Three days. Three fucking days since the library and I can still feel his finger tracing my jaw. Still hear his voice whispering about monsters and recognition and things I don't want to acknowledge.
The phantom touch burns. Like he branded me. Like his fingerprint is permanently etched into my skin.
I should have walked away. Should have told him to fuck off the moment he slid into the chair across from me at that outdoor table. Should have never let him get close enough to touch my face. Should have never texted him about that damn pen. Should have never gone to that library. But I didn't. Because some sick part of me wanted to see what would happen. Wanted to see how far he'd push. How far I'd let him.
And that's the problem. That's what's been eating at me for three days. Not that Enzo Moretti is obsessed with me. But that I didn't hate it as much as I should. That some twisted part of me liked it. Craved it. Wanted more.
The realization makes me sick. Makes my father's voice echo in my head. Weak. Pathetic. Disappointing.
The campus gym is empty at two AM. Exactly how I need it. The heavy bag hangs in the corner like it's waiting for me. Like it knows what I need to do to make the noise stop. To make his voice stop. To make my father's voice stop. To make everything stop.
"We're both monsters pretending to be men."
His words echo as I wrap my hands. The same words that made something dark and hungry unfurl in my chest. The same words that made me want to lean into his touch instead of pulling away. The same words that made me feel seen for the first time in my life.
And that's what scares me most. Not that he sees the monster. But that he's not running from it.
Fuck him. Fuck him for seeing what I don't want him to see. For recognizing something in me that I've spent years burying. For making me want things I shouldn't want.
I start with basic combinations. Jab, cross, hook. The rhythm is methodical. Controlled. Everything I need to be. Everything I'm not when he's around. Everything I wasn't in that library when his finger traced my jaw and I almost leaned into it like some starved animal.
This is the only way I know how to take my control back. Fuck him for making me lose any level of self-control. If that happens, he'll see that monster he talks about. I will not let him take that away from me.
"Then why haven't you walked away? Why haven't you told me to stop touching you?"
Because I'm weak. Because twenty-one years of learning to be invisible didn't prepare me for someone who refuses to look away. Because when he touched my face, I felt more alive than I have in years. Because for one terrifying moment, I wanted to grab his hand and press it harder against my skin.
The bag shudders under my fists. Jab, cross, hook, uppercut. Add a roundhouse kick. Feel the impact travel up my leg, through my spine. Feel it drown out his voice. Drown out my father's voice. Drown out the want that's been clawing at my insides for three days.
But it doesn't last. It never does. The silence only holds for seconds before the chaos floods back.
My phone buzzes from across the room. Mikhail. Again. He's been texting every few hours since yesterday. Ever since he cornered me in the dining hall with questions I couldn't answer and eyes that saw too much.
"What's this I hear about you and the Italian?"
"Noah, answer me. People are talking."
"We can't let this get back to the families."
"We need to discuss this. Tonight."
I ignore the phone and go back to the bag. Harder this time. Boxing combinations flowing into judo kicks. Precision and power. Control and chaos. The contradictions that live inside me, fighting for dominance. Fighting to see which one will win.
The monster or the man. The want or the fear. The truth or the lie I've been telling myself for years.
"You came for me."
He was right. I did go to that library for him. Not for the pen. For him. To see what would happen. To test myself. To see if I could stand that close to fire without getting burned. To see if I could touch something dangerous and walk away unscathed.
I got burned anyway. Still burning three days later. The flames eating me alive from the inside out.
Another kick, this one harder. The bag swings wide. My shin aches but it's good pain. Clean pain. Not the twisted mess in my chest when I think about golden-hazel eyes and the way they stripped me bare. Not the ache that starts in my stomach and spreads everywhere when I remember his voice calling me beautiful.
Beautiful. No one has ever called me beautiful. No one has ever looked at me like I was something worth claiming instead of something to be tolerated.
The gym door opens. I don't stop hitting. Don't turn around. Only one person would track me down here at this hour. Only one person knows about my midnight sessions with violence and rage.
"Thought I'd find you here," Mikhail says, his voice echoing in the empty space.
"Go away."
"Can't do that, cousin."
Jab, cross, hook. Roundhouse kick. The bag practically groans. My knuckles are raw beneath the wraps but the pain feels good. Feels right. Feels like punishment for wanting things I shouldn't want.
"You've been avoiding me for two days," Mikhail continues, moving closer. "Ever since I mentioned his name."
"I'm not avoiding anything."
