5' 3"
Ethan headed straight for the Mercy McMachon Retirement Home. Noah wasn't answering his texts or picking up his phone. If Thompson didn't know Morgan as well as he did, he might've assumed that after such a public humiliation, Noah would've locked himself in his apartment, jumped into a cold shower, and cried his eyes out under the water for a century at least. If the post in that anonymous chat had been just as disgusting but targeted only at Morgan, that's probably exactly what would've happened. But this time, Noah wasn't the star of the show. Which meant no tears and no cold showers.
Thomson had barely pulled into the parking lot when his theory got confirmed, because he could already hear Morgan yelling inside the building. Noah apparently decided to give the staff of the retirement home the full, unfiltered experience of his vocal cords. Even Ethan was impressed. That was one hell of a megaphone of rage! With a voice like that, Noah should really consider trying out for opera. Even though the main building was at least forty-five yards away, Ethan could clearly hear every word. So could, most likely, the entire neighborhood.
"ARE YOU FREAKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW?! WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU DON'T KNOW?! HOW THE HELL CAN YOU NOT KNOW?! I DON'T GIVE A DAMN ABOUT YOUR BULLSHIT EXCUSES!!! WHAT ARE YOU EVEN MUMBLING?! WHAT DOES 'IMPOSSIBLE' EVEN MEAN? I'M SHOVING THE GODDAMN EVIDENCE RIGHT IN YOUR FACE—DO YOU SEE IT? DO YOU?! WHO'S GOING TO TAKE RESPONSIBILITY FOR THIS?! WHO DO I HAVE TO CALL?! WHICH FREAKING DEPARTMENT?! I'LL CALL THEM ALL! I'LL CALL EVERY SINGLE DAY UNTIL THIS SHADY-ASS RETIREMENT HOME GETS SHUT DOWN—" Noah's voice, like always when he was really angry, had dropped a tone— it was low, sharp, and now tinged with a rasp that made it sound more intense. That husky edge was the result of sheer volume. He'd clearly been shouting for a while. His voice was starting to crack, but it wasn't slowing him down one bit. He had no intention of stopping.
Ethan, listening to Noah's symphony of righteous anger, had to swallow hard. Probably not the right time to mention just how insanely attractive that voice was.
Pushing that thought firmly out of his head, Thomson headed into the main building and found Morgan looking like he'd walked out of a tornado. The same slightly chubby woman who had mistaken Ethan for Noah's younger brother during their last visit was now pale as a white sheet, mumbling something incoherent while trying to calm Noah down. No luck. Every word that came out of her mouth was making Noah more and more pissed off.
"I KNOW DAMN WELL THIS ISN'T A PRISON!" Noah snapped back in response to yet another excuse. "BUT THAT DOESN'T MEAN JUST ANY RANDOM ASSHOLE CAN WANDER AROUND HERE, DOES IT? OR DOES IT?! AM I TO UNDERSTAND THAT YOU'RE TELLING ME—TO MY FACE—THAT MY GRANDMOTHER ISN'T SAFE HERE?! DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW THAT SOUNDS?! YOUR FACILITY IS THE MOST EXPENSIVE ONE IN ALL OF CALIFORNIA! MY PARENTS PAY A SMALL FORTUNE—FOR WHAT? FOR THIS KIND OF SHIT TO HAPPEN TO A SICK OLD WOMAN?!" It clearly wasn't the first time Noah had shoved his phone screen into this poor woman's face, either. His yelling had already drawn a few big male nurses to the scene. Every soft-voiced plea to 'please lower your voice' only added fuel to the wildfire that was Morgan's righteous fury. The workers were trying to calm Noah down with words for now. It wasn't working. So far, they were sticking to verbal de-escalation. But it was anyone's guess how long that would last. They could finally restrain him or even call the cops on him. Technically, they wouldn't be wrong. Also, their point that this place wasn't a prison was also fair. In fact, there was even a so-called "fake bus stop" installed near the entrance—a trick used in some retirement and memory care facilities for Alzheimer's or dementia patients. People who still clung to long-term memories but couldn't recall what happened five minutes ago would sometimes try to "go home." They'd head for the fake bus stop, where no bus ever came. There was no real science behind it. Some psychiatrists were even against the idea, claiming the no-show bus could make things worse, agitating patients further. Still, more often than not, that's where the staff would find anyone who'd wandered off. So in a way, the receptionist wasn't lying. It wasn't a prison. The staff couldn't watch every single resident 24/7. Patients could sometimes walk away. And it could happen everywhere, no matter how upscale the place was. And if someone could get out, then—well. Should it really be said out loud how likely it was for someone to get in? These places didn't have any serious security. After all, who the hell would want to attack a bunch of old folks?
