Frequencies of Us Chapter 14: Laps and a Look

Noah POV

I’m by the track, the air cool and sharp, sun dipping low, painting the field gold and orange. My hands are stuffed in my jacket pockets, fingers fidgeting with a loose thread, because I’m here—again—watching Mateo run. He’s alone, sneakers pounding the red dirt, legs pumping fast, like he’s chasing something he can’t catch. My chest’s tight, has been since yesterday in the gym—his snap, “I don’t need your pity,” and that quick brush of his hand, warm and shaky, flipping my stomach upside down. I stayed after he bolted, finished the setup alone, but my head wouldn’t shut up—his voice, his eyes, stuck in me like a splinter.

I shift my weight, sneakers scuffing the grass, and my heart’s thumping, steady but loud. He’s a blur—hoodie flapping, breath puffing white in the chill—and I don’t know why I’m here, why I keep coming back. My gut twists, warm and jittery, and I mutter, “Stupid,” under my breath, mad at myself for caring. But then he slows, rounding the curve, and I see his face—sweaty, tight, eyes burning—and my legs move before I can stop them, carrying me closer, dumb and fast.

“Hey,” I call, voice cracking a little, and he jerks, head snapping my way. His eyes hit mine—dark, sharp—and he stumbles, just a step, catching himself quick. My face heats up, sudden and hot, and I shove my hands deeper, trying to play it off. “Thought you’d outrun me,” I say, joking, a grin tugging at my mouth, shaky but real.

He stops, chest heaving, hands on his knees, staring at me like I’m crazy. “What’re you doing here?” he mutters, voice rough, scratched from running, and my stomach flips, cold and fast, because he’s mad—again—and I don’t know how to fix it.

“Felt like it,” I shrug, stepping onto the track, my sneakers crunching loud. My heart’s banging now, wild, and I nod at him, daring. “Race you.” It’s dumb—I’m no runner, all legs and no speed—but my grin stays, and his mouth twitches, just a little, like he’s fighting it.

“Fine,” he grunts, straightening up, wiping sweat off his forehead with his sleeve. He’s still glaring, but there’s something else—bright, alive—and my chest loosens, just a bit. We line up, shoulder to shoulder, and my arm brushes his—quick, warm—and my breath catches, stuck in my throat. He doesn’t pull away, just shifts, ready, and my skin’s buzzing, dumb and loud.

“Go,” he says, low, and we’re off—legs pumping, dirt flying, the cold slapping my face. I’m slow, clumsy, but I push, grinning like an idiot, because he’s fast—too fast—and I hear him laugh, short and sharp, cutting through the wind. My lungs burn, legs shaking, and I stumble, catching myself, but I keep going, chasing him, laughing too—loud, messy, real. He pulls ahead, then slows, glancing back, and I lunge, catching up, breathless and dumb.

We crash at the end, tumbling into the grass, me tripping over my own feet, him landing hard beside me. My chest’s heaving, air rushing out, and I’m laughing still, sprawled flat, the ground cold under my back. He’s next to me, panting, grass sticking to his hoodie, and our shoulders touch—barely, but enough. My heart’s slamming, wild and fast, and I feel it—him, warm, close, his breath mixing with mine in the quiet. My face burns, sweaty and hot, and I don’t move—can’t, because it’s good, too good, and I don’t want it to stop.

“Idiot,” he mutters, but there’s no bite—just a huff, soft—and I turn my head, grinning at him, big and shaky. His eyes flick to mine—dark, steady—and my stomach flips, warm and dumb, because he’s not mad, not now. His shoulder presses harder, just a little, and my breath snags, loud in my ears, because I feel it—us, here, stuck together—and it’s messing me up.

“You’re slow,” he says, smirking now, faint but real, and I laugh, shoving him light, my hand brushing his arm. My skin tingles, quick and sharp, and I pull back fast, heart jumping, but he doesn’t move—just stays, close, watching me.

“You’re not what I expected,” I blurt, voice low, shaky, before I can stop it. My face burns hotter, and I freeze, chest tight, because it’s out—raw, dumb—and I don’t know why I said it, why it matters. His smirk drops, eyes going wide, and he goes still, breath stopping, like I hit something deep. My gut twists, cold and fast, because he’s staring—hard, searching—and I don’t know what he’s thinking, what he feels.

“What’s that mean?” he mutters, voice rough, low, and my throat locks up, words gone. My hands fidget in the grass, pulling at blades, and my heart’s pounding, loud in my ears, because I don’t know—don’t know him, don’t know this—but it’s there, pulling me in, warm and scary. He shifts, shoulder still on mine, and his eyes don’t leave me—dark, sharp, digging—and my chest aches, torn between running and staying.

“I—” I start, but my voice cracks, and I look away, fast, staring at the sky, orange fading to gray. My breath’s uneven, chest heaving, and I feel him—still, tense, waiting—and it’s heavy, too much. My hands grip the grass, knuckles white, and I want to say something, fix it, but my head’s buzzing—his laugh, his touch, his look—messing me up worse.

The field’s quiet—just our breathing, the wind rustling—and my heart won’t slow, won’t settle. I glance at him, quick, and he’s still staring—eyes softer now, confused—and my stomach flips again, warm and dumb, because I don’t get it—don’t get us—but it’s there, real, pulling tight. My shoulder presses back, just a little, and his breath hitches, loud in the stillness, sending a jolt through me, hot and fast.

I open my mouth, ready to try again, when a noise cuts through—low, sharp, a twig snapping nearby. My head snaps up, heart jumping, and I sit up fast, eyes darting to the bleachers. Shadows stretch long, dark, and my gut twists, cold and tight, because it’s off—too quiet, too still. Mateo sits up too, tense, his shoulder pulling away, and my chest aches, empty now, scared. “What was that?” I whisper, voice shaky, and he doesn’t answer—just stares, eyes wide, scanning the dark.

The snap comes again—closer, deliberate—and my breath stops, stuck in my throat. My hands grip the grass, sweaty and shaky, and I see it—a shadow moving, quick, by the fence, tall and black against the dusk. My heart slams, wild and loud, and Mateo grabs my arm—hard, sudden—fingers digging in, pulling me up. “Move,” he hisses, voice low, rough, and my legs scramble, stumbling as we stand, pressed close.

A laugh rolls out—low, mean, warped like it’s through a speaker—and my blood turns cold, ice in my veins. My eyes flick to my bag, yards away, that note—“Fixer boy’s got a crush”—burning in my head, and my stomach drops, fast and sour. Headlights flare, sudden and bright, cutting across the field from the lot, pinning us where we stand. My phone buzzes in my pocket, loud and sharp, and I fumble it out, hands trembling bad—unknown number, one line: “Caught you.” My breath catches, choking me, and the shadow steps closer—boots crunching, a glint of something sharp in hand—and Mateo’s grip tightens, his eyes locked on mine, scared and fierce, because they’re here, they know, and we’re out of time.