"No? Then why won't you talk to me? Why won't you tell me what happened? Why do you look like you haven't slept in a week?"
Because I can't. Because putting it into words makes it real. Makes it something I have to deal with instead of something I can bury under exhaustion and controlled violence. Makes it something I have to admit to myself.
"Nothing happened," I say, throwing another combination.
"Bullshit."
The word hangs in the air between us. I pause, hands still raised, breathing hard. Sweat dripping down my back. Heart pounding from more than just exertion.
"I know you, Noah. I've known you since we were kids. You don't disappear for days unless something's wrong. You don't beat the shit out of a punching bag at two AM unless you're running from something."
"Maybe I just needed space."
"From everyone? Or just from questions about Enzo Moretti?"
His name sounds different when Mikhail says it. Less dangerous. Less like a prayer and more like a curse. Less like something I want to taste on my tongue.
I lower my hands. Turn to face my cousin. He's leaning against the wall, arms crossed, that familiar look of concern and frustration on his face. The same look he's worn since we were kids whenever I did something that worried him. Whenever I showed cracks in the perfect control I'm supposed to maintain.
"What do you want me to say, Mikhail?"
"The truth. What happened between you two?"
The truth. As if I even know what that is anymore. As if I can separate what happened from what I wanted to happen. What I'm still wanting to happen.
"Nothing that concerns you."
"Everything about this concerns me. You're my family. My responsibility. And Enzo Moretti isn't someone you play games with."
"I don't need protecting."
"Don't you?" He pushes off from the wall, moves closer. Studies my face like he's reading a map of my destruction. "Because it looks like you're falling apart."
Falling apart. Is that what this is? This constant ache in my chest, this inability to think about anything else, this need to hit things until my arms feel like rubber? This feeling like my skin doesn't fit right anymore, like I'm crawling out of myself with want?
"He's getting under your skin," Mikhail says quietly. "I can see it. Everyone can see it."
"You don't know what you're talking about."
"I know you've been avoiding half the campus to stay away from him. I know you haven't answered any of his texts or calls. I know you're here at two in the morning beating the shit out of a punching bag because you can't sleep. I know you look like a ghost."
He's right. All of it. I haven't slept properly in three days. Keep thinking about the library. About his touch. About the way he looked at me like he could see straight through to my soul. About the way I wanted him to keep looking. Keep touching. Keep seeing me.
"And I know," Mikhail continues, his voice getting harder, "that Enzo Moretti isn't the type to give up easily. Which means this is going to escalate. Which means people are going to get hurt."
"I can handle it."
"Can you? Because it doesn't look like you're handling anything. It looks like you're running. It looks like you're scared."
The words hit like a physical blow. Running. Scared. That's exactly what I'm doing. Just like I always do when things get too real, too complicated, too dangerous. Just like I did when my father's lessons got too brutal. Hide. Disappear. Become nothing.
"So what if I am?" I snap. "Maybe running is the smart thing to do. Maybe staying away from him is the only way to keep this from getting worse."
"And how's that working for you?"
I don't answer. Can't answer. Because we both know it's not working. Three days of silence and I feel more connected to Enzo Moretti than ever. More aware of him. More hungry for another confrontation. More desperate to see what happens next.
"He texted me," Mikhail says quietly.
My blood goes cold. Everything stops. The air in my lungs, the beat of my heart, the thoughts in my head. Everything.
"What?"
"Yesterday. After you disappeared. He said, 'I know you're one of them that got in his head. I'm warning you now - stay out of our business.'"
Something violent and possessive flares in my chest. Not gratitude. Anger. Because Mikhail doesn't understand. Doesn't know what he's interfering with. Doesn't know that Enzo Moretti threatening him makes me want to claim Enzo back. Makes me want to tell Mikhail that this is mine to handle.
"And?"
"And I told him to fuck off. Told him if he came near you again, I'd make him regret it. Told him the Aslanov family doesn't tolerate threats."
The anger turns molten. Spreads through my veins like poison. Because Mikhail just made this bigger than it needed to be. Made it about families instead of just us. Made it dangerous in ways that have nothing to do with what I want.
"You had no right."
"I had every right. You're my cousin. My—"
"I'm not your responsibility!" The words explode out of me, louder than I intended. Echoing through the empty gym like gunshots. "I'm not some victim who needs protecting. I'm not weak."
"I never said you were weak."
"Then stop treating me like I am. Stop acting like I can't handle one Italian with an attitude problem."
