Page 38 of Stop and Seek (Our Childish Games #1)
The door slammed shut behind him. Final. Hard. Noah slammed it again just to feel something.
It didn’t help.
He was stuck in this damn hotel room, keys in one hand, phone in the other, and his heart completely fucking shattered somewhere back in Theo’s apartment.
It was too quiet. The AC unit hummed steady in the wall, fake calm. Peaceful in that creepy, waiting-for-a-jumpscare kind of way. The light over the bed flickered like it was debating on dying, then didn’t.
His chest hurt. There was a goddamn piano wire wrapped around his ribs, yanking tighter every time he even thought about Theo. Which was constant.
He looked down at his hands. He was still holding his phone like an idiot. Still waiting for something—anything.
No messages. No read receipt. No sexy typing dots. Nothing.
He chucked the phone across the room without thinking. It hit the picture—shattered the glass—and slid onto the floor with a thunk .
Not satisfying enough. Not even a little .
Noah shoved his fists into his temples and started pacing like an animal.
Okay, okay, think. Where did I fuck it up?
Had he looked too happy ? Was the breakfast one step too far ? Everyone liked eggs, right? Theo had four cups of coffee, which meant he did that right.
Fuck. He hadn’t even kissed him—he’d barely touched him. Just a little nudge of their ankles. A smile. That’s it. Theo was the one who clung onto him earlier.
And now Noah was here. Alone. In a fucking Hyatt Regency with white goddamn walls and a space in his chest where Theo used to be.
He stopped pacing, muscles twitching. He didn’t think—he moved. His fist slammed into the wall beside the TV with a loud, dry crack . Plaster crumbled around his knuckles. A hole bloomed there, jagged and ugly, and it felt good .
Finally.
Blood smeared across the paint. His skin stung. He didn’t care.
Bending over, he yanked the phone from the floor. Scratched to shit, but it worked.
Noah
Please. Baby. Talk to me.
Nothing.
I want to help. Please, let me help you.
Still nothing.
Jesus, this wasn’t how it was supposed to go. This wasn’t what it felt like last night, or this morning. Theo had smiled at him, high and cute, a little deranged but still cute. He’d begged Noah to fuck him. Theo let him stay over.
That meant something. Noah wasn’t crazy. It meant something.
Noah dropped onto the edge of the bed like gravity just... gave up on him. His elbows hit his knees, hands over his face. The sheets smelled like industrial detergent. Chemical-clean. Heartless.
But his shirt—
Coconut.
Theo.
Goddammit.
His throat closed up.
Theo had asked him to leave. Quietly. No big deal. Not as if it wrecked Noah on the spot or anything.
And of course Noah left. Because Theo asked. And when Theo asked for something, Noah did it . No hesitation. No argument.
Because he loved him.
Because he couldn’t breathe when Theo looked at him like he might actually be something worth loving back.
He curled in on himself, forehead pressed to his knees, fists clenched; if he held tight enough, he could keep all his feelings inside.
Noah didn’t want space . He didn’t want air or time or whatever-the-fuck people always said you needed after a fight. He wanted to go back, drop onto his knees and ask for forgiveness until Theo came around.
He shot up. Couldn’t sit still.
That flicker of fear on Theo’s face played on repeat, stabbing him over and over. Like Noah had messed everything up just by loving him too much . Just by being there .
Maybe he was too much. Too clingy. Too loud. But he wasn’t gonna apologize for it. He wasn’t gonna pretend this wasn’t exactly what he wanted. That Theo wasn’t the most perfect thing he’d ever seen. Messed up, yeah. But who the hell wasn’t?
Wandering into the bathroom, he flicked on the light. Harsh and white and buzzing like it hated him. He looked at himself in the mirror and winced.
No sleep did something to a person. Crazy hair. Puffy eyes. The veins on his neck looked close to popping. Blood still trailing from the knuckles on his right hand.
He looked like someone who just got left.
“I scare him,” he whispered, staring at the smear of red on the porcelain sink.
It made sense, in a fucked up kind of way. Theo didn’t get loved like that. He didn’t get treated gently. Or intensely. Or right. Not according to what Noah had heard. People used him. They took and left him hanging.
But Noah didn’t want anything from him.
He just wanted him .
“Come on,” he muttered, cranking on the cold tap. “Get it together.”
He splashed water on his face, palms pressed into his hot skin.
Don’t fucking cry.
The door opened. Quiet. Lock clicking back into place.
“Good, you’re back,” Max said, breezing past the bathroom.
“We’re leaving tomorrow at seven. Yes, seven in the morning.
I’m just as pissed but it was the only flight they had into Cali— what the hell happened?
” Her voice hit a high note, and Noah heard glass clinking together, then the sound of it hitting the bottom of the empty trash can.
Max’s hand slammed against the bathroom door. “Who do you think pays for the damage to hotel rooms, Noah? Whose card is on file?”
Noah didn’t answer. He stuck his hand under the water, peeling back the broken skin in thin, tiny strips until the sting became too much. Watched the water run pink down the drain.
“Did your tortoise stop being fun?” she asked. “I’m not going to say told you so—”
You just did.
“—but you should’ve left him alone.”
He waited for his heart to stop trying to crawl out of his stomach.
“I’m not going to Venice.”
“Excuse me?”
Noah shut off the water. Grabbed the towel. Turned to face her.
“I’m not going to Venice,” he repeated, like she hadn’t heard him.
