Frequencies of Us Chapter 13: Sparks and a Snap

Mateo POV

I’m in the gym, the air heavy with sweat and dust, my sneakers squeaking loud on the hardwood. My hands are shoved deep in my pockets, shoulders tight, because Ortiz stuck me here—punishment duty, “Help with the sound setup, Vargas, or you’re out longer.” My chest’s burning, mad since the suspension, since Caleb, and now I’m stuck babysitting wires like some loser. The bleachers are empty, the lights buzz overhead, and I’m pacing, waiting for this AV kid—Noah—to show up. My gut twists, quick and sharp, because it’s him—the guy from the track, the one with that dumb grin, and I don’t know why it bugs me, why he’s still in my head.

The side door bangs open, and I spin, heart jumping. It’s him—Noah—bag slung over his shoulder, hair messy, eyes flicking to me fast then away. He’s got a box of cables, rattling as he drops it by the sound booth, and my jaw clenches, teeth grinding. “Let’s get this over with,” I mutter, stepping closer, my voice rough, scratched from yelling at nothing all day. He nods, short, and starts pulling stuff out—wires, a speaker, tools—like he’s done this a hundred times. My hands twitch, restless, and I hate how calm he looks, how he’s not mad like me.

“You gonna stand there or help?” he says, not looking up, voice low but sharp. My face heats up, hot and sudden, and I step in, grabbing a cable too hard, yanking it from the pile.

“Don’t need your pity,” I snap, glaring at him, my hands shaking a little. “I can handle it.” My chest’s tight, anger bubbling up, because I don’t want him thinking I’m weak, don’t want anyone thinking that. He stops, screwdriver in hand, and looks at me—eyes dark, steady, cutting through the buzz in my head.

“It’s not pity, dumbass,” he fires back, voice louder now, a little shaky. “It’s a job. Chill.” His mouth twists, not a grin this time, and my stomach flips, cold and fast, like I pushed too hard. I open my mouth to snap again, but nothing comes—just air, stuck—and I turn away, yanking another wire, pretending it’s fine.

We work, sort of—him messing with the speaker, me untangling cables, the gym quiet except for our breathing and the clatter of tools. My hands move fast, jerky, and I keep glancing at him—his fingers quick, sure, twisting stuff like it’s easy. My chest’s still tight, mad at Ortiz, mad at this, but something else is there—warm, weird, creeping up my neck. I shake it off, hard, and grab a wire from his pile, too rough, making him flinch.

“Watch it,” he mutters, grabbing it back, and our hands brush—quick, warm, his skin on mine. My heart jumps, loud and dumb, slamming into my ribs, and I freeze, fingers tingling where we touched. My breath catches, sharp in my throat, and I look at him—his eyes wide, locked on mine, like he felt it too. The air’s thick now, buzzing, and my face burns, hot and sweaty, because I don’t get it—don’t get why my chest’s pounding, why I can’t move.

“Whatever,” I grunt, pulling my hand back fast, shaking it like it’s burned. I turn away, grabbing another cable, my hands shaky now, fumbling. My head’s spinning—his voice, his touch, that look—and I hate it, hate how it’s messing me up. “This is stupid,” I say, louder, tossing the wire down, needing to break it, needing to breathe.

“Then leave,” he says, voice low again, sharp, and I spin back, glaring. He’s staring at me, jaw tight, screwdriver gripped hard, and my gut twists—mad, confused, caught. I step closer, fists clenched, ready to yell, but my eyes drop—to his hands, his messy hair—and my throat locks up, words gone.

“I don’t need this,” I snap, but it’s weak, and I turn fast, heading for the door. My legs move quick, sneakers pounding the floor, and my chest’s heaving, hot and tight, like I’m running from something bigger than him. I’m almost out, hand on the handle, when I hear him—“Mateo, wait”—soft, shaky, cutting through the quiet. My heart jumps again, wild, and I stop, breath stuck, but I don’t turn—can’t, because I don’t know what I’ll see, what I’ll feel.

I bolt anyway, shoving the door open, the cool air hitting me hard, slapping my face. My legs carry me outside, fast, the gym fading behind me, but my head’s loud—his voice, that touch, replaying like a broken track. My hands shove into my pockets, shoulders hunching, and I kick the gravel, hard, dust flying. My face is still hot, my chest still tight, and I don’t get it—don’t get why he’s there, why that little brush flipped me inside out. I mutter, “Stupid,” under my breath, mad at him, mad at me, but it’s stuck—his eyes, dark and steady, digging in deep.

I’m halfway across the lot, breath ragged, when I slow down, leaning on a fence, gripping it tight. My knuckles ache, white against the metal, and my heart’s still slamming, loud in my ears. The school’s quiet now—just wind, crickets, the hum of lights—but it feels off, heavy, like it’s holding its breath. My phone’s in my pocket, buzzing yesterday with that creepy text—“He’s watching you”—and my gut twists, cold and sharp, mixing with the heat from Noah. I shake my head, trying to push it all out, but it’s tangled—him, the car, the mess—and I can’t sort it.

I turn, slow, glancing back at the gym—the door’s shut, light spilling out, and I wonder if he’s still there, messing with wires, mad at me for running. My stomach flips, warm and dumb, and I hate it—hate how I want to go back, hate how I don’t. My hands fidget, restless, and I kick the fence, metal rattling loud, trying to shake him off. It doesn’t work—his voice, “It’s not pity, dumbass,” sticks, sharp and real, and my chest aches, torn between shoving it away and letting it in.

The lot’s dark now, shadows stretching long, and I’m about to head home, legs heavy, when I hear it—a low hum, engine rumbling, faint but growing. My head snaps up, eyes darting, and my breath stops, stuck in my throat. Headlights flicker, far off, bouncing across the asphalt, and my hands grip the fence tighter, metal cold under my skin. The rumble gets louder, closer—tires crunching, slow and steady—and my heart slams, wild and fast, pinning me where I stand.

I squint, chest heaving, trying to see—a car, black, creeping toward the gym, lights dim but sharp. My legs tense, ready to run, and my phone buzzes, loud and sudden, making me jump. I yank it out, hands shaky, and the screen glows—unknown number, one line: “He’s not done with you.” My blood turns cold, ice in my veins, and the car stops—engine idling, lights flaring—right by the gym door. A shadow shifts inside, quick and dark, and a laugh cuts through—low, warped, chilling my spine. My eyes flick to the gym—Noah’s still in there, alone—and my heart locks up, breath gone, because they’re back, they’re here, and I’m too far to stop it.