"Is that what you think this is? An attitude problem?" Mikhail's voice drops. Gets dangerous. "Noah, this is Enzo Moretti. Do you know what his family does to people who cross them? Do you know what he's capable of?"
"I know exactly what he's capable of."
"Do you? Because I don't think you do. I think you're so busy being flattered by his attention that you're not seeing the bigger picture."
Flattered. The word hits like a slap. Like an accusation. Like he can see right through to the pathetic truth of what I am.
"I think," Mikhail continues, "that you're playing with fire and you're going to get burned. And when you do, it won't just be you that pays the price. It'll be our entire family."
Our family. The weight of it settles on my shoulders like a chain. The reminder that I'm not just Noah. I'm Noah Aslanov. Son of Sergei. Heir to an empire built on blood and violence and carefully maintained alliances.
An empire that could crumble if I make the wrong choice. If I want the wrong thing. If I let the monster inside me make decisions.
I turn back to the bag. Throw a vicious combination that sends it swinging. "I think this is none of your business."
"Noah—"
"I think you should leave."
"I'm not leaving until we—"
"Leave." The word comes out like a threat. Like a promise of violence if he doesn't comply. Like the monster finally showing its teeth.
Mikhail stares at me for a long moment. I can feel his eyes on my back, can feel his concern and frustration radiating across the space between us. Can feel the moment he decides I'm too far gone to reach.
"Fine," he says finally. "But this isn't over. Whatever game you think you're playing with him, it's dangerous. For you. For our family. For everyone. And when it all goes to shit—and it will—don't say I didn't warn you."
I don't respond. Just keep hitting the bag until I hear the door close behind him. Until I'm alone again with the noise in my head and the want eating me alive.
Alone. Just me and the bag and the truth I don't want to face.
I go back to my combinations. Boxing and judo, precision and power. The methodical rhythm that usually brings quiet. But tonight it's not working. Tonight every hit just makes me think about the library. About his fingers on my skin. About the way he said my name like it was something sacred. About the way I felt when he called me beautiful.
"Same time tomorrow? To return whatever you leave behind next."
The arrogant bastard knew. Knew I'd leave something else. Knew I'd come back. Knew I was already caught in whatever web he was spinning. Knew I wanted to be caught.
And he was right. I wanted to go back. Wanted to see what would happen next. Wanted to test myself against him again. Wanted to see if he'd touch me again. If he'd look at me like I was something worth claiming.
But I didn't. For three days, I stayed away. Avoided the library, the places he might be, the confrontations I craved and feared in equal measure.
My phone buzzes again. I ignore it. Hit the bag harder. Feel sweat dripping down my back, my arms starting to shake with exhaustion. Feel the burn in my muscles that means I'm close to the breaking point. Close to the moment when the pain becomes so consuming that it drowns out everything else.
"You're lying."
"You're standing here letting me touch you."
"You came for me."
Every word he spoke in that library was true. Every accusation, every observation, every challenge. I was lying. I did let him touch me. I did come for him. And I want to do it again.
The realization hits me harder than any punch. Want. That's what this is. This ache in my chest, this inability to think straight, this constant awareness of his absence. I want him. Want to see him. Want to fight with him. Want to push him as hard as he pushes me. Want to find out what happens when I stop running. When I stop hiding. When I let the monster out to play.
But what if I let myself have him just once? Maybe I could kiss him, taste him, get my fill and walk away. Or will one taste make me crave more until I lose everything? That's what's stopping me. The fear that wanting him might destroy more than just me.
I want things I shouldn't want. Feel things I shouldn't feel. Crave things that would destroy everything I've built. Everything my family has built.
But I want them anyway.
My arms feel like rubber now. Legs shaking. Lungs burning. But it's not enough. The noise is still there. His voice, my father's voice, Mikhail's voice, all of them tangled together in my head.
You always disappoint me.
Be stronger than this.
Stop being weak.
We're both monsters pretending to be men.
The last voice is different. Doesn't sound like condemnation. Sounds like recognition. Like acceptance. Like someone finally seeing me for what I really am and not running away. Like someone who wants the monster as much as the man.
I hit the bag again. Harder. Feel something give in my shoulder. Hit it again. My vision blurs. Again. Blood seeps through the wraps around my knuckles. Again.
"Noah."
The voice cuts through the chaos in my head. Calm. Authoritative. Familiar.
I don't stop hitting. Can't stop. The pain is the only thing keeping the voices quiet.
"Noah, stop."
