Frequencies of Us Chapter 19: Questions and a Quiet

Mateo POV

I’m at home, the kitchen warm and loud, pots clanging as Mom stirs something on the stove. My hands are shoved in my hoodie pockets, shoulders tight, because she’s been on me since I walked in—eyes sharp, voice digging. “Who’s this Noah?” she asks, turning fast, spoon in hand, catching me off guard. My chest jumps, quick and loud, and my face burns, hot and sudden, because it’s him—him again—sneaking into my day, my house, my head.

“No one,” I mutter, shrugging, kicking the floor with my sneaker. My voice is rough, scratched from dodging, and I turn away, grabbing a glass, filling it with water, pretending it’s fine. “Just a guy from school,” I add, low, but my gut twists, cold and fast, because it’s a lie—he’s not just a guy, not after the gym, not after pinning him, his whisper, “You’re strong,” flipping me inside out. She hums, not buying it, and my heart thumps, wild and dumb, because it digs in—her question, him—sticking like mud I can’t shake.

“Looks like more than that,” she says, smirking a little, and my stomach drops, sour and heavy. I slam the glass down, harder than I mean, water sloshing, and my face burns hotter, mad and scared. “Drop it, Ma,” I snap, voice loud, and storm out, my sneakers pounding the floor, needing space, needing air. My chest’s tight, breath short, and my head’s buzzing—her words, his voice—mixing up, making me jumpy. I don’t want her knowing, don’t want anyone knowing, because I don’t even know—not yet, not really.

Later, I’m at school, the halls quiet, kids gone for the day. My legs carry me to the AV room—don’t know why, don’t want to think why—and I stop by the door, cracked open, my heart slamming, loud in my ears. He’s there—Noah—hunched over a projector, light flickering, tools scattered on the table. His hair’s messy, jacket off, and my gut flips, warm and dumb, because he’s alone, focused, and it’s him—the guy I can’t shake, the one Mom’s asking about. My hands fidget, sweaty, and I step in, slow, my sneaker squeaking loud.

He looks up, eyes hitting mine—dark, surprised—and my throat locks up, dry and tight. “Need help?” I say, shy, voice low, cracking a little, and my face burns, hot and sudden, because it’s dumb—me offering—but I don’t back out. He blinks, then nods—slow, small—and my chest loosens, just a bit, enough to breathe.

“Yeah,” he says, soft, shifting over, making space, and my legs move, shaky, pulling me to the table. We work side by side—him twisting screws, me holding wires—quiet, close, the projector humming between us. My elbow brushes his—quick, warm—and my heart jumps, slamming hard, sending a jolt up my arm. I freeze, breath catching, and he doesn’t pull away—just keeps working, steady, like it’s nothing—but I feel it, loud, buzzing under my skin.

“Here,” he mutters, handing me a tool, and our fingers touch—barely, but enough—and my stomach twists, warm and new, terrifying me. My face is hot, sweaty, and I take it, slow, my hand shaky, because it’s him—close, real—and it’s hitting me, hard, pulling me in. We keep going—screws tightening, wires clicking—and our elbows brush again, longer this time, warm and solid, and my chest locks up, air stuck, because it’s good—too good—and I don’t know what to do.

“Almost done,” he says, low, glancing at me—eyes soft, steady—and my gut flips, fast and dumb, because he’s looking, really looking, and it’s heavy, digging in deep. I nod, short, my throat tight, and my hands fumble, dropping a screw—clattering loud—and I curse, soft, bending to grab it. He laughs—quiet, quick—and my face burns hotter, but my chest flutters, warm and scary, because I like it—his laugh, this—and it’s freaking me out.

We finish, the projector humming steady, and I step back, wiping my hands on my jeans, my heart still pounding, wild and fast. “Thanks,” he says, grinning—small, shaky—and my stomach twists again, because that grin’s back, pulling me like always. “You’re good at this,” he adds, soft, and my breath catches, stuck in my throat, because it’s simple—dumb—but it’s him, and it’s warm, new, terrifying.

“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter, shrugging, but my voice is low, shaky, and my eyes flick to his—caught, held—and my chest aches, torn between running and staying. My hands shove into my pockets, restless, and I feel it—us, here, close—digging in, making me jumpy. He shifts, brushing past me to grab his bag, and his arm grazes mine—quick, warm—and my heart slams, loud and wild, because it’s there, real, pulling tight.

The room’s quiet—just the hum, our breathing—and my head’s buzzing—Mom’s question, his grin, this moment—mixing up, making me dizzy. My face is still hot, my gut still twisting, and I mutter, “See ya,” low, turning for the door, needing air, needing out. My sneakers scuff the floor, slow, and my chest’s tight, breath uneven, because I don’t want to go—not really—but it’s too much, too fast, and I don’t know what it means.

I’m at the door, hand on the knob, when I hear it—a low thud, sharp, from the hall outside. My heart jumps, slamming into my ribs, and I freeze, breath stuck, eyes darting back to Noah—he’s still, head up, listening too. My gut twists, cold and fast, and my hands grip the knob, sweaty and shaky, because it’s off—too quiet, too heavy—like yesterday, that car, that laugh. “What was that?” I whisper, voice rough, and he steps closer—slow, tense—his eyes wide, locked on mine.

The thud comes again—closer, deliberate—and my chest locks up, breath gone, because it’s them—those headlights, those texts—back again. My phone’s in my pocket, heavy, buzzing yesterday with “He felt that too,” and my stomach drops, icy and sharp, mixing with the warmth from him, making it worse. “Mateo,” he whispers, voice shaky, grabbing my arm—quick, tight—and my skin buzzes, hot and scared, because he’s here, with me, and it’s real.

A shadow flickers—fast, dark—under the door crack, and my heart slams, wild and loud. My legs tense, ready to bolt, and my hand twists the knob, slow, trembling, peering out—the hall’s dim, empty, but the air’s thick, waiting. A laugh rolls in—low, warped, chilling my spine—and my breath chokes, stuck in my throat. My phone buzzes, sudden and sharp, and I yank it out, hands shaking bad—unknown number, one line: “He’s in there with you.” My blood turns cold, ice in my veins, and the thud hits again—hard, close—shaking the door, and Noah’s grip tightens, his eyes scared, fierce, pinned on mine, because they’re here, they know, and we’re trapped, caught, with no way out.