“We had plans—”
“I’m not going, Max.”
She crossed her arms over her chest, lips pressed into a thin, tight line. “You’re blowing me off for a guy.”
Fighting wasn’t going to fix the problem.
Noah wanted to go home. Even if it was Theo’s too-small apartment with the soft mattress and the blood stain on the carpet. That was home now. Because he was. And Noah would wait outside Apartment B for the rest of his life if Theo asked him to.
Max popped her gum.
“I can’t wrestle your tall ass onto the plane,” she muttered after a minute. “Fine. You wanna stay in bumfuck Ohio? Be my guest.”
She turned, headed back toward the bedroom. He heard the latch on her suitcase snap open.
“If we end up with a job—” she called back, but he already knew what she was going to say.
“I’ll be there."
Seven days felt like seven years.
Noah didn’t leave the hotel room except to restock the protein shakes or pace the halls like a lunatic.
He hadn’t changed his shirt. Not because he liked how it smelled—though it did still smell faintly like coconut—but because changing it felt like admitting something was over.
That it couldn’t be fixed. He could fix it. He had to fix it.
The one camera in Theo’s bedroom wasn’t doing it for him. Theo would go off screen, come back. Off screen, come back. Over and over.
If Noah hadn’t taken down the one in the living room, he’d have a better view of what was going on.
Theo was there this time. On the mattress. Face turned toward the wall, hair tangled in the back. He hadn’t moved in ten minutes.
Noah watched anyway. He knew the shape of Theo’s hands under the blanket. The worn edges of that sweatshirt he never took off—the black one, sleeves too long, cuffs chewed through until his thumbs poked out.
A can sat on the windowsill. Probably beer, not soda. A plate had been on the floor for two days.
Noah
Checking in. I miss you.
As usual, the dots appeared.
Typing.
Typing.
Typing.
Gone.
It was a knife in his chest every time.
Noah
Do you need groceries? I could leave them outside your door. You wouldn’t have to see me.
Noah watched him roll over, screen reflecting off his glasses.
Then he left the frame.
Noah
Can I call?
There weren’t even dots.
Noah dropped the phone on his stomach and stared at the ceiling like it might split open and give him an answer .
He hated this. This almost-conversation. The way hope kept teasing him. He’d rather Theo beat the shit out of him again. At least that was real . Instead, all he had was the knowledge that he’d screwed up. Somehow.
And he could end the wondering. He had a key. He could be there in forty-five minutes, unlock the door, wrap Theo in his arms, and refuse to let go until they were good again.
But—
But that would probably make things worse. Scare him. Hurt him. Theo needed space, and Noah was trying, goddammit, he was trying to be good. To be what Theo needed . Even if it hurt like hell.
His phone buzzed. Noah sat up so fast the room tilted sideways.
Not from Theo.
A text from Kyran.
Kyran
i was doing sma & someone sent in this
SMA. Show Me Anything . Dumb streams where people donated to get Kyran to react to cursed videos. Noah didn’t care. Didn’t have the energy to watch freaky clowns or spider fetishes or whatever shit Kyran’s followers thought was gross-cool.
Kyran
u told me to tell u if any1 saw stuff
dont shoot the messenger
pls
What the fuck does that mean?
Curiosity was a killer.
He clicked the link.
The video buffered. Loading. Slow. Noah turned up the volume.
A badly lit room with a camera stuck behind some kind of plant, huge plastic leaf obscuring the bottom edge. Amateur porn. The back of some guy came into view: dreads hanging off his shoulders, tribal tattoos covering both arms. He asked something, and Noah almost turned it off again.
Until he heard a voice he recognized.
A voice he heard in his fucking dreams every goddamn night.
“I’ve never—” Theo laughed, soft and awkward. Nervous as hell. “I’ve never done a threesome before. It always looked, uh… complicated.”
Noah slammed pause. His heart detonated . He could feel it in his throat. In his teeth .
No.
Nononono.
Is it recent? Tell me it’s not fucking recent.
He squinted at the date. His vision blurred. Cleared. Blurred again.
Six years ago.
I don’t want to see this.
But—like someone punishing himself for a crime he didn’t commit—he hit play.
Noah couldn’t see either of the other guy’s faces, but Theo was smack dab in the middle of the screen.
Alarm bell number one .
Sitting on a rumpled bed, Theo had both knees drawn close. No shirt.
No scar on his chest.
Alarm bell two.
He wasn’t looking at the camera. Probably didn’t know it was there.
Alarm bell three.
One of the guys—colorful tattoos, not tribal—leaned down, the back of brown hair coming into view for a second, and Theo flinched. Not much. Like someone startled, not scared.
“I dunno, Jag,” Theo said. He took off his glasses, twisted them in his hands. “This feels really fucking weird.”
Noah hated how small his voice sounded. Hated that no one stopped to ask, Hey, are you okay?
Tribal guy sat on the bed, back to the camera. “Relax. You want a blow job to take the edge off?”
Noah closed the entire browser. His hands shook.
Who the fuck was Jag ?
What kind of asshole name was that?
Was that why Theo couldn’t be with him? Because some guy with lame-ass tattoos and an annoying voice fucked everything up? How was that fair—
But then, everything clicked into place.
Theo freaking out about being filmed at the party.
Theo shutting down.
Theo begging for space.
It was this.
This guy.
And for the first time in seven days, Noah felt his pulse steady.
He could fix this.
Collecting people was his job, after all.