Frequencies of Us Chapter 32: Yells and a Yes

Noah POV

I’m in the kitchen, the air thick with coffee and tension, my hands gripping the counter. My chest’s tight, buzzing, since yesterday by the gym—Mateo bruised, grabbing my wrist, “I wanted to,” his eyes raw and steamy, flipping my heart wild. That hum—“He’s healing for you”—stayed with me all night, flirty and warm, pulling me to him. Now Dad’s here, leaning on the table, grumbling low, and my gut twists, hot and dumb, because I know what’s coming, know it’s about him.

“Too much time with that kid,” he says, voice rough, sharp, tossing his mug in the sink—clank, loud—and my stomach drops, cold and fast, because it’s Mateo—he means Mateo—and my face burns, hot and mad, hands clenching tight. My heart slams, wild and loud, and my chest heaves, breath short, because he’s wrong—wrong about him—and it’s hitting me, hard, making me shaky.

“He’s not just some kid,” I snap, voice cracking, loud, spinning fast to face him. My hands shake, bad now, and my face burns hotter, red and sweaty, because it’s out—raw, real—and my gut twists, steamy and fast, defending him, needing him. Dad’s eyes narrow—hard, quiet—and my chest locks up, air stuck, because he’s staring—judging—and it’s big, pulling me apart. “He’s my—” I stop, throat tight, words gone, because I can’t say it—not yet—but it’s love, yeah, and it’s killing me, burning me up.

“Whatever,” he grunts, turning away, and my heart jumps, banging hard, because he’s dismissing it—dismissing us—and my legs move—fast, shaky—grabbing my jacket, storming out. My sneakers pound the floor—loud, mad—and my chest aches, hot and wild, because I’m done—done hiding, done fighting this—and I need him, need Mateo, now. The door slams—bang, sharp—behind me, and my breath puffs, steamy and quick, pulling me out, pulling me to him.

I find him—by the track, dusk settling, the air cool and soft—leaning on the fence, hoodie loose, hands in pockets. My gut flips, warm and wild, and my heart slams, loud and fast, because he’s here—real, close—and it’s flirty, good, lighting me up. “Hey,” I say, low, rough, stepping close, and my hands shake, restless, brushing my jeans, because he’s looking—dark, steady—and my chest flutters, steamy and raw, needing him near.

“Hey,” he mutters, low, kicking the dirt, and my stomach twists, hot and fast, because his voice—scratchy, soft—is back, pulling me in. My breath catches, stuck in my throat, and my legs move—closer, dumb—my sneakers scuffing gravel, because it’s him—bruised, real—and I can’t wait, can’t hold it. My hands move—fast, shaky—grabbing his face, warm and rough, and I kiss him—quick, desperate—my lips crashing his, steamy and wild, sending heat up my spine.

My heart skips, loud and fast, and my chest locks up, air gone, because it’s him—soft, real—and it’s flirty, love, hitting me deep. His breath hitches—loud, sharp—and my gut twists, warm and dumb, because I feel it—his lips, his heat—and it’s big, pulling tight. I pull back—fast, shaky—my hands dropping, trembling bad, and my face burns, red and sweaty, because I did it—kissed him—and my throat’s tight, scared I messed up, scared he’ll run.

“Sorry,” I mutter, low, my voice cracking, stepping back, and my chest aches, steamy and raw, because he’s stunned—eyes wide, mouth open—and my heart slams, wild and loud, because it’s out—real, messy—and I want more, want him back. My hands shove into my jacket—sweaty, restless—and my breath shakes, loud in my ears, because it’s us—here, now—and it’s flirty, hitting me hard, leaving me shaky, hopeful but terrified.

He stares—frozen, quiet—and my gut flips, warm and wild, because he’s caught—watching me—and my skin buzzes, steamy and alive, needing him to move, to say it. My face burns hotter, my leg twitching, because he’s not running—not yet—and my chest flutters, hot and fast, because he wanted it—I feel it—his lips soft, stunned, wanting more. My heart skips, loud and wild, and my hands shake, bad now, because it’s love—yeah, love—and it’s big, pulling me in, deep.

“Mateo—” I start, low, my voice rough, but he blinks—slow, shaky—and my stomach twists, steamy and fast, because he’s here—close, real—and it’s flirty, pulling tight. My breath’s uneven, my face hot, and my eyes flick—to his lips, his hands—and my gut flips, warm and dumb, because I could—again, now—and it’s hitting me, hard, leaving me caught. My chest aches, raw and wild, and my heart slams, loud and fast, because he’s stunned—wanting, maybe—and it’s good, lighting me up, but scary, tearing me up.

He shifts—slow, soft—his hand brushing his face, and my chest flutters, steamy and real, because he’s not mad—he’s here—and my gut twists, hot and wild, pulling me back. “See ya,” he mutters, low, turning slow—shaky, dumb—and my heart jumps, banging hard, because he’s walking—not far, just steps—but it’s leaving me, shaky, hopeful, wanting more. My breath puffs, loud and quick, and my hands grip my jacket—sweaty, trembling—because he kissed back—soft, quick—and it’s big, digging in, messing me up.

The track’s quiet—just crickets, my breathing—and my head’s buzzing—his lips, my snap—replaying, making me jumpy. My chest’s tight, my face hot, and my legs wobble—dumb, weak—because he’s gone—close, still—but I kissed him, and he said yes, kind of, and it’s steamy, pulling me in. My heart’s pounding, wild and fast, and my gut twists, warm and scared, because it’s love—real, raw—and I’m falling, deep, terrified but alive, needing him back.

I slump on the fence—slow, shaky—my hands gripping the wood, cold and rough. My chest aches, steamy and fast, and my breath shakes, because he’s out there—stunned, wanting—and it’s us—flirty, real—hitting me deep. My phone’s in my pocket, heavy, buzzing yesterday with “He’s healing for you,” and my gut flips, 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 glows—a soft flicker, low and warm, from the track lights above me. My head snaps up, heart jumping, and my eyes squint—bulbs blinking, slow and flirty, pulsing soft in the dusk. My gut twists, warm and steamy, and my hands grip tighter—sweaty, shaky—because it’s off—too perfect, too alive—like yesterday, that hum, that warmth. My breath catches, stuck in my throat, and I grin—small, dumb—because it’s them—those texts, that tease—but it’s sweet, wrapping me close. My phone buzzes, sudden and soft, making me flinch.

I yank it out, hands trembling—unknown number, one line: “He’s tasting you still.” My chest flutters, hot and wild, and my eyes flick to the track—Mateo’s steps fading, but his heat’s in me, pulling tight. My heart slams, loud and fast, and my breath shakes, steamy and alive, because it’s us—here, now—flirty and real, caught in the glow. The lights pulse—slow, hot—dancing over the dirt, and my gut twists, warm and wild, because it’s him—close, always—and I’m shaking, waiting, with something soft and steamy flickering in the air.