Page 47 of Stop and Seek (Our Childish Games #1)

The air still smelled like cum and sweat.

Like copper. Like Noah.

Theo hadn’t budged, socks sliding uselessly against the carpet. His thighs ached with a raw, used feeling. His lower back throbbed. Everything on him— in him—felt tacky, slick in the worst way. God, his insides stung.

It felt good.

It felt real.

And it didn’t matter.

There wasn’t brain fog this time. No lazy, syrupy-glow around the edges. He wasn’t floating up on cloud nine.

He was alive . Strung out on adrenaline.

“I’m moving,” Noah whispered after another minute, hoarse and gravelly in the way Theo loved. “Swear to shit, I’m moving. Right now.”

Theo snorted. “Finally. I think my hip’s asleep.”

The sheets rustled as Noah rolled onto his back and pulled his shorts up.

“ Hey . Who did all the work?”

“I’d like to think it was equal opportunity. ”

“Alright, baby,” Noah said. He got up, tossed over a fistful of tissues and a shirt big enough to smother a person.

Tugging off the damn, green, monstrosity, Theo slipped the new one over his head. Noah’s shirt. Hanging off him. The V-neck dipped low enough to expose the scar tissue on his chest. The sleeves didn’t hide anything .

Maybe he could use it as a flotation device.

He glanced up. “Can I keep it?”

And Noah lit up like someone told him he’d won the lottery. That giant-ass grin cracked across his face and Theo couldn’t help but smile back, even if it felt crooked. Even if something inside him was still burning, twisting itself into knots.

“Yeah—yeah!” Noah laughed. “Of course.”

Theo wrestled his pants up, stood, and—

Ow.

His damn knees popped and every step to the bathroom pulled at the soreness deep in his muscles. He flipped on the light.

Too bright.

He squinted at himself. Shadows under his eyes. A strip of torn skin along his lip where Noah’s teeth hit. He gripped the edge of the sink, hands trembling.

This is what you wanted.

This is what you’ve been too fucking scared to admit.

The frame creaked when Noah leaned against it.

“You sure you wanna do this?” he asked.

Inhale.

Exhale.

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Theo nodded once. “We’re going. ”

Whether he was talking to his reflection or Noah—he didn’t know. But they had to. Or else his mind was going to catch up and start spinning in the right direction.

He had to get started before reality hit harder than his fantasies.

Akron should’ve been farther away.

By all accounts, it should have .

If it took forty-five minutes to get to Cleveland, it should’ve taken at least an hour and a half to get to Akron.

That was how math worked.

It took fifty .

Fifty minutes that evaporated into nothingness. Theo looked out the window and there wasn’t a highway anymore. There were sidewalks and strollers and some kid riding a scooter past a mural that had probably been done for Pride.

The sun was still up .

Birds chirped like this was some wholesome late evening errand. The scent of fried chicken grease curled into the open car window. People were walking dogs. A woman crossed the street with a toddler in tow.

Nothing about the world looked like it was about to break open .

Noah pulled the car around the back of an apartment complex, tires too quite on gravel. He parked in the shade between an overhanging tree and a dumpster reeking of old meat.

His hand landed on Theo’s thigh.

And for a second— just one—Theo thought he’d say it.

Thought he’d ask: Do you really want to do this?

End-game shit right there.

Theo would’ve folded. Would’ve said, You go. I’ll wait here. Would’ve let the fear win. Let himself be the one left behind, warm and clean in the passenger seat while blood got on someone else’s hands.

But Noah didn’t ask.

“Gloves, baby,” he said instead. “I wasn’t kidding about the Sterlings. I don’t want you involved.”

Theo nodded, throat tight.

His fingers trembled as he reached for the gloves. The latex snapped against his wrists when he tugged them on, meshing with the sweat on his palms. His hands looked wrong in them—too pale, too thin, like he was playing dress-up in someone else’s fantasy.

You can do this.

You’ve already decided.

You want this.

His heart knocked against his ribs. There was no going back now, right? He’d already come this far. Already confessed things no one should confess, already imagined worse. Already come apart at the idea of it.

He wanted this.

God, he had to want this .

Out of the car, the trunk creaked open behind him.