Hands grab my shoulders. Strong hands. Hands that know how to handle violence without flinching.
"Let go of me," I snarl, trying to shake him off.
"No." Mikhail's voice is steady. Unimpressed by my rage. "You're bleeding through the wraps. You've been at this for hours."
Hours? I look around the gym like I'm seeing it for the first time. The clock on the wall says 4:30 AM. When did it get so late? When did the sweat soak through my shirt completely? When did my legs start shaking so badly I can barely stand?
"I'm fine," I say, but my voice sounds strange. Hoarse. Like I've been screaming.
"You're not fine." Mikhail positions himself between me and the bag. "You're destroying yourself."
"Good."
The word slips out before I can stop it. Mikhail's eyes narrow. He's always been able to read me better than anyone else in the family. Comes from growing up together, sharing the same brutal training, understanding what it means to be an Aslanov.
"How bad is it?" he asks quietly.
"It's not bad."
"Don't lie to me. We've known each other too long for that bullshit. I can tell when your head is all fucked up. Just look at you, Noah."
I try to move around him to get back to the bag, but he blocks me. At twenty-three, Mikhail is bigger than me. Stronger. And unlike Luka, he's not afraid to use force if he has to.
"I'm going to ask you again - how bad is it? Tell me what's really going on. Or I'm calling Uncle Sergei."
The threat of involving my father makes something cold settle in my stomach. "You wouldn't."
"Try me."
We stare at each other for a long moment. Mikhail's dark eyes are patient but implacable. He'll stand here all night if he has to. And he will call my father if I don't give him something.
I can't tell him the truth. Can't explain the library, the touching, the way Enzo looks at me like he wants to devour me. Can't admit that I want him to.
"He's been escalating things. Getting more aggressive. I'm handling it."
It's not entirely a lie. But it's not the truth either.
Mikhail studies my face. "By beating yourself to death?"
"It helps me think."
"Bullshit. This isn't thinking. This is self-destruction." He reaches out and grabs my wrapped hands, examining the blood seeping through. "When's the last time you slept?"
"I don't remember."
"When's the last time you ate?"
"This morning. Maybe."
"Jesus Christ, Noah." He starts unwrapping my hands with practiced efficiency. "You can't function like this. You can't think clearly when you're running on fumes and adrenaline."
The wraps come away bloody. My knuckles are raw, some split open. Mikhail examines them with the clinical detachment our family training taught us both.
"This needs cleaning. And you need sleep."
"I don't need—"
"Yes, you do." His voice carries that tone of absolute authority that reminds me he's being groomed for leadership. That in a few years, he might be giving orders to the entire family. "Whatever's going on with Moretti, you're not going to handle it by destroying yourself."
He's right. I know he's right. But admitting it feels like weakness.
"Come on," Mikhail says, grabbing my gym bag. "Let's get you cleaned up."
I want to argue. Want to go back to hitting the bag until I can't think anymore. But my legs are shaking and my vision keeps blurring and some rational part of my brain knows I've pushed too far.
Mikhail guides me to the locker room, sits me down on one of the benches. He disappears for a moment and comes back with a first aid kit and bottled water.
"Drink," he orders, pressing the water into my hands.
I drink. The water tastes like salvation. When did I get so dehydrated?
Mikhail cleans my knuckles with antiseptic that burns but feels good. Clean pain. Manageable pain. Not the twisted mess of want and fear that's been eating me alive.
"You want to tell me what's really going on?" he asks as he bandages my hands.
"Not particularly."
"Fair enough. But Noah?" He looks up at me, and his expression is serious. "Whatever this is, you don't handle it alone. That's not how family works."
Family. The word sits heavy between us. Because family means loyalty. Means protection. Means secrets that could get people killed if they get out.
"I know," I say quietly.
"Do you? Because it looks like you're trying to carry something too big for one person."
He's right about that too. The weight of wanting Enzo Moretti feels like it's crushing me. The weight of hiding it feels worse.
"It's complicated," I repeat.
"Most things worth having are."
Worth having. As if what I want with Enzo could ever be worth anything. As if it's not exactly the kind of weakness that would destroy everything.
Mikhail finishes with my hands and sits back. "You know what your problem is?" he asks.
"Enlighten me."
"You think too much. Always have. Even when we were kids, you'd think yourself in circles instead of just acting."
"And you think I should just act on this?"
"I think you should figure out what you actually want instead of beating yourself bloody trying not to want it." The words hit too close to home. "We both know this isn't about him harassing you. This is about what's going on in your head when you think about him."
