The next day,
The Ainsworth household always smelled like something warm. Cinnamon. Coffee. A faint trace of grilled peppers that clung to the air even after dinner was over. Noah couldn't remember the last time he'd walked into a house and felt… embraced. Not by the people necessarily—though Julian's mom greeted him with her wide, effortless smile—but by the atmosphere itself. It was like the walls whispered you belong here while the polished marble floors of his grandparents' mansion whispered don't you dare touch anything.
For a boy raised under chandeliers worth more than most people's lives, Noah had never felt rich where it mattered.
The dining table was a battlefield of crayons and homework papers. A little boy—Julian's brother Mateo, if Noah remembered right—was arguing about multiplication tables with a tiny girl with braids. Another sister, the youngest, sat in a booster seat, her face covered in chocolate from a cookie. Their stepfather lounged at the table, English accent crisp even as he read something on his tablet.
And then there was Julian. Julian Ainsworth, leaning against the counter with that slightly disheveled look that screamed careless perfection. A boy with dark curls falling into his eyes, a half-smile tugging at his lips. A boy who looked at Noah not with awe or envy but like he was just… another person. And maybe that's what Noah found so disarming.
They were supposed to be working on their history project, but Noah couldn't stop staring at the way Julian's family moved like a single unit. Chaos, yes. Noise, yes. But harmony underneath it all.
"You're spacing out," Julian muttered, leaning closer so only Noah could hear.
Noah blinked, realizing he'd been staring at Julian's mom as she laughed while wiping the youngest's mouth. "No, I'm not."
Julian smirked. "Yeah, you are. Don't worry—my mom doesn't bite."
"She… seems nice," Noah admitted, the words tasting foreign. Nice parents weren't a concept he was used to. His grandfather's 'nice' was a crisp handshake when investors visited. His grandmother's 'nice' was never directed at him, only at whatever heir they wanted to marry him off to.
Before Noah could dwell on it, a tug came at his sleeve. He looked down to see Julian's little sister—Camila, maybe eight or nine—staring up at him with big brown eyes.
"You're handsome," she declared with the blunt honesty of a child. "Are you and Julian dating?"
Julian choked mid-sip of soda, coughing and spluttering. "Wha—Cami!" His ears turned red. "You can't just—"
Noah burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the kitchen. He clutched his stomach, shoulders shaking. "Oh my God, Jules, your face—"
Julian glared, but his blush deepened. "Don't call me Jules in front of my siblings. They'll never let it go."
Camila giggled. "So you are dating!"
"No, we're not!" Julian shot back, mortified.
Noah leaned down just enough to meet the girl's eyes, mischief glinting in his green-silver gaze. "Not yet."
Julian froze. His siblings erupted in oooohs and laughter, while his mom called from across the kitchen, "What's going on in there?"
"Nothing!" Julian snapped, dragging Noah toward the living room before the situation could spiral further.
Later, when the younger siblings were finally herded to bed and the house quieted, Noah sat cross-legged on the carpet in Julian's room, the history project spread out in front of them. He twirled a pen between his fingers, staring at the half-finished poster.
"Hey, Jules."
Julian, scribbling notes, didn't look up. "What did I say about that nickname?"
"Relax, it suits you." Noah smirked, then sobered. "Are your parents cool with you being gay?"
The question hung in the air like a dropped glass.
Julian's pen paused. He tilted his head, curls brushing his cheek, and regarded Noah with a steady gaze. "Yeah. They know. Always knew, really. My mom said she guessed when I was ten because I had a crush on my swim coach. My stepdad just shrugged and said, 'Cool.'"
The casualness in his tone made Noah's chest ache. "That's it?"
"That's it." Julian shrugged. "It's not some… big deal here." He smirked faintly. "Why? You jealous my parents aren't throwing crosses and holy water at me?"
Noah wanted to joke back. He wanted to smirk, to deflect, to be reckless Noah who never let anything pierce him. But his throat closed up. His hand tightened around the pen until it snapped, ink blotting the paper.
Julian's eyes widened. "Hey. What—"
"It's not like that for me," Noah blurted. His voice cracked. "You don't get it, Julian. Your family is so—so cool. You don't realize how lucky you are."
Julian's smirk faded. "Noah—"
"They hate it," Noah continued, words spilling like poison he couldn't keep in. "My grandparents. They hate everything about me being like this. Gay. They call it a disease. They look at me like I'm… defective." His shoulders shook, and suddenly, without his permission, hot tears slid down his cheeks.
He swore under his breath, scrubbing at his face, but it was too late. The cracks had formed, and everything he had dammed up for years came rushing out. "Do you know what it's like to live in a mansion filled with portraits of dead men who all look like they're staring at you in judgment? To sit at a dinner table where love doesn't exist, only money, reputation, legacy? They want to mold me into something I'm not. They want me to be their perfect heir, marry some girl from a family they approve of, and carry on the name. But all I want is—"
His voice broke again.
Julian's chest tightened. For all Noah's arrogance, his sharp tongue, his reckless bravado, in this moment he looked… small. Human. Fragile in a way Julian hadn't imagined possible.
Julian reached forward instinctively, fingers hovering just above Noah's hand. He wanted to comfort him. To wipe those tears away. To pull him in and tell him he wasn't broken.
But before he could—
The door creaked open.
"Boys! I made snacks!"
Julian's mom walked in, balancing a tray of steaming tamales, salsa, and two tall glasses of horchata. The aroma of masa and spices filled the room instantly.
Both boys jumped, Noah swiping at his eyes furiously, trying to erase the evidence.
"Oh," Mrs. Ainsworth blinked, taking in the tense air. "Did I interrupt something?"
Julian cleared his throat, forcing a smile. "Just… history project."
"Good." She set the tray on the desk, her warm smile oblivious to the storm that had just cracked open between them. "Eat while you work. You'll need energy."
She ruffled Julian's curls and winked at Noah. "Make sure he doesn't slack off, okay?"
"Y-yeah," Noah managed, his voice rough.
As she left, the door clicking shut, the silence that followed was deafening.
Julian pushed the tray closer. "You should eat."
Noah stared at him, eyes still red, but something dangerous flickered beneath the vulnerability. Obsession. A pull neither of them could ignore.
Julian didn't know it yet, but Noah had just crossed an invisible line. And Julian… was already starting to fall.