Well, Morgan's situation with his grandmother had definitely become an ugly exception.
"THIS IS UNACCEPTABLE!" Noah's voice, which had already hit several peaks of eroticism, was quickly approaching its final, devastating crescendo. However, if he continued that way, it might take his vocal cords out for good.
"Hey," said Ethan calmly, appearing by his side. Noah fell silent. His head turned slowly toward Thomson. His face, tight with anger, looked extremely red. The whites of his eyes had red capillaries here and there.
"You need to step outside and get some air," Ethan continued in a calm voice, doing his best not to smirk. Right now, Noah looked like some feral alley cat guarding a fresh kill—one wrong move, and he'd rip the enemy's eyes out. Thomson didn't miss the way the receptionist exhaled, probably for the first time in minutes.
"I don't fucking need your damn fresh air!" Noah hissed, somehow sounding even more feline. All he was missing were the ears pinned back against his head. He was practically vibrating. "I'm not moving a damn inch until somebody explains how the hell they let this happen!" He punctuated his outburst with a not-so-accidental swipe at the reception desk, knocking over a glass vase filled with fake flowers. It shattered instantly; glass was everywhere. The two male nurses tensed up even more. It was definitely time to defuse the situation.
"Apologies, but I'll be sparing you my usual rudeness today," Ethan told the chubby receptionist dryly, already grabbing Noah by the elbow. "He's done all the yelling for both of us. Let's go."
"No!" Noah snapped, yanking his elbow free from Ethan's light grip. What a little shit!
"Rude."
"Screw you."
"That's even more rude."
"Well, excuse me if I'm not in the mood to curtsy to Your Royal Fucking Highness right now!"
Ethan clicked his tongue, annoyed. His lips curled into a dry smile, despite his will. He wasn't used to being talked to like that. Honestly, it was kind of interesting. Morgan had completely lost it. Besides, he didn't just lose his temper but apparently his damn mind too if he thought a few words could make any impact on Ethan Thomson. There was no point in trying to continue this dialogue. So Ethan didn't. Without warning, he ducked under Noah and heaved him off the ground. Morgan let out a grunt as Ethan slung him over his shoulder like a sack of Santa's presents.
"We'll be back," Ethan told the stunned staff as he marched out of the building with Noah still hollering on his back. It took Morgan all of two seconds to snap out of it and start screaming that Ethan needed to put him down right now, that this was a life-or-death situation, that what happened to his grandmother was a goddamn nightmare, the kind of thing only the lowest piece of human garbage could do. Thomson nodded patiently at every outburst, quietly noting that Noah was even lighter than he'd guessed. Maybe his mom was right to be worried about his weight. Should he buy the guy a few boxes of protein bars? Or maybe fill his freezer with pints of Baskin-Robbins ice cream?
Originally, Ethan had planned to haul him to the car, but halfway there he changed his mind and rerouted to the fake bus stop instead. Gently, he set Noah down on the bench.
Noah finally stopped yelling since he was too worn out. Now he just looked miserable and furious. Morgan sat there, panting hard, clenching and loosening his fingers on the edge of the bench. Ethan stood in front of him, ready for another tantrum that could include anything from a dramatic dash back into the building to a pathetic attempt at escape. But Noah didn't move. He just kept breathing like he'd run a marathon and stared at nothing.
"…Sorry I told you to fuck off," he said after a while in a rough voice.
"I'll live," Ethan replied. And since the storm seemed to have passed, he finally allowed himself to sit beside him. Noah's hand trembled slightly as he fished a crumpled pack from his pocket, pulled out a cigarette, and lit it. The rage had blown through, leaving behind a bitter residue of helplessness.
"This is all my fault," he said again, somewhere around the halfway point of the cigarette.
"Don't start."
"Don't start what? Telling the truth?" And just like that, the calm shattered again. "It's my fucking fault! Why the hell did I let it get this far?! What the hell was I waiting for?! What?!"
"And what exactly do you think you should've done instead?" Ethan asked calmly.
"I should've gone to the cops!" Noah shot back, flicking his cigarette straight into the trash can next to the bus stop like he'd been practicing. Then he lit a new one without missing a beat.
Ethan let out a dry, almost pitying laugh.
"And then what?"
"They would've started an investigation, found whoever did it, and made them pay!"
"Oh, sure. Right. That's definitely how that would've gone down," Ethan snorted with sarcasm. Noah shot him a sharp look. He caught the edge in Ethan's voice immediately—he wasn't being cruel, just realistic. Ethan held his gaze for a moment, then gave a more measured answer.
