was some college poster boy straight out of a shower ad.

His eyes flicked to the hallway, scanning the kids loitering nearby, then back to me. Guarded. Sharp. Unreadable.

“What the hell are you doing here?”