Frequencies of Us Chapter 25: Collars and a Clash

Mateo POV

I’m by the track, the air cool and sharp, my hands shoved in my hoodie pockets as I pace the dirt. My chest’s tight, restless, since yesterday—me flirting with that cheerleader, Noah walking away, quiet, hurt, his eyes burning into me across the field. That rustle, that text—“He’s not hers”—stuck with me all night, warm and weird, pulling me back to him. Now I’m here, looking for him, my heart thumping, loud and fast, because I need to see him—need to fix it—need him close, even if it scares me.

I spot him—alone, sitting on the bleachers, jacket crooked, hair messy, fiddling with a wire in his hands. My gut twists, warm and dumb, and my legs move, carrying me over, my sneakers crunching gravel. My face burns, hot and sudden, because he’s there—soft, real—and my chest flutters, wild and steamy, remembering him under me in the AV room, laughing, close. I stop, close now, and my hands fidget, restless, because he’s looking up—eyes dark, steady—and it’s hitting me hard, pulling me in.

“You’re a mess,” I say, voice rough, low, stepping up, my fingers brushing his jacket collar—crooked, dumb—and fixing it, slow, careful. My heart slams, loud and wild, and my breath catches, stuck in my throat, because my hands linger—warm, shaky—on his shoulders, and it’s flirty, real, buzzing under my skin. He grins—soft, small—and my stomach flips, hot and fast, because that grin’s back—shy, pulling—and it’s steamy, good, messing me up.

“Thanks,” he mutters, low, his voice cracking a little, and his eyes lock on mine—deep, dark—and the air’s thick, heavy, pressing us close. My chest tightens, breath shaky, and my hands stay—fingers brushing his neck, warm and soft—and my heart skips, wild and dumb, because it’s us—here, now—and it’s steamy, flirty, pulling tight. I step closer—slow, close—my knee nudging his, and my gut twists, warm and wild, because I feel him—solid, real—and it’s big, terrifying me, but good, too good.

His breath hitches—loud in the quiet—and my face burns hotter, sweaty and red, because he’s looking—really looking—and my hands shake, itching to pull him in, to hold on. “Anytime,” I say, low, smirking a little, my voice rough, flirty, and my fingers slide—slow, daring—down his collar, brushing his chest. My heart slams, loud and fast, and my stomach flips, steamy and wild, because it’s love—maybe, yeah—and it’s hitting me, hard, pulling me closer, my breath shaky on his face.

He leans in—barely, soft—and my chest locks up, air gone, because his lips are close—too close—and my skin buzzes, hot and alive, wanting it, needing it. My hands grip his jacket—tight, warm—and my gut twists, warm and scary, because it’s real—us, now—and I’m caught, lost in him, in this. My breath’s loud, shaky, and my eyes drop—to his mouth, his grin—and my heart skips, wild and loud, because I could—right now, here—and it’s steamy, flirty, pulling me in deep.

Then it crashes—yelling, loud and mean, cutting through the air. “Fairy’s got a boyfriend!” Ryan’s voice, sharp, nasty, and my head snaps up—jocks stomping over, grinning, jeering. My chest heaves, hot and mad, and my hands drop—fast, shaky—pulling back from Noah, my face burning, red and sweaty, because they’re here—ruining it—and I hate it, hate them. “Back off!” I yell, voice rough, loud, stepping forward, fists clenched, but my gut twists, cold and fast, because I’m mad—mad at them, mad at me—for pulling away.

Noah stands—quick, tense—his grin gone, eyes wide, and my chest aches, heavy and tight, because he’s caught—hurt, maybe—and I did that, I stepped back. “Ignore them,” he mutters, low, grabbing my arm—warm, firm—and my skin buzzes, hot and wild, but I yank free, fast, my heart slamming, because they’re yelling—“Queer!”—and it’s loud, mean, digging in, making me small.

“Shut up!” I snap, spinning at them, my voice bouncing off the bleachers, raw and mad, and my hands shake, bad now, itching to swing. My face burns hotter, my chest heaving, and my head buzzes—their slurs, his touch—mixing up, making me dizzy. I glance at Noah—quick, dumb—and he’s quiet, eyes down, and my gut twists, sour and heavy, because I pulled back—left him—and it’s killing me, confusing me, aching deep.

“Whatever,” I mutter, low, turning fast, my sneakers pounding the dirt, walking away, because I can’t stay—can’t face them, can’t face him—not now. My chest’s tight, breath short, and my hands shove into my pockets, shaky, because I’m mad—mad at myself—for running, for caring, for feeling this. I hear him call—“Mateo!”—soft, shaky—but I keep going, my heart thumping, loud and wild, because that moment—steamy, flirty—slipped away, and I hate it, hate me.

I’m halfway across the track, legs heavy, my breath puffing white in the chill, and my face is still hot, my throat tight. My hands fidget, restless, and I see him—bleachers, AV room, gym—grinning, close, pulling me in, and it’s warm, steamy, but now it’s shaky, cracked by them. My chest aches, raw and confused, because I don’t get it—don’t get why it hurts, why I want him back—when he’s just Noah, just a guy. My heart’s pounding, wild and fast, and I mutter, “Idiot,” mad at myself, because I stepped closer—almost—and then bailed, leaving it messy.

The track’s quiet—just wind, my steps—and my head’s loud, spinning with his grin—“Thanks”—and my pull-back, dumb and scared. My gut twists, guilt digging in, because I left him there—alone, maybe hurt—and it’s on me, tearing me up. My phone’s in my pocket, heavy, buzzing yesterday with “He’s not hers,” and my chest tightens, mixing with this—him, them, us—making it heavier. I shake my head, hard, trying to push it out—slurs, him, me—but it’s tangled, pulling me down.

I stop, slow, leaning on the fence, my hands gripping the wood, cold and rough. My chest’s tight, breath shaky, and my eyes flick back—quick, dumb—and he’s still there, by the bleachers, watching me, jocks gone now. My stomach flips, warm and wild, and my heart slams, loud and fast, because he’s looking—dark, steady—and it’s steamy, real, pulling me back. My face burns, my throat lumps up, and my hands shake, wanting to go to him, to fix it, but my legs freeze, stuck, because I’m confused—mad, scared, caught—and I don’t know what I feel, what he wants.

Then it hits—a soft click, low and sharp, from the scoreboard above him. My head snaps up, heart jumping, and my eyes squint—wires dangling, swaying in the wind, sparking quick. My gut twists, cold and fast, and my hands grip tighter, sweaty and shaky, because it’s off—too quiet, too alive—like yesterday, that rustle, that laugh. My breath stops, stuck in my throat, and I see it—sparks falling, slow, bright, landing near his feet. My heart slams, wild and loud, and my phone buzzes, sudden and soft, making me flinch.

I yank it out, hands trembling—unknown number, one line: “He’s yours if you take him.” My chest locks up, air gone, and my eyes flick to Mateo—he’s staring up, eyes wide, sparks reflecting in them, pinning mine across the track. My stomach flips, warm and steamy, and my legs twitch, caught between running to him and holding back, because it’s them—those texts, that tease—but it’s flirty, pulling, leaving me shaky. A soft hum starts—low, warm, from the speakers—and my heart skips, breath shaky, because it’s close—sweet, alive—and we’re caught, waiting, with something steamy and scary lighting up the air.