"As much as I hate to admit it, the executive system's a mess, Noah," he said, more gently now. He reached over and brushed one of those wild curls out of Noah's eyes, tucking it behind his ear. "California's got one of the highest crime rates in the country. And our clearance rates? They're dropping every year. They don't have enough people. The precincts are hanging on by a thread. Public pressure is also stressing the system like a damn earthquake. Cartels are spreading like weeds. And domestic abuse just keeps evolving with new methods and new victims. Do you think you could've walked into a precinct, filed a report, and by morning they'd have a whole task force kicking down doors on your behalf? Hell no. They'd dump your case on some overworked detective already drowning in a dozen higher-priority files. Yeah, bullying laws exist here. On paper. They were written for school kids. Schools are legally required to run anti-bullying programs and follow up on incidents. But even that law's still new—it's clunky, slow, and full of loopholes. Do you know when the first anti-bullying law was passed in Georgia after two high school students in Colorado brought guns and homemade bombs into their school? That's what it took—kids dying. And even after that... Do you really think bullying just vanished? Do you still think that the police can really solve all the problems?"
"I don't."
"Neither do I. Besides, according to the law, you're already too old to qualify for any kind of state-mandated protection from public harassment. Going to the cops has no point now; they'll toss your case in a pile and forget about it. You'll be lucky if it even sees daylight in the next three years. What would actually help is filing a civil suit—defamation, emotional distress, that kind of thing. Sounds reasonable, right?"
"Go on," Noah muttered. "Let's hear the damn BUT."
"BUT," Ethan exhaled, "do you know what the numbers say about cases like that? Because I do. And they suck. If you're just some average guy from an average family, no one's going to go to war for you. If you don't have a decent lawyer, the judges can turn their backs against you. And decent lawyers? They cost. A lot. That's not something you can just ignore. If it were that easy, the courts would be running twenty-four seven. But they're not. Because none of it's easy." Ethan let the silence hang for a moment and watched Noah's reaction. Morgan was finishing his second cigarette, now just rolling the butt between his fingers. His eyes were locked on some point in the distance. The sky had gone darker, looking heavy with clouds. It was about to start raining. Ethan frowned—he should've brought an umbrella. "I'm not saying your case is hopeless," he added, seeing the tension still crackling in Noah's posture. Morgan lit a third cigarette with the kind of restless energy that asked the question Ethan had just answered: 'Then what are you saying?' "I'm saying this isn't on you. You didn't do anything wrong. We both know why you didn't act sooner. Millions of people don't do anything due to the same reason. When you're in a shitty, overwhelming situation, you freeze. That's what people do. Let me guess, you told yourself it would pass. That it'd blow over, that it would all go away on its own. And then…you just got used to it."
"Not like I got used to it…" Noah mumbled quietly.
"You accepted it," Ethan corrected himself.
"Yeah. Accepted," Noah agreed. "And look where that got me!" Morgan didn't want to calm down, unwilling to accept that what had happened to his grandmother wasn't somehow his fault. "God, I'm pathetic! Why?! Why the hell did I grow up to be such a goddamn coward?!"
"No. Stop that. You're not a coward," Ethan said firmly. "What you are missing is some kind of built-in defense reflex. You process how serious things are, but only when they're happening to other people. And when they do, you step up. You go all in for someone else in a way you'd never do for yourself. Even now—"
"Now I am ready to fight," Noah cut in. "What did you say earlier? Civil suit? If I go through with this, will you be my lawyer?"
"No," Noah looked completely serious, so Ethan gave him the truth without sugarcoating it.
Noah frowned.
"I can't practice law until I get my license," Ethan explained. "If I try to act as your legal rep now, I could end up with a criminal charge myself."
"But you said…"
"I was flirting."
Noah shrank back a little. He was turning a fourth cigarette between his fingers but didn't light it.
"So you're actually serious about going after your mystery enemy?" Ethan asked.
"I want them dead," Noah snapped, the words bursting out with so much venom that Ethan swallowed hard.
"There should be some balance in our relationship, Morgan," Ethan said, doing his best to ignore the fact that Noah somehow became ten times more attractive when he was furious. "You're absolute kindness. I'm no-compromise justice. We can't switch places. You could probably handle justice. But me? Kindness isn't my thing at all," he added with a crooked smile. "Let's think about something else instead—why did they take action now? For two years, they stuck to messages and pictures. Two years of going in circles. And that anonymous chat? It wasn't just about you. I scrolled back almost seven months. There were no posts at all during summer break. But before that, along with the insults aimed at you, there were other messages for different victims. None of them got more than one or two posts. But they were there like a cover. Like your detractor was trying to hide how obsessed they really were. Even at the start of this school year, there were still occasional posts about other people. For the first few weeks… then, suddenly, nothing but you. Full fixation. So the real question is, what happened two weeks into the school year?"
"I started talking to you," Noah exhaled quietly.