Theo turned. The late sun flared across the back bumper, casting long shadows down the gravel lot. Noah stood there, looking more like someone’s lost frat buddy with a flat than the guy about to help him kill a person.

Kill a person.

Noah lifted the floor panel: spare tire, tire iron.

Crowbar. Clean and simple. New. Gleaming like it knew Theo’s goddamn name.

“Is it still speaking to you?” Noah asked with an easy laugh.

There was a distant lawnmower buzzing somewhere, too cheerful. Kids screeched behind him, water splashing from a pool.

Theo took the crowbar in both hands. Heavy. Comforting. The weight of it grounded him.

He didn’t let himself think. Not too hard. He shoved it down the leg of his pants, handle wedged awkwardly, over-sized shirt enough cover the bulge. It chafed when he bent his knee. It wasn’t comfortable.

Noah shut the trunk with a quiet thunk .

Theo stood there for a second longer, staring at the asphalt. His heart was still racing, but it didn’t feel like panic now. It was sharper than that. A buzz on his tongue. A twitch behind his eyes.

He flexed his fingers inside the gloves.

Point of no return.

Let’s fucking go.

The walk up the stairs was slow and sticky. Surreal as hell. Each step vibrated up Theo’s spine. The crowbar shifted against his leg, tapping bone, reminding him it was there. The gloves made his hands sweat worse.

He was going to pass out. Or throw up. Or come again—any or all three options. Maybe. He couldn’t tell.

Noah knocked.

Two hard raps. Like he was showing up for game night.

“Relax,” he whispered over his shoulder, grinning. “This is the easy part.”

Theo couldn’t answer. His mouth was too dry. His tongue sat thick and useless behind his teeth. All the blood in his body was trying to be in his hands. In his thighs. He kept thinking about how it would feel when the crowbar came out of his pants—how it would sound.

Inside, there were footsteps. Then a pause.

Theo’s chest burned.

“Hey,” Noah called. “Andrew? Sorry to bother you, man, I just—uh, I think we have a mutual friend. You got a minute?”

The door creaked open.

Theo didn’t look up at first. He was too busy counting his own heartbeats. Too fast, too fast. He lost track. Restarted.

But then he did look up—and there was Andrew .

Exactly the same as on the camera feed. No latte this time. Banana in his hand. His hair looked longer up close.

He stared at Noah before his gaze landed on Theo, and Theo watched the recognition bloom on his face.

“It’s been a minute,” Andrew said. Smiling.

Why the fuck was he smiling?

His mouth kept moving, but the words went in one ear and out the other.

College. Called. Texts.

Jagger.

Then the door was opening wider, and Andrew was ushering them in.

Theo could feel his pulse in his fingertips now. The crowbar pressed harder against his leg. He swore he could feel the phantom weight of it in his hands , already red. Every muscle in his body was ready to snap tight.

Noah glanced back at Theo. His eyes softened. Checking in.

Theo stopped breathing. All he could do was nod.

He followed them inside.

The apartment smelled almost exactly like he remembered. Exactly like his own place did most days. Coffee and weed. Candle burning, thick and cloying, beside the flat-screen television .

Noah kept the conversation going, like they were all old college buddies.

Like they were all normal fucking friends.

“This place is nice,” Noah said. “You a big Steelers fan? Where’s your Ohio pride, man?”

Andrew laughed and shut the door behind them. “I like what I like. Bengals haven’t done well since the eighties and I hate the Browns.”

Every sound in the room stretched thin. The door clicking shut. The rustle of Noah’s shiny basketball shorts. Andrew’s bare feet sticking to the linoleum.

The crowbar. He kept thinking about the crowbar.

How it would feel to pull it out. The way it would catch on the waistband of his khakis. The heat of the handle against his palm. The weight of it. The ache it would make in his shoulder when he lifted it high.

Andrew turned around, banana still in hand, and gestured toward the couch. “You guys want anything? Water, soda—”

Theo's hearing decided to take a fucking break from reality. There was a humming in his ears, something sharp and low.

Noah sat on the edge of the couch, elbows on his knees, nodding along. He didn’t look back again. He’d already given Theo the softest little okay in the hallway, like, I’ve got you, whatever you decide.

And Theo?

Theo decided.

His whole body leaned forward, like gravity had shifted. His hand twitched at his side, already moving before his brain caught up .

