Crossing lines (Noah and Aiden) novel Chapter 248

Chapter 248

Aiden

The dream lingered, refusing to fade.

Noah’s warmth pressed intimately against me, his breath gentle and uneven as it brushed my thigh. He moved with a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt both devastating and tender. My fingers tangled in his hair, guiding him softly, while my chest tightened with a strange mixture of relief and yearning. I whispered his name—fragile, reverent—because no one had ever unraveled me the way he did, no touch had ever undone me like his.

I felt myself unravel completely beneath him, my body surrendering, every part of me loosening and opening all at once. I was drowning in the sensation of him, in the intimacy we shared, in the belief that nothing and no one could ever take this away from me again. I clung desperately to the dream, to the sanctuary it offered—this feeling of being wanted, understood, truly known—

Then, suddenly, a harsh light tore through the room.

A sharp, jarring noise.

A soft, unmistakable thud against the door.

The dream shattered.

I blinked open my eyes.

There, standing in the doorway, was Noah. Real. Flesh and blood. My baby was here.

But his face was pale, his eyes wide, unfocused, as if he’d been struck by something invisible but cruel. His breath hitched unevenly in his chest. He looked utterly broken—devastated—as though the very ground beneath him had crumbled and vanished.

I sat up quickly, disoriented, my heart pounding like a drum in my chest.

The room spun around me.

Something warm shifted against my hip.

Only then—in that shattering, splintering moment—did I realize my hand was still tangled in someone’s hair.

Not Noah’s.

Whose was it, then?

The truth slammed into me like a hammer to the skull, to the heart.

It was Micah’s.

He was the one lying beside me.

His lips. His breath. His body.

My stomach plummeted so hard I struggled to breathe.

No.

No, no, no—God, no.

I hadn’t known.

I was asleep.

I thought—I thought it was—

Noah’s face crumbled.

His mouth opened, silent at first—just ragged air escaping—before a single, quiet, wounded sound slipped out, small but enough to break me completely.

He shook his head slowly, in disbelief.

Like he was silently begging the world to undo itself.

“Noah—” My voice cracked, raw and fragile. I was already reaching for him, trying to move, to explain, to speak—but no words could undo what he had seen.

He stepped back.

Tears instantly clouded his eyes, sharp and bright, falling too fast to blink away.

“Don’t,” he whispered.

It sounded like something dying.

He turned away.

“Noah, wait—please—” I stumbled from the bed, the room tilting around me, panic clawing at my ribs. “I didn’t—No, listen, I didn’t know—”

But he was already moving.

Fast.

Violent.

Micah knelt beside me, his presence cautious and hesitant, as if unsure whether to comfort me or vanish altogether.

“Sir… Aiden… please,” he whispered, voice trembling. “I don’t understand. You were… you said…” He swallowed hard, eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I thought you wanted this. I thought—you pulled me closer. I thought you wanted me.”

I looked up at him, really looked, and for the first time truly saw him—not the boy I’d held when he needed someone, not the student who’d leaned on me—but just Micah: kneeling beside me, lost, hurt, ashamed. The realization hit me with brutal clarity.

“I told you to sleep in the guest room,” I said, voice hoarse and barely recognizable. “You disobeyed me.”

Micah flinched, tears spilling over faster.

“I just wanted to be close to you,” he whispered. “You were hurting. And when you pulled me in, when you held me, I thought—Aiden, I thought you wanted me. I thought you were choosing me again.”

My throat burned with the weight of it all.

“I thought it was him,” I admitted quietly. “That’s why.”

Micah’s face crumpled, devastated and small. I pressed on, voice trembling but steady, “I told you nothing would happen away from the stage. I told you there was no us anymore. I told you I wasn’t yours.”

His breath caught sharply.

“You said you two were over,” he said, voice barely holding together. “You said it was done. How was I supposed to know? I thought you still… loved me.”

I didn’t yell. I didn’t accuse. The anger wasn’t loud—it was grief, quiet and crushing. I spoke softly, and it felt worse than shouting.

“I love him.”

Micah closed his eyes, a single tear slipping down his cheek as he nodded slowly, painfully, as if admitting it tore something from deep inside. By then, he was crying quietly, but not loudly.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I didn’t mean to hurt him. Or you. I just… thought you and I had a chance.”

He rose carefully, moving as if too much speed might shatter both of us. He dressed without a word—no excuses, no pleas, no anger—only the quiet acceptance of a truth that had always been there.

At the doorway, he paused but didn’t look back.

“I’m so sorry—I love you…” he said softly, his voice breaking on the last word.

Then he was gone.

And I was left alone amid the ruins of a future I had almost dared to believe in. The boy I loved was out there somewhere, hurt and alone, convinced I had betrayed him. And I had to find him. I had to try—no matter the cost.