"Exactly. That's when they panicked and decided to drive me away. That's why they started posting about both of us, hoping I'd be scared off by the gossip."
"Yeah."
"And when that didn't work, they lost their temper and dumped your number online."
"Yeah."
"They're impulsive. They don't always think their moves through. We're dealing with someone emotional and unstable. Do you know anyone like that?"
"I do," Noah said, nodding. "Me. That sounds like me."
"No. Your mind's in the right place. And you're way too kind to fall to the kind of cruelty this guy is capable of," Ethan said firmly, serious now. "Dumping your number didn't shake you nearly as much as they hoped. So they decided to take things more seriously. They brought in total strangers into this. They found a group devoted to me, then turned them against you. That chat is flooded with messages—about you, and only you. At this point, hyperfixation is no surprise for us any longer."
"Yeah."
"However, they're getting sloppy. And now—this," Ethan said, tapping the photo displayed on the phone screen. "I'm sure of it. This person took this picture themselves. If they used to act from the shadows, now they're getting directly involved. Desperate. They'll do anything just to hurt you. But why?" Ethan was still watching Morgan closely, hoping for a flicker of insight. Some tiny sign that something had clicked. But it didn't come. Noah kept staring into the distance; his face was motionless, blank. Only the smoke from his fourth cigarette moved, curling silently into the thickening air.
"I don't know."
He really didn't.
"And that probably pisses them off," Ethan murmured, narrowing his eyes in thought.
"What are you trying to say?" Noah flinched, dragging on his cigarette so hard that for a second, Ethan thought he might just inhale the whole thing in one breath.
"What if they're acting like one of those serial killers who leave clues with every victim? Sure, vanity plays a role: they want fame, need the world to know these atrocities are their work. But there's another theory, too. That deep down, some of them want to be understood."
"Do you think that this person, deep down, wants to be understood?"
"Maybe they want you to understand. To figure out why they're doing all this. Maybe that's part of it. Either way, this guy's sick. Two years of stalking? That's textbook psychological instability," Thomson said, tapping a finger against his temple.
"That doesn't make me feel any better," Noah muttered anxiously. "If they broke into Grandma's place for a goddamn photo, what's going to stop them from doing something worse tomorrow?"
"I don't think anything worse will happen. They're not likely to take the same risk twice—especially knowing the facility's now under a microscope. The only reason they would've done it in the first place is sheer desperation."
"Or to cover the tracks," Morgan said quietly, studying the photo more closely. "How long do places like that keep their surveillance footage?"
Ethan frowned. That question wasn't leading anywhere good.
"Depends, but usually two to four weeks' worth."
"Shit…"
"Did you notice something?"
"EVEN HERE THEY'RE TWO STEPS AHEAD OF US!" Morgan suddenly exploded, jumped up from the bench, and violently started kicking the nearby trash can—the same one he'd been using for cigarette butts. The bus stop might have been fake, but the trash can beside it was clearly doing its job. Candy wrappers, cigarette ends, and a few empty glass Coke bottles clattered onto the pavement. One of the bottles shattered. Morgan didn't stop. He kept kicking, hammering at the metal bin with vicious, unrelenting force. Ethan watched in silence, not interfering in the outburst of destruction. Only when Noah finally stomped back to the bench did Ethan let out a long breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
"Property damage—another violation…never mind," Ethan cut himself off as soon as he caught the extremely unimpressed look on Noah's face. "So, what did you see?"
Noah let out a heavy sigh, turned the photo toward Ethan, and tapped the visible edge of an easel caught in the frame.
"Do you see the sketch of the painting?"
"So?"
"Grandma was working on that in late May. It's long since finished. The damn thing's hanging in her room."
Ethan nearly said 'smart,' but held his tongue.
"They're always several steps ahead."
"Freaking psycho!"
"It's like they predicted the steps we're taking now… years ago."
"I know, Ethan! I know!! Goddamn dungeon master!" Noah flailed his arms dramatically.
"We're still asking about the surveillance footage."
"Yeah."
"And we'll go through the visitor logs from May."
"What for? They wouldn't have used their real name. You don't actually think we'll recognize them from the handwriting or something."
"I don't. But we're checking anyway."
Ethan stood up from the bench and headed back toward the main building of the nursing home. Noah started to follow him but suddenly cursed under his breath, turned back around, picked up the trash can, and began cleaning up the garbage.
"That rebel soul of yours didn't last long," Ethan commented, crouching down beside him and helping to clean up.
"Shut up," Noah grumbled. "I'm not a pig. Ouch—" He dropped one of the shards that cut his finger open. Instinctively, he raised it to his mouth, but Ethan caught his wrist mid-motion.
