Frequencies of Us Chapter 18: Mats and a Mess

Noah POV

I’m at the gym’s side door, the night air cool and sharp, my hands fidgeting with the lock I jimmied open. My chest’s tight, jittery, since yesterday—Mateo yelling, “Got a girlfriend now?”—his voice loud, mad, cutting me deep. I told him she’s just a friend, but he stormed off, leaving me shaky, confused, and mad too. My heart’s thumping, steady but fast, because he texted later—“He saw you fight”—that creepy note mixing with his snap, making my head spin. I don’t get why he’s jealous, why it stings, but I’m here anyway, sneaking him in, needing to fix this somehow.

He shows up—hoodie up, hands in pockets, sneaking through the dark like a shadow. “You’re late,” I mutter, grinning a little, shaky, and he shrugs, stepping inside, brushing past me. My stomach flips, quick and warm, because he’s close—too close—and my skin buzzes where his arm grazes mine. The door clicks shut, locking us in, and the gym’s quiet—just echoes, the smell of sweat and rubber mats hanging heavy. My hands shake, restless, and I kick a mat into place, nodding at him. “Thought we could blow off steam.”

He smirks—small, crooked—and my chest flutters, dumb and fast, because it’s him, back to that grin I like too much. “Yeah, okay,” he says, voice low, rough, dropping his bag by the bleachers. We square up, circling slow, my sneakers squeaking loud, and my heart’s pounding, wild already, because he’s here—close, real—and it’s good, even after yesterday.

I lunge first, clumsy, grabbing his shoulders, and he laughs—short, sharp—shoving back hard. We wrestle, fast and messy, hands gripping, feet sliding, tumbling onto the mat. My breath’s loud, ragged, and he’s strong—stronger than me—twisting me down, pinning my arms. I push back, grinning, and we roll, laughing, bodies tangled—his knee on my thigh, my hands on his chest—close, sweaty, alive. My face burns, hot and sudden, because I feel him—warm, solid, his heartbeat under my palms—and my gut flips, wild and dumb.

He flips me, hard, landing on top—knees on either side, hands pinning my wrists—and my breath stops, stuck in my throat. His face is close—too close—sweat dripping, eyes dark, breath hot on my cheek, and my heart races, slamming against my ribs, because it’s loud—us, here, pressed together—and I can’t think, can’t move. My chest heaves, air rushing out, and I’m caught—grinning still, shaky, because he’s heavy, real, and it’s messing me up bad.

“You’re strong,” I whisper, voice cracking, soft and dumb, slipping out before I can stop it. My face burns hotter, and my eyes lock on his—wide, dark, searching—and my stomach twists, warm and scared, because it’s out—raw, true—and I don’t know why I said it, why it matters. He freezes, breath hitching, loud in the quiet, and his hands loosen, just a little, like he’s caught too.

He pulls back fast—off me, standing quick, wiping his face with his sleeve—and my chest aches, empty now, cold where he was. “Yeah, whatever,” he mutters, voice rough, shaky, turning away, and my heart jumps, banging hard, because he’s flustered—red, fidgeting—and I don’t get it, don’t get what’s happening. My hands shake, pushing me up, and I sit there, mat cold under me, breath ragged, watching him pace—short, jerky steps—like he’s rattled, same as me.

“You okay?” I ask, low, my voice still shaky, and he stops, glancing back—eyes sharp, confused—and my gut twists, fast and warm, because he’s looking at me, really looking, and it’s heavy, pulling me in. “Yeah,” he grunts, short, but his hands shove into his pockets, shoulders hunching, and my chest flutters, scared and good, because he’s not mad—not like yesterday—and it’s something else, something new.

I stand, slow, brushing dirt off my jeans, my legs wobbly, and my head’s buzzing—his weight, his breath, that freeze—replaying loud. My face is still hot, my heart still racing, and I grin, small, shaky, trying to break it. “Guess I’m not strong,” I say, teasing, and he smirks—faint, quick—and my stomach flips again, because it’s back—that grin—and I like it, too much.

“Shut up,” he mutters, kicking the mat light, but his eyes flick to mine—soft, unsure—and my breath catches, stuck again, because it’s there—us, close, tangled—and it’s messing with me, warm and scary. He grabs his bag, slinging it over his shoulder, and heads for the door, slow, like he’s not sure. My hands fidget, restless, and I want to say something—stop him, keep him—but my throat’s tight, words gone.

The gym’s quiet—just our steps, the hum of lights—and my chest’s tight, breath uneven, because he’s leaving, and I don’t want him to—not yet. My head’s spinning—his laugh, his pin, his pull-back—and it’s good, raw, but confusing, digging in deep. I follow, a step behind, my sneakers squeaking, and my heart won’t slow, won’t settle, caught on him, on this, on us.

He stops by the door, hand on the handle, and glances back—quick, dark—and my gut flips, warm and dumb, because he’s still here, still looking. “See ya,” he says, low, and pushes out, the door banging shut, leaving me alone, shaky, grinning like an idiot. My chest flutters, scared of how much I like it—him, this, all of it—and I slump against the wall, wiping sweat off my face with a shaky hand, because it’s real, pulling me in, and I don’t know what to do.

The mats are messy, lights buzzing, and my head’s loud—his breath, his strength, my whisper—replaying, making me jumpy. My hands grip my jacket, knuckles white, and I mutter, “Stupid,” mad at myself, but it’s soft, fading, because it’s not just him—it’s me, stuck on him, wanting more. My phone’s in my pocket, heavy, buzzing yesterday with that creepy text—“He saw you fight”—and my gut twists, cold and sharp, mixing with the heat from him, making it heavier.

I step to the door, slow, needing air, and push it open—the night’s dark, quiet, just crickets humming. My chest’s still tight, breath short, and I think about texting him—“You’re fast”—but my hands freeze, shaky, because what if he laughs? What if he doesn’t answer? I shake my head, hard, trying to push it out—him, them, this—but it’s tangled, pulling me down.

Then I hear it—a low rumble, engine growling, cutting through the dark. My head snaps up, heart slamming, and my eyes dart to the lot—headlights flicker, slow, bouncing across the asphalt. My hands grip the door, cold and sweaty, and my breath stops, stuck in my throat. The rumble gets louder—tires crunching, steady—and my legs tense, ready to run. The lights swing my way, bright and sharp, pinning me in the frame, and my stomach drops, icy and fast, because it’s them—again—that car, that laugh, back for me.

A shadow moves—quick, dark—inside, and my heart locks up, wild and loud. My phone buzzes, sudden and sharp, and I yank it out, hands trembling bad—unknown number, one line: “He felt that too.” My blood turns cold, ice in my veins, and the car stops—engine idling, lights blinding—yards away. A laugh rolls out—low, warped, chilling my spine—and my chest chokes, breath gone, because they’re here, they saw, and something’s coming—fast, dark—slipping out the car, cutting the night short, leaving me caught, alone, with nowhere to hide.