Frequencies of Us Chapter 27: Texts and a Tug

Mateo POV

I’m in my room, the air warm and still, my phone buzzing in my hand as I lean on the bed. My chest’s tight, fluttery, since yesterday in the AV room—Noah’s playlist, “Made it for you,” his hand on mine, warm and shaky, flipping my heart wild. That song, those lights—“He’s playing your song”—hummed in my head all night, steamy and flirty, pulling me to him. Now I’m texting him—quick, dumb stuff—my fingers typing fast, my gut twisting, warm and wild, because it’s him—him again—and I like it, too much.

The door bangs open—loud, sudden—and my head snaps up, heart jumping. It’s Dad, stomping in, eyes sharp, catching me mid-text. “Who’s this guy?” he says, voice rough, nodding at my phone, and my stomach drops, cold and fast, because it’s Noah—glowing on my screen—and my face burns, hot and sweaty, caught. My hands shake, gripping the phone, and my chest locks up, breath stuck, because he’s staring—hard, waiting—and I don’t want him knowing, don’t want this out.

“No one,” I snap, fast, my voice loud, rough, shoving the phone in my pocket. “Just a friend—chill.” My heart slams, wild and loud, and my face burns hotter, mad and scared, because it’s a lie—he’s more, way more—and Dad’s eyes narrow, not buying it. “Don’t lie,” he grunts, stepping closer, and my gut twists, sour and heavy, because he’s pushing—digging—and it’s messing me up, making me small.

“Back off!” I yell, standing fast, my sneakers hitting the floor hard, and my chest heaves, hot and mad, because I’m defensive—too defensive—and it’s spilling out, raw and dumb. He stares—quiet, hard—and my hands shake, bad now, shoving into my hoodie, because I’m caught—caught feeling this—and I hate it, hate him seeing. “Whatever,” I mutter, low, storming past him, my shoulder bumping his, and I’m out, legs moving fast, needing air, needing Noah.

Later, I meet him—by the track, dusk settling, the air cool and soft. My chest’s still tight, breath shaky, and my hands fidget, pulling at my hoodie strings as I pace. He’s there—leaning on the fence, jacket loose, eyes steady—and my gut flips, warm and dumb, because he’s calm—real, here—and it’s steamy, pulling me in. “Hey,” I say, voice rough, low, stopping close, and my heart thumps, loud and fast, because he’s looking—dark, soft—and it’s good, easing me slow.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, low, stepping closer, and my stomach twists, hot and wild, because he sees it—sees me—and my chest aches, needing to spill. “Dad,” I mutter, kicking the dirt, my voice cracking, raw and mad. “Caught me texting you—got all nosy, pissed me off.” My hands shove deeper, shaky, and my face burns, hot and sudden, because it’s dumb—fighting over this—but it’s him, and it’s big, digging in deep.

He nods—slow, quiet—and my chest loosens, just a bit, because he’s listening—steady, not pushing—and it’s warm, flirty almost, pulling me closer. “He’s just being Dad,” he says, soft, grinning a little, and my gut flips, steamy and fast, because that grin—shy, real—is back, lighting me up. My breath catches, loud in my ears, and my hands itch, restless, wanting to reach, to hold on, because he’s here—calm, good—and it’s messing me up, making me want.

“Yeah, whatever,” I mutter, smirking a little, my voice low, flirty, and my leg brushes his—quick, warm—sending a jolt up my spine. My heart slams, loud and wild, and my face burns hotter, because it’s us—close, now—and it’s steamy, real, pulling tight. He laughs—soft, low—and my chest flutters, hot and dumb, because it’s good—too good—and my hands move—fast, shaky—grabbing his, quick, warm, squeezing tight.

“Thanks,” I say, low, my voice rough, cracking a little, and my heart skips, wild and fast, because it’s out—small, dumb—but it’s real, steamy, hitting me hard. His hand’s warm—solid, soft—and my gut twists, hot and wild, because it lingers—fingers tangled, pressing—and my breath’s shaky, flirty and alive, pulling me in. My face burns, red and sweaty, and my eyes lock on his—dark, wide—and my chest aches, love maybe, buzzing under my skin, because it’s him—here, now—and I’m caught, lost in it.

I pull back—fast, shaky—my hand slipping free, and my chest locks up, air gone, because it’s too much—too steamy, too real—and my face burns hotter, mad at myself for grabbing, for feeling. “Anyway,” I mutter, low, stepping back, my sneakers scuffing dirt, and my heart slams, loud and wild, because he’s staring—soft, caught—and my gut flips, warm and scary, because I want it—want him—but I’m scared, scared of this, of me.

He grins—small, shaky—and my chest flutters, steamy and wild, because he’s not mad—he’s here—and it’s pulling me back, making me dizzy. “Anytime,” he says, low, his voice cracking, and my stomach twists, hot and fast, because it’s flirty—warm, real—and my leg brushes his again—soft, daring—sending heat up my spine. My heart’s pounding, loud and fast, and my hands shake, restless, because it’s us—close, tangled—and it’s good, hitting me deep, leaving me shaky.

The track’s quiet—just crickets, our breathing—and my head’s buzzing—his grin, my grab, that touch—replaying, making me jumpy. My chest’s tight, breath uneven, and my face burns, hot and wild, because he’s here—steady, pulling—and I don’t know what to do, what it means. My hands shove into my pockets, shaky, and my eyes flick to him—quick, dumb—and he’s watching—dark, soft—and my gut twists, steamy and real, because it’s love—yeah, love—and it’s big, terrifying me, but I like it, too much.

“See ya,” I mutter, low, turning slow, my sneakers dragging, because I need space—need to breathe—but my heart’s thumping, wild and fast, pulling me back. My chest aches, raw and warm, and my head’s loud—Dad’s yell, Noah’s grin—mixing up, making me dizzy. My phone’s in my pocket, heavy, buzzing yesterday with “He’s playing your song,” and my gut twists, steamy and quick, mixing with this—him, us—making it heavier. I shake my head, hard, trying to push it out—Dad, him, me—but it’s tangled, pulling me down.

Then it hums—a soft beat, low and warm, drifting from the bleachers nearby. My head tilts, heart jumping, and my eyes squint—speakers buzzing, glowing faint, playing slow, flirty notes. My gut flips, warm and steamy, and my hands grip my hoodie, sweaty and shaky, because it’s off—too perfect, too alive—like yesterday, that song, those lights. My breath catches, stuck in my throat, and I glance at Noah—quick, dumb—and he’s grinning, small, hearing it too, pinning my eyes across the dirt.

“What’s that?” I mutter, low, my voice rough, and my chest flutters, hot and wild, because the beat swells—soft, steamy—wrapping us close. My heart slams, loud and fast, and my phone buzzes, sudden and soft, making me flinch. I yank it out, hands trembling—unknown number, one line: “He’s keeping you warm.” My stomach twists, warm and flirty, and my eyes flick to Noah—laughing now, soft, caught in it—and my breath shakes, alive and steamy, because it’s them—those texts, that tease—but it’s sweet, pulling, lighting up the dusk. The music curls—slow, hot—dancing over his grin, and my heart skips, loud and wild, because it’s us—here, now—flirty and real, caught in the tune, leaving me shaky, waiting, with something soft and steamy humming in the air.