"It's dirty!" Ethan hissed, already digging through the pockets of his hoodie like a man on a mission. They had to return to the bus stop. Focused like a surgeon, Ethan wiped Noah's bleeding finger with antiseptic wipes, then put on a Bandaid.
"I don't even want to think about the kind of stuff you keep in those big poketses," Noah joked.
"In my what?"
"Are you trying to say that you've never seen The Hobbit?" Noah asked, incredulous.
"Never."
"Lord of the Rings?"
"No."
"Star Trek?"
"No."
"Star Wars?"
"…no."
"WE HAVE TO WATCH ALL OF THEM! ASAP! COME ON, Ethan, that's like—this is classic stuff!"
"…oh no."
"Oh yes!"
Honestly, Ethan was about to admit that those kinds of movies weren't really his thing. He was more into psychological thrillers that usually leave you wanting to slit your wrists after the credits rolled or criminal movies like The Gentlemen or The Boondock Saints. Adventure, fantasy, and sci-fi movies just weren't the same stuff for Ethan. But Noah looked so excited, so Ethan figured he'd just use the movie marathons as an excuse to fall asleep on Noah's lap—or better, to shamelessly sabotage each movie session with strategic flirting.
Before Ethan could even finish bandaging Noah's finger, the guy jumped up again and ran back to the trash can, insisting he hadn't cleaned everything up. With an exasperated sigh, Ethan sat him back down on the bench and picked up the remaining garbage himself.
"Happy now?" he asked, gesturing at his work. Noah nodded, and without needing to say anything else, they headed together back to the main building of the care home.
Just like Ethan had predicted, the security footage only went back a month. Everything older had been deleted automatically. As for the guest log, at first the staff refused to hand it over, mumbling something about not being sure whether they were even allowed to. Apparently, no one had ever made a request like that before. Ethan opened his mouth to quote them the legal code that said yes, they absolutely could hand it over—but Noah was faster by screaming so loudly the windows practically shook. And he wasn't shouting anything pleasant either. A few especially savage lines were clearly lifted from 'The Devil's Eye,' and Ethan had a feeling Noah would probably regret that later. But right now? Right now they worked like a charm: not only did the staff hand over the guest book—they even let them photograph all the entries for May. Ethan decided not to mention that the stalker could've gotten in without ever going through the front hall, just by hopping over the low garden fence. There was no need to rattle Noah even more than he already was.
"How soon is Duncan getting discharged?" Morgan asked, still angry, as they stepped outside. Ethan had suggested they drop by his grandmother's room before leaving, but it turned out Noah had already done that. First, he'd made sure she was doing fine—and then he proceeded to test the capacity of the staff's hearing.
"It'll take a few months for a full recovery. But knowing Duncan, he'll be back on his feet in a couple of weeks."
"A couple of weeks…" Noah started nervously biting on the thumbnail of his right hand. "That's a long time."
"Considering the extent of his injuries, it's actually insanely fast," Ethan said, not agreeing.
"I mean, I was planning to finally accept your offer and ask Duncan to help track down the bastard who's been messing with me. It would've probably taken him a couple of days, tops," Noah exhaled with a bitter laugh. "God, why didn't I just listen to you? Why am I such a moron?"
"You're not a moron," Ethan said, holding the passenger door open for him. Morgan muttered a quiet "Thanks" and dropped into the seat like he belonged there. "And Duncan's not the only one who knows how to dig up dirt," Thomson added and slid behind the wheel.
"Who else?"
Ethan raised an eyebrow. Seriously? Not even a guess?
"Well—for one, me. I might not be as fast as Duncan, but I know my way around a few sources."
"You… really?"
"Yeah."
"Then I'd be… I'd be incredibly grateful."
"There are three things we need to get straight before I go poking around in anyone's dirty laundry," Ethan warned, making it clear Noah looked too happy too soon. "Number one—" He held up a closed fist, then unfolded his index finger. "I do things my way. When I want, how I want."
"Go for it," Noah agreed without hesitation.
"Do you realize what that means?"
"I'm giving you full rein, and I have no right to criticize your methods."
"Excellent summary," Ethan nodded. "Are you sure you're okay with that?"
"I'm sure."
"What if I beat someone up again?"
"You can go ahead and burn the whole damn city to the ground, I don't care…" Noah muttered darkly. Ethan didn't like where his mood was heading. Something about Morgan was off—restless and brittle, like he was on the verge of snapping.
"Number two," Ethan continued, raising his middle finger alongside the index. "I'm not giving you status updates. I'll only share what I find when I'm absolutely sure it's valid. Until then, don't ask me anything like, 'Who is it? When will you know? What's taking you so long?'"
Noah nodded again.