I look away, but Mikhail's not finished.
"You can keep lying to yourself, keep pretending that whatever's going on between you and him isn't messing with your head. But your knuckles tell a different story." He taps the bandages. "You don't destroy yourself over someone you don't care about."
"It's not that simple."
"It never is. But it's still a choice, Noah. And right now, you're choosing to suffer. That's not strength. That's just stupid."
I want to argue with him. Want to explain why it's not that simple, why I can't just choose what I want. But I'm too exhausted to fight anymore.
"Come on," Mikhail says, standing up. "Let's get you home. You need sleep."
I let him help me up. Let him gather my things. Let him guide me out of the gym like I'm an invalid.
Outside, the morning air is cool against my overheated skin. The campus is empty except for a few early joggers. Normal people living normal lives without the weight of family expectations and dangerous desires crushing them.
"Mikhail," I say as we walk.
"Yeah?"
"Don't tell Uncle Sergei about this."
"About what? You working out too hard? That's not exactly news."
"About Moretti."
He's quiet for a moment. "Are you going to handle it?"
"Yes."
"Then there's nothing to tell."
We walk in silence for a while. The bandages on my hands feel tight but secure. The exhaustion is starting to hit now that the adrenaline is fading.
"For what it's worth," Mikhail says as we reach my dorm, "whatever you decide, I've got your back. That's what family is for."
I nod, not trusting my voice. Mikhail squeezes my shoulder once and walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the weight of his words.
Figure out what you actually want.
Decide if it's worth the consequences.
Make a choice.
Standing there in the predawn quiet, I realize he's right. I have been choosing to suffer. Choosing to run. Choosing to hide from what I want instead of facing it.
Maybe it's time to make a different choice.
Three days. Three days of running, of hiding, of pretending I don't feel what I feel. And I'm right back where I started. Wanting what I can't have. Craving what would destroy me. Needing what would ruin everything.
My phone buzzes. This time I don't hesitate to check it.
Unknown number. But I know who it is. Know it like I know my own heartbeat. Like I know the sound of my own voice. Like I know the weight of my own sins.
Missing you, beautiful.
Three words. That's all it takes to undo three days of careful control. Three words and I'm right back in that library, feeling his finger trace my jaw, hearing him call me a liar. Feeling seen and wanted and claimed in ways I've never experienced.
My hands shake as I stare at the message. Not from exhaustion now. From something else entirely. From the realization that I've been lying to myself. That I want him to miss me. Want him to text me. Want him to keep pursuing me even when I run.
I should delete it. Should block the number. Should go back to hitting the bag until I can't think anymore. Should call Mikhail and tell him he's right. Should run home to Russia and never look back.
Instead, I find myself typing a response.
Stop.
The reply comes immediately. Like he was waiting. Like he knew I'd break.
No.
Simple. Direct. Uncompromising. Just like him. Just like everything about him that calls to the darkest parts of me.
I stare at the word until my vision blurs. Until I can see my reflection in the black screen. Until I can admit what I've been trying to deny for three days.
I don't want him to stop.
I want him to keep pushing. Keep pursuing. Keep refusing to let me disappear. Keep seeing the monster and wanting it anyway.
I want to see what happens when I stop pretending to be something I'm not.
I'm going to make him come and get me. Make him play my game. If I'm something he wants, then he needs to come and take it. I'm going to push all his buttons like he's done to me. Fuck with his head like he's done to mine.
The phone slips from my hands. Hits the floor with a crack that echoes through the empty hallway. The screen spiders but doesn't go black. I can still see his message. Still see that simple, devastating word.
No.
Three days. Three days of fighting this. Of running from it. Of pretending I'm stronger than the want that's eating me alive. Of pretending I don't dream about golden-hazel eyes and dangerous smiles and the way his voice sounds when he calls me beautiful.
But I'm not strong. I'm weak. Weak and hungry and tired of pretending to be something I'm not. Tired of being the perfect Aslanov son. Tired of being invisible. Tired of being nothing.
But maybe weakness isn't the right word. Maybe wanting something doesn't make you weak. Maybe fighting for it makes you strong.
Maybe it's time to stop running.
Tomorrow, I'll see what happens when I stop fighting what I want. When I stop hiding from what I am. When I let the monster out to play.
Tomorrow, I'll find out what kind of destruction two monsters can create together.
And maybe, for the first time in my life, I'll find out what it feels like to be truly alive.