Frequencies of Us Chapter 23: Tools and a Tumble

Mateo POV

I’m in the AV room, the air warm and dusty, my sneakers scuffing the floor as I lean on the table. My chest’s tight, restless, since last night on the bleachers—Noah’s shaky, “I like being around you,” and my quiet, “Me too,” slipping out before I could stop it. I pulled back fast, scared, my heart slamming, because it’s big—too big—and I don’t know what it means. Now I’m here, helping him with some tech project, my hands fidgeting, because he asked—soft, shy—and I couldn’t say no, not to him.

He’s across from me, hunched over a mess of wires and tools, his hair messy, sleeves rolled up. My gut twists, warm and dumb, watching him—focused, steady, his fingers quick—and my face burns, hot and sudden, because he’s close, real, pulling me in like always. “Pass me that,” he mutters, nodding at a screwdriver, and I grab it, slow, my hand brushing his—quick, warm—sending a jolt up my arm. My heart jumps, loud and fast, and my breath catches, stuck in my throat, because it’s small—dumb—but it’s him, and it’s hitting me hard.

“Thanks,” he says, low, glancing up—eyes dark, soft—and my stomach flips, hot and wild, because he’s looking—really looking—and it’s messing me up. I smirk, trying to shake it off, and lean closer, grabbing a wire, my elbow bumping his—solid, warm—and my chest tightens, buzzing under my skin. “You’re a nerd,” I tease, voice rough, playful, and my heart skips, daring him, because I need this—us, easy—after last night.

He laughs—short, bright—and shoves me, light, his hand on my shoulder, warm and firm. “Shut up,” he says, grinning, and my gut twists, fast and warm, because that grin—shaky, real—is back, pulling me in deeper. My hands move, fast, shoving him back—playful, rough—and the tension snaps, loud and hot, like a spark igniting. We tumble, wrestling, my sneakers slipping, his laugh mixing with mine—messy, loud—crashing onto the floor.

I land on him—knees on either side, hands pinning his arms—and my breath stops, chest heaving, because he’s under me—close, sweaty, his face red, eyes wide. My heart slams, wild and loud, and my face burns, hot and sweaty, because I feel him—his chest rising, his heat against me—and it’s steamy, heavy, pulling me down. He squirms, grinning still, and I press harder, smirking, “Got you,” my voice low, rough, teasing, but my gut flips, warm and wild, because it’s more—more than play—and I like it, too much.

“Jerk,” he mutters, laughing, shoving up, and we roll—fast, tangled—his hands grabbing my hoodie, my knee sliding between his. My breath’s loud, ragged, and my skin buzzes, hot where we touch—his arm on mine, his leg brushing my thigh—and my heart skips, caught in it, because it’s us—close, real, steamy—and it’s good, messing me up bad. He pins me now—quick, strong—his hands on my wrists, his face inches away, and my chest locks up, air gone, because his breath’s hot, hitting my cheek, and my stomach twists, wild and dumb, wanting more.

“You’re slow,” I tease, smirking up, my voice shaky, and my hands twist free, grabbing his sides—warm, solid—pulling him closer. He laughs—soft, low—and my gut flips, hot and fast, because he’s here—pressed against me, grinning—and it’s flirty, alive, pulling tight. My fingers dig in, playful, and he squirms, his knee nudging mine, sending a jolt through me—steamy, real—and my face burns hotter, my heart slamming, because I feel it—us, tangled, wanting—and it’s big, terrifying me.

“Shut up,” he says, low, his voice cracking, and his hands slide—to my shoulders, gripping tight—and my breath catches, loud in my ears, because he’s close—too close—his eyes dark, locked on mine, pulling me in. My chest heaves, my skin buzzing, and my hands move—slow, shaky—brushing his arms, warm and firm, and my heart skips again, wild and fast, because it’s steamy—hot, flirty—and I don’t want it to stop, don’t want him to pull back. He leans in—closer, breath hot—and my gut twists, warm and wild, because it’s there—us, now—and it’s love, maybe, hitting me hard.

We freeze—laughing fades, air thick—and my chest’s tight, aching, because he’s still—watching me—and my face burns, my hands shaky on him, caught in the moment. My heart’s pounding, loud and wild, and my throat’s dry, words stuck, because it’s good—too good—and I’m scared, scared of how much I like it, how much I want him here. He shifts—slow, soft—and his hand brushes mine—quick, warm—lingering, and my stomach flips, hot and dumb, because it’s real—us, close—and it’s pulling me deeper, making me dizzy.

“Idiot,” I mutter, grinning shaky, trying to break it, but my voice cracks, and my chest flutters, warm and wild, because he grins back—small, real—and it’s steamy, flirty, digging in. My hands drop, restless, brushing his knee as he pulls off, sitting up, and my skin buzzes, hot and alive, because that touch—small, dumb—stays, pulling tight. “You’re bad at this,” I tease, low, and he shoves me—light, playful—and my heart skips, caught again, because it’s us—easy, warm—and I’m lost in it, liking it too much.

The room’s quiet—just our breathing, tools scattered—and my head’s buzzing—his laugh, his grip, that lean—replaying, making me jumpy. My face is still hot, my gut still twisting, and I sit up, slow, wiping sweat off my forehead with a shaky hand. My chest’s tight, breath uneven, and my eyes flick to him—grinning, messy, close—and my heart slams, loud and fast, because he’s here—real, pulling—and I don’t know what to do, what it means.

He grabs a tool—slow, shaky—and my hand brushes his again—warm, quick—and my breath catches, stuck in my throat, because it’s flirty—steamy, real—and my chest aches, wanting more. My phone’s in my pocket, heavy, buzzing yesterday with “He knows you’re his,” and my gut twists, cold and sharp, mixing with this—him, us—making it heavier. I shake my head, hard, trying to push it out—texts, cars, him—but it’s tangled, pulling me down.

Then I hear it—a low rumble, engine growling, faint but growing. My head snaps up, heart slamming, and my eyes dart to the window—headlights flicker, slow, bouncing across the lot outside. My hands grip the table, cold and sweaty, and my breath stops, stuck in my throat. The rumble gets louder—tires crunching, steady—and my legs tense, ready to bolt. The lights swing closer, dim but sharp, cutting through the glass, and my stomach drops, icy and fast, because it’s them—again—that car, that laugh, back for me.

A figure moves—quick, blurry—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’s jealous of this.” My blood turns cold, ice in my veins, and the car stops—engine idling, lights blinding—right outside. A laugh rolls in—low, warped, chilling my spine—and my chest chokes, breath gone, because they’re here, they saw, and a shape slips out—fast, dark—boots hitting the ground, something glinting in hand, coming closer, cutting the steamy quiet short, leaving me caught, sweaty, with nowhere to hide.