"Number three," he added his thumb to the count, "nobody can know I'm digging around. And by 'nobody,' I mean—"
"Literally nobody," Noah finished for him. "Yeah. Got it. I won't say a word."
"Good," Thomson nodded. "One more thing… I don't want to freak you out, but your little stalker's going all in. And if he just burned the ace he's been saving for a worst-case scenario, that means he's out of cards. Which also means if we poke the hornet's nest again, he'll come up with something new. Probably nastier. So we need to stay sharp."
"Again? How the hell did I provoke him in the first place?!" Noah blurted out.
"You really haven't figured it out?" Ethan leaned a little closer. "He reacts to your happiness."
Something flickered across Morgan's face—like he'd just been gut-punched and was trying not to show it.
"I'll never smile again," he almost whispered.
"Don't say stupid shit. That's exactly what he wants. You can keep smiling all you want. Just don't be alone. From now on I'm going to drop you off and pick you up from campus. During lectures, stick close to your classmates. Whatever you do, don't wander off by yourself. Deal?"
"Deal," Noah nodded, thumbing distractedly through his phone. "Speaking of being alone. Andrea and Scott said they might stop by tonight. Are you cool with that?"
"Why wouldn't I be?"
"I don't know… I just get the feeling you don't really like my friends."
"That's true," Ethan admitted. "But that's my issue, not yours. Do you really think I'd try to come between you and people who've had your back for years just because they're not my favorite?"
"I've seen couples do exactly that," Noah mumbled under his breath.
"Glad to see you're not dating a complete idiot this time," Ethan snorted and started the car.
5' 8"-5' 9"
Andrea told Noah to order some pizza and promised to bring wine. Morgan was half-lying on his bed, staring blankly at the local pizzeria's menu for a good twenty minutes before he gave up entirely. Even something as simple as choosing a pizza felt physically painful right now.
"Ethan, could you order it for me?" Noah handed him the phone, silently praying he wouldn't get tons of questions like, 'Do you want chicken or beef? Extra cheese or light? Thick crust or thin'? Thankfully, Ethan met his expectations and did the order without a word. Noah didn't realize the scale of his mistake until the delivery showed up.
"Ethan, why did you order ten pizzas?! THERE ARE FOUR OF US! FOUR, ETHAN!"
Thomson just shrugged, completely unbothered.
"Well, I didn't know what you and your friends would prefer. Meat or vegan? Do you like anchovies, or do you hate them? Do you prefer your food spicy or not?"
"You could've just asked me!"
"I was trying to give you a break. Don't worry, I paid with my card," he added.
"I'm not worried about the money! I'm worried about the amount of food!" Morgan huffed, stacking the pizza boxes into a leaning tower on the kitchen table.
"We'll get through it in a couple of days," Ethan said reassuringly.
"Tomorrow it won't even taste good anymore."
"I strongly disagree. Leftover pizza the next morning is the best kind of pizza," Ethan answered. That argument could've gone on and on, but it was cut short by Andrea and Scott's arrival. Andrea took one look at the pizza tower and declared that Noah's mental state was even worse than she'd thought. Scott, meanwhile, placed four bottles of red wine onto the table.
"I only realized after I bought them that I'm not supposed to drink right now," Andrea said with a sigh, staring longingly at the wine. "While I'm on my meds. So… four bottles for three of you."
"For two," Ethan cut in. "I don't drink either."
"Ah, antidepressants?" Andrea asked, nodding in sympathy.
"N—no. I just don't drink," Ethan answered, a bit flustered.
"At all?" Andrea gasped, clutching her chest in mock horror.
"Completely."
"By choice?!"
"Of course."
Scott and Noah exchanged a look, then turned their eyes to the bottles.
"But we're drinking, right?" Scott checked with Morgan, just in case.
"Sure thing, it isn't negotiable!"
They ended up sitting on the floor in front of the bed, surrounded by pizza boxes, wine, and paper plates right on the carpet. Fluffy made himself comfortable on the windowsill as far from the noise as possible while still keeping an eye on everyone. Peanut was circling the group, trying to snatch a slice of salami or a piece of chicken. Nobody dared bring up the photo from the chat. For a while, Andrea did most of the talking. Noah had no idea what she was talking about. It was like he was still stuck inside the vacuum of the day's earlier shock—when in a single heartbeat, his heart had skipped a beat, his hands started shaking, and his eyes burned with tears of rage. He didn't remember how he'd made it back to the nursing home. He also didn't remember rushing past the staff. He finally recalled himself being in his grandma's room—hugging her tight while she kept protesting that he'd clearly mistaken her for someone else. That was the final straw. Noah ran out of the room and yelled at the nurse taking care of her first. Then at a few random orderlies walking by. Then he went back to the lobby. That was where the Devil's Eye really took over. Looking back now, Noah could only hope they wouldn't terminate their agreement with him, evict his grandmother, or start treating her any worse. The anger had faded, and all that was left was a spiraling storm of worry about the consequences. It was a fresh kind of trap that was closing Noah in.
