Frequencies of Us Chapter 16: Tangles and a Tease

Noah POV

I’m in the school basement, the air damp and cool, concrete walls pressing in around me. The lights buzz overhead, flickering just enough to make my eyes twitch, and my hands are busy with Mateo’s busted earbuds—wires frayed, one side dead—spread out on a wobbly table. My chest’s tight, has been since yesterday in the hall—him shoving me, “I don’t need saving!”—his voice rough, his hands hard, pushing me away. Then that text later—“Didn’t mean it”—short, shaky, hitting me like a punch. My heart’s thumping, steady but fast, and my stomach flips, warm and dumb, because he’s here now, sitting across from me, and I don’t know why it matters so much.

He’s slouched, hoodie up, elbows on the table, watching me work. His sneakers tap the floor, restless, and my fingers shake a little, twisting the tiny screwdriver, stripping a wire. “How’d you break these?” I mutter, glancing at him quick—his eyes dark, steady, catching mine—and my face heats up, sudden and hot.

“Running,” he grunts, shrugging, voice low, scratched like always. “Stepped on ’em.” He leans closer, just a bit, and my breath catches, stuck in my throat, because he’s near—too near—and my gut twists, jittery and warm. I focus on the wires, stripping another, but my hands fumble, clumsy, because I feel him—his stare, his quiet—digging in deep.

“You owe me now,” I say, teasing, a grin tugging at my mouth, shaky but real. My heart jumps, loud in my ears, and I look up, daring him. His smirk comes—small, crooked, lighting his face—and my chest flutters, quick and dumb, because it’s good, too good, and I don’t want it to stop.

“Yeah, right,” he fires back, leaning back, but that smirk stays, and his eyes don’t leave mine—sharp, bright, pulling me in. My face burns, sweaty and hot, and I duck my head, twisting the wire harder, pretending it’s fine. My knees shift under the table, brushing his—quick, warm—and my heart slams, wild and fast, sending a jolt up my spine. I freeze, breath snagging, and he doesn’t move—just sits there, knee still touching, like he doesn’t notice, but I do, and it’s loud, buzzing under my skin.

“Done,” I mutter, sliding the earbuds over, my voice low, shaky. My fingers brush the table, close to his hand, and my gut flips, cold and hot at once, because I want to touch—stupid, crazy—but I don’t. He grabs them, slow, his knuckles grazing mine—barely, but enough—and my chest locks up, air stuck, because it’s there—us, close, real—and it’s messing me up.

“Thanks,” he says, soft, standing up, stuffing the earbuds in his pocket. His smirk flashes again—quick, easy—and he lingers, hovering by the table, like he’s not ready to go. My knees press harder against his, just a second, and my heart’s pounding, loud and wild, because he’s staying—watching me—and my face burns hotter, my hands fidgeting with the screwdriver, needing something to hold.

“Anytime,” I say, grinning back, big and shaky, and my voice cracks, dumb and loud. He nods, short, and turns for the stairs, sneakers scuffing the floor, but that grin stays—small, real—sticking with me as he goes. My chest flutters, warm and scary, and I slump back in the chair, breath rushing out, because I like it—him, this—too much, and it’s freaking me out.

The basement’s quiet now—just the buzz, my breathing—and my hands shake, restless, replaying it—his smirk, his knee, his “Yeah, right.” My face is still hot, my gut still twisting, and I mutter, “Idiot,” under my breath, mad at myself for grinning like a fool. My heart won’t slow, thumping hard, and I see him—track, gym, hall—piling up, pulling me in deeper. My fingers grip the screwdriver, knuckles white, and I hate how it feels—good, warm, scary—because I don’t know him, not really, but he’s here, in my head, and I can’t shake it.

I stand fast, chair scraping loud, and pace—three steps, turn, three steps, turn—the shadows stretching long, dark, on the walls. My chest’s tight, breath uneven, and my head’s buzzing—his touch, his voice, that grin—messing me up worse than before. I stop by the stairs, staring up where he went, and my stomach flips again, warm and dumb, because he lingered—he didn’t have to, but he did—and it’s sticking, digging in, making me jumpy.

The air’s heavy, damp, and I lean on the table, wiping sweat off my forehead with a shaky hand. My phone’s in my pocket, buzzing yesterday with that creepy text—“You can’t run from this”—and my gut twists, cold and sharp, mixing with the heat from him. I shake my head, hard, trying to push it all out—cars, shadows, notes—but it’s tangled—him, this, us—and I can’t sort it. My hands fidget, restless, and I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder, needing air, needing out.

I’m halfway up the stairs, steps echoing, when I hear it—a low creak, sharp, from the basement door above. My heart jumps, slamming into my ribs, and I freeze, hand on the rail, breath stuck. The lights flicker, buzzing loud, and my eyes dart up—darkness spilling through the crack, thick and still. My gut twists, icy and fast, and I mutter, “Not again,” under my breath, shaky, because it’s them—those headlights, that laugh—back for more.

The creak comes again—slow, steady—and my legs tense, ready to bolt. My chest’s heaving, breath short, and I step up, slow, peering through the gap. The hall’s dim—lockers lining the walls, shadows stretching—and my hands grip the straps, sweaty and shaky. “Who’s there?” I call, voice cracking, loud in the quiet, but no answer—just silence, heavy, pressing in. My heart’s pounding, wild and fast, and I think of Mateo—his grin, his knee—warm in my head, but it’s fading, drowned by this, cold and mean.

I push the door, slow, hinges groaning, and step out, eyes darting—left, right—nothing, just empty tile, flickering lights. My breath’s ragged, chest tight, and I turn back, quick, checking the stairs—dark, still—but my gut screams, loud and clear, something’s wrong. My phone buzzes, sudden and sharp, and I jump, fumbling it out with trembling hands. The screen glows—unknown number, one line: “He’s closer than you think.” My blood turns cold, ice in my veins, and my head snaps up, heart locking up, because the hall’s not empty—a shadow moves, fast, by the lockers, tall and black, boots echoing soft.

My legs shake, knees wobbly, and I back up, hitting the door, breath choking me. The shadow stops—yards away, still—and a laugh rolls out—low, warped, cutting through the buzz. My eyes flick to the stairs—Mateo’s gone, safe, maybe—and my chest aches, scared for him, scared for me. Something glints—sharp, metal—in the shadow’s hand, and my phone slips, clattering loud, screen still glowing—“He’s closer”—as the shadow steps forward, slow, boots crunching, and my heart stops, caught, because he’s here, he’s now, and I’m alone, trapped, with no way out.