Now.

Right fucking now.

Don’t you dare chicken out.

Pulling the crowbar out of his pants wasn’t like the movies. It stuck for half a second, caught on the fabric, then came loose and took half the skin off his thigh with it. He had just enough time to register how badly that hurt before his body moved.

He swung.

There was no thought. No hesitation. Just instinct and some deep, red-hot command firing in the back of his brain.

The crack was louder than he imagined. Sickening. Horrifying. The sound echoed through the room and inside his own skull, like it had hit him , too. It vibrated up through the steel and into his elbows, shoulders, spine.

Then—silence.

Pure, unnatural quiet.

The buzzing in his ears died in an instant. The world flattened. Everything felt hollow and slow. He could hear the exact sound of his own breath catching in his throat, the faint rattle of metal in his grip, the soft thud of Andrew’s body hitting the ground.

It was… peaceful. Eerie as shit.

His arms stopped shaking. His mind, always restless, always digging at the edges of itself, finally stopped . The doubt, the hesitation—all of it shriveled up and disappeared like it’d never been real.

Andrew was sprawled on the floor. Banana halfway across the living room. Limbs bent wrong. His head tilted sideways, and blood— dark and wet, honey-like—slid down his temple, over the curve of his ear. It smeared across the carpet .

Theo stood there, frozen.

Was that it?

Was it already over?

All that pressure inside him, that relentless, gnawing need—and it was gone in an instant? Just like that?

His grip loosened. The crowbar almost slipped from his hand. Until—

Andrew blinked.

Theo blinked back.

Once. Twice.

No.

No, that wasn’t it. It wasn’t over. Not yet.

Adrenaline surged through his limbs, and suddenly his body was moving . Swinging again. And again. And again.

The second hit was wetter. Softer. The third cracked something else—the floor, maybe bone—he couldn’t tell.

By the fourth, his whole body screamed with effort.

His arms burned. His shoulders locked. Blood slicked the gloves, made the handle slippery, but he kept going.

Kept slamming the crowbar down until he couldn’t even feel his fingers anymore.

The world turned into jerking frames of motion—up, down, red, black, blur—

Arms. Around his middle. Tight.

Noah.

Noah pulling him back.

“Baby—baby— stop ,” Noah whispered, voice soft. He pressed kisses into the back of Theo’s head. “You can stop. There’s nothing left.”

Theo’s arms dropped .

He was shaking, soaked in sweat, but freezing.

Everything looked red. The floor, the walls, the gloves. The lenses of his glasses were tinted with blood. It filtered the world, turned everything wrong, dreamlike. He touched them, dumbly, and his fingers came away sticky. Wet.

He went to wipe the glasses on his shirt—and the crowbar slipped from his grip, clattered to the ground with a dull thunk .

He jumped.

Hard.

“You’re okay,” Noah murmured. “I have you.”

Was he?

This wasn’t what he expected .

He wasn’t jittery and rabid.

He was still . For the first time in what felt like years.

He bit his lip until it almost bled just to keep his teeth from chattering. He was trembling all over, but not from panic.

It was release.

Like someone had reached inside his ribcage and twisted, yanked something loose, and suddenly there was space . He could breathe again. Could think .

“C’mon, Theo,” Noah whispered, breath hot against his ear. “Don’t go mute on me. I don’t know sign language.”

“Y-yeah. Sorry. I’m—” Theo stopped. Words felt impossible, but he finally choked them out. “I’m good.”

Good didn’t even touch it.

Good was a word people threw around when things were just okay. When the day went by and he hadn’t decided to off himself. When he remembered to buy coffee and run the dishwasher.

This wasn’t good .

He was lightheaded and raw, but he’d never felt more himself .

Better than sex. Better than drugs.

He felt fucking amazing.

Noah’s arms stayed around him—strong and steady. Theo leaned into it, resting his weight there, breathing him in. Everything smelled like blood and cologne, citrus and death—but for the first time, he didn’t care . He didn’t recoil. It was just another scent in the room, something familiar.

The world outside didn’t matter. The cops didn’t matter. Consequences could go fuck themselves.

He was safe. He was wanted.

Noah wasn’t going anywhere.

This wasn’t the life he’d ever imagined for himself.

But it was exactly what he’d been chasing.