"Noah, I'm talking to you! Are you even listening?" Andrea's annoyed voice cut through his thoughts, snapping him back to the present. Only then did he realize he was already finishing his second glass of wine and that Ethan's hand had been resting on his thigh, just above the knee, for a while now. That quiet bit of support gave him a small but much-needed lift.
"Yeah, sorry. I zoned out. What were you saying?"
"Our set at 'I want you deadly' this Friday!"
"Friday? Right before Halloween?" he asked in a surprised voice. A Friday night that close to the holiday meant any bar would be swamped. Even 'I want you deadly.' The crowd would be way bigger than usual, and Noah was honestly a little surprised the bar had agreed to give Andrea's band a slot on such a high-traffic night.
"But there's a catch," she added quickly.
"A catch, right," Scott jumped in before she could go on—already buzzed after polishing off his second glass, just like Noah. "Not just a catch. A full-on, capital-C Catch! There'll be four other bands playing that night!"
"That's pretty normal though," Ethan pointed out calmly. "It's not like you were expecting the stage all to yourselves."
"No, you don't get it!" Scott was still spiraling. "Andrea only told us about it at lunch today! We're performing the day after tomorrow! And there are four other bands! Can you imagine how we're gonna look next to them?!"
"Like crap?" Ethan offered, not bothering to mention that even without competition, their shows weren't exactly setting the bar.
"EXACTLY!" Scott wailed like a man on the verge of death.
"Hey!" Andrea snapped.
"It was a bit too straightforward," Noah muttered, but the corners of his mouth tugged up for the first time all evening.
"We're doomed!" Scott moaned theatrically.
"I think it's gonna be sick," Andrea declared. "Spontaneity adds spice to some things!"
"Yeah, but not to our shows, Andrea. Not ones that need rehearsal! And may I remind you, we had a huge break in practice because… well, you got sick," Scott stuttered slightly, then continued. "And yesterday's rehearsal? We didn't play our instruments—we tortured them! And Steve didn't even show up! Did you ever get a chance to reach him?"
"I will," Andrea waved him off like it was no big deal. "We've still got plenty of time!"
"One day is not 'plenty of time'!"
"Don't be a killjoy!" she huffed.
"And you need to get your head out of the clouds!"
"Ooooooh…" Ethan suddenly dragged out the sound, loud and slow, cutting through the room.
"What the hell is that 'oooooh' about?" Scott snapped. Ethan ignored him and turned to Noah.
"Did you notice?"
"Hm?"
"Your 'Devil's Eye' really does go blind when it's aimed at people close to you, huh? God… But you don't even need it for this one."
"What are you talking about?" Andrea frowned.
"I don't get it," Noah said, shaking his head.
"They…" Ethan pointed straight at them. "Totally had sex."
Scott choked on his wine. Andrea choked on her pizza. Noah choked on air.
"Ethan!" Noah gasped, turning away from him to face his friends, already bracing to apologize until sunrise—but then… Scott looked like a corpse and Andrea like a tomato, both avoiding his gaze studiously like they'd rehearsed it. Neither one offered a single word of protest.
And just like that, Noah's jaw dropped. Ethan was blunt, sure, but apparently not wrong.
"ALREADY?!"
"Oh, shut up," Scott muttered under his breath.
"What do you mean 'already'? We're adults," Andrea said coolly, then added with a sly grin, "Wait, you don't say. Haven't you done it yet?"
She only meant to steer the conversation elsewhere—and it worked. Noah poured himself another glass of wine and finished half of it in one sip.
"We're not rushing things," Ethan replied evenly.
"Is that because of your mysophobia?" Andrea asked, all innocent, and when Noah exploded with a fresh wave of indignation, she added, "Relax. I've got my own mental health crap. I don't share it with just anyone, but you're Noah's guy—you're in the trust circle. And honestly? Half the university's already gossiping about that."
"I don't have mysophobia," Ethan said slowly, clearly choosing his words. "But yeah, there are… things I'm working through."
"Aha," Scott slurred, laughing as he topped off his own glass. "So that's why you're constantly saying dirty comments—you're sublimating."
"I might be," Ethan said in that dry, almost-too-casual voice, and Noah could swear he caught the glint of a wicked grin trying to break through.
