Frequencies of Us Chapter 26: Tunes and a Touch

Noah POV

I’m at the AV room door, the hall quiet and dim, my hands shaky as I twist the key I’m not supposed to have. My chest’s tight, fluttery, since yesterday by the track—Mateo fixing my collar, “You’re a mess,” his fingers warm, lingering, flipping my heart upside down. Those sparks, that text—“He’s yours if you take him”—hummed in my head all night, steamy and wild, pulling me to him. Now I’m sneaking him in, my gut twisting, warm and dumb, because I’ve got something for him—something big—and I’m scared, scared he’ll laugh, scared he won’t.

He’s behind me—hoodie up, sneakers soft on the tile—and my heart slams, loud and fast, as I push the door open. “Come on,” I whisper, voice cracking, low, and he follows, brushing past me—close, warm—and my skin buzzes, hot and quick, because it’s him—real, here—and it’s steamy, pulling me in. The room’s dark, just the glow of screens, and my hands fidget, restless, flipping on a light, dim and soft. My face burns, hot and sudden, and I turn, grinning—small, shaky—because he’s watching—dark eyes, steady—and it’s flirty, good, messing me up.

“Got something,” I say, low, stepping to the table, my fingers brushing a pair of earbuds plugged into my phone. My heart’s thumping, wild and loud, and my breath catches, stuck in my throat, because it’s dumb—a playlist, for him—but it’s real, hours of picking songs, thinking of him. “Made it for you,” I mutter, soft, handing him an earbud, and my gut flips, warm and wild, because it’s out—steamy, flirty—and my face burns hotter, red and sweaty, waiting for him to take it.

He blinks—slow, surprised—and grabs it, his fingers brushing mine—quick, warm—and my chest locks up, a jolt running up my arm. “For me?” he says, voice rough, low, and my stomach twists, hot and fast, because he’s looking—really looking—and it’s big, pulling tight. I nod, shaky, and press play—soft beats filling the quiet—and he sits, close, our knees bumping under the table. My heart slams, loud and wild, and my breath’s shaky, because he’s here—listening, with me—and it’s steamy, real, digging in deep.

The music hums—slow, warm—and he’s quiet, earbud in, eyes down, nodding a little. My hands shake, restless, gripping my jeans, and my chest flutters, warm and dumb, because he’s hearing it—songs I picked, for him—and it’s flirty, love maybe, hitting me hard. My leg brushes his—soft, warm—and my skin buzzes, hot and alive, because it’s us—close, now—and I want more, want him closer. My face burns, my throat tight, and I glance at him—quick, shy—his lips twitching, soft, and my heart skips, wild and fast, because he’s feeling it—I think, I hope—and it’s steamy, pulling me in.

“It’s good,” he says, low, voice rough, pulling the earbud out slow, and my chest flutters, hot and wild, because it’s simple—dumb—but it’s him, and it’s good, lighting me up. His eyes flick to mine—dark, steady—and my breath catches, loud in my ears, because the air’s thick—heavy, flirty—and my gut twists, warm and scary, because he’s close—too close—and it’s real, pulling tight. “Yeah?” I mutter, grinning—soft, shaky—and my hand moves—slow, daring—brushing his on the table, warm and firm.

His fingers twitch—quick, soft—and stay, pressing back, lingering, and my heart slams, loud and wild, sending heat up my spine. My face burns hotter, red and sweaty, and my breath’s shaky—steamy, alive—because it’s us—hands touching, eyes locked—and it’s flirty, love, hitting me deep. My thumb brushes his—slow, warm—and my gut flips, hot and fast, because he doesn’t pull away—just sits, quiet, watching—and my chest aches, wanting to say it, to spill everything, but my throat’s dry, words stuck, scared to break it.

“You’re weird,” he teases, low, smirking a little, and my chest flutters, warm and dumb, because that smirk—crooked, real—is back, pulling me in. “Good weird,” I say, soft, my voice cracking, and my hand presses harder—warm, steamy—fingers curling with his, and my heart skips, wild and loud, because it’s flirty—hot, close—and I’m lost, caught in him, in this. He laughs—quiet, low—and my stomach twists, hot and wild, because it’s good—too good—and I’m scared, scared of how much I like it, how much I want him.

The music fades—soft, slow—and my chest’s tight, breath uneven, because he’s still—hand on mine, eyes soft—and it’s steamy, pulling me deeper. My face burns, my skin buzzing, and my leg nudges his—warm, solid—sending a jolt through me, flirty and real. My heart’s pounding, loud and fast, and my thumb brushes his again—slow, daring—and his breath hitches, loud in the quiet, making my gut flip, warm and scary, because it’s love—yeah, love—and it’s big, terrifying me, but I don’t want it to stop.

“Glad you like it,” I mutter, low, grinning shaky, and my hand stays—warm, tangled with his—and my chest aches, steamy and wild, because he’s here—close, real—and it’s pulling me in, making me dizzy. His smirk softens—small, shy—and my heart slams, loud and wild, because it’s us—now, here—and it’s flirty, steamy, digging in deep. My breath’s shaky, my face hot, and my eyes drop—to his hand, his lips—and my gut twists, warm and dumb, because I could—right now, maybe—and it’s hitting me, hard, leaving me caught.

The room’s quiet—just our breathing, the hum of gear—and my head’s buzzing—his touch, his “It’s good”—replaying, making me jumpy. My chest’s tight, my hands shaky, and my leg brushes his again—soft, warm—because I need it, need him close, and it’s steamy, pulling tight. My face burns hotter, my throat tight, and I want to say more—“I like you”—but my heart’s pounding, wild and fast, and I’m scared—scared he’ll pull back, scared he won’t—and it’s holding me, leaving me shaky.

Then it shifts—a soft buzz, low and warm, from the speakers overhead. My head tilts, heart jumping, and my eyes flick up—lights flickering, pulsing slow with the beat of a new song, one I didn’t pick. My gut twists, warm and quick, and my hand tightens on his—sweaty, shaky—because it’s off—too perfect, too alive—like yesterday, those sparks, that hum. My breath stops, stuck in my throat, and I glance at him—quick, dumb—and he’s staring up too, eyes wide, reflecting the glow, pinning mine in the dim.

“What’s that?” he mutters, low, his voice rough, and my chest flutters, hot and wild, because the music swells—soft, flirty—wrapping us close. My heart slams, loud and fast, and my phone buzzes, sudden and soft, making me flinch. I pull it out, hands trembling—unknown number, one line: “He’s playing your song.” My stomach flips, warm and steamy, and my eyes flick to Mateo—grinning now, small, caught in it—and my breath catches, shaky and alive, because it’s them—those texts, that tease—but it’s sweet, pulling, lighting up the room. The lights pulse faster—warm, bright—dancing over his face, and my heart skips, loud and wild, because it’s us—here, now—steamy and flirty, caught in the glow, leaving me shaky, waiting, with something soft and hot singing in the air.