Noah's friends, who were now on a mission to get back at Thomson for his earlier bluntness, launched into a barrage of teasing questions. Ethan answered them right back, sharp as ever. Noah, meanwhile, finished off the first bottle of wine and wandered over to the far window for a smoke. Fluffy hissed and scratched him a little for daring to move him from one end of the windowsill to the other. Peanut jumped into Noah's arms, turning his face up toward the autumn wind that slipped softly through the open window. Noah lit up the cigarette and let his gaze settle on the city. Somewhere off in the distance, a siren wailed—maybe a cop car, maybe an ambulance. Outside the bar down the block, a bunch of college guys were loudly debating a new album. Across the street, behind a scattered grid of lit windows, other lives unfolded. Morgan often watched them at night. He already knew that the couple on the third floor fought constantly and the little boy on the eighth was obsessed with astronomy. Noah took a drag and shut his eyes for a second, imagining what someone might see if his window were the one lit up for others to look into: half-eaten pizza scattered across the floor. Wine drying in the bottoms of glasses. Three friends arguing over something ridiculous. And one guy apart from the group, smoking and holding two cats in his arms. It seemed to be a pretty cozy picture if you didn't flip it over and see the mess on the other side.
"Hey," Ethan's voice, right next to him, made Noah open his eyes just a second before Thomson's fingers brushed his cheek. That's when he realized his face was wet with tears.
Ethan didn't ask anything. He just quietly wiped them away with the sleeve of his hoodie.
"It's just…" Noah swallowed hard, forcing down the lump in his throat and trying to sound halfway normal. "It's been a long day."
"Yeah… no kidding," Ethan murmured, settling onto the windowsill beside him. Fluffy had since migrated to the top of the dresser. "Good thing there's wine," he added, handing Noah a full glass.
"Good thing there's you."
****
The Devil's Eye had gone out of control. Noah didn't realize it until he'd already gotten out of the house. Ethan had promised to drive him to campus every morning, but today Michael Thomson was being discharged from the hospital, so Ethan had left before sunrise. He kissed Noah on the temple on his way out—a soft press of lips that barely pulled him out of sleep. Noah drifted off again until the alarm woke him in the morning.
Noah had always been good at noticing little things, people's flaws and quirks. But never like this. Never all at once. Now it felt like Morgan was drowning in a flood of ugliness and hostility. On the bus, Noah tried to tune out the world, but it didn't work. It was like every imperfection had turned up the volume and was screaming for his attention. The pretty girl nearby? He noticed some dirt under her long acrylics. The middle-aged woman in front of him? Her foundation was caked into her wrinkles. The man across the aisle had twin sweat stains under his arms. And the guy with the nose ring? There was literal crusted snot on the inside of it. The problem wasn't that Noah saw these things. The problem was, it was all he could see. His focus refused to shift away from the worst of everything to something nice and pleasant.
Noah felt nauseous. He got off the bus two stops early just to breathe and walked the rest of the way to campus, his eyes fixed on the ground, trying to avoid people around him.
When he finally made it into the building, his legs felt like wet cement. No one seemed to notice his entrance, which was a relief—until a voice piped up beside him:
"Sorry—are you Noah Morgan?"
"Fuck off…" he muttered. It took Morgan a full second to realize he really had said it. The girl flinched.
"I… sorry… I just—" she stammered, already backing away. "I'm sorry," she said again, then turned and bolted like she was being chased. She definitely didn't mean any harm. The Devil's Eye would've picked up on that. But still, it wouldn't let Noah relax.
"Ethan," Noah whispered into his phone after his first seminar ended, "I think I'm losing my mind."
"You're not losing your mind," Ethan said calmly. "Yesterday was intense. It makes sense that today the world feels like it's out to get you."
"But it's never been like this before!"
"Then maybe nothing before ever hit you this hard."
"I yelled at a total stranger."
"What, did you just walk and scream at her?"
"No… she came up to me."
"Well, then that's different."
"What do you mean, 'that's different'?"
"I mean, people shouldn't just come up to you out of nowhere," Ethan said, and Noah could hear the smile in his voice.
"I acted like a jerk."
"Don't be dramatic."
"I think I'm gonna head home. I can't take this."
"And what if it happens again tomorrow? Are you going to lock yourself in the apartment until the better times?"
"You got a better idea?" Noah snapped. There was a pause on the line.
"Actually, yeah. I do."
"So what are you suggesting?"
"You need to relax a little. Get your head out of this spiral."
"Jerking off isn't the way to solve all the problems!"
"Wow. Yeah, I definitely feel your love this beautiful morning."
"…Sorry."
"It's fine. And no, I wasn't talking about jerking off, you horny little boy."
That familiar flush crept up Noah's neck and into his cheeks.
"Then… what?" he asked hesitantly.
"You'll see," Ethan said, all mysterious. "Where are you right now?"
"Campus park."
"Stay there. I just got free—I'll come pick you up."
"You still haven't told me what you're planning."
"I know," Ethan said, and hung up.