002: Stepbrother

NOAH’S POV

“You again?”

The moment my new roommate, Miles, opens the door and finds me standing there with my suitcase, the irritation returns to his face as though he’d been hoping never to see me again.

I plaster that same polite smile back on, even though my broken heart feels like it’s barely holding itself together. 

If I let it crack now, I’d probably burst into hot tears right in front of this rude stranger.

Seriously, though. A breakup text today of all days? Some boyfriend you are, Tyson Stark.

Still smiling, I lift the assignment sheet and give it a little shake. In my other hand is the spare key the Resident Assistant handed me.

“Confirmed. This is my dorm.”

For the first time since we met, his expression changes, pupils dilating slightly in disbelief.

Leaving him to recover from the same shock I’d just recovered from moments ago, I move. 

Keeping a careful distance so I don’t brush against his nearly naked body, I wheel my suitcase past him and step inside. 

Thankfully, he’s at least wearing briefs now.

The apartment is far more spacious and nicer than any student housing I’ve lived in before. 

A huge television hangs across from a gray sectional, sunlight pours through floor-to-ceiling windows, and scattered around the living room are little reminders of who lives here—hockey sticks leaning against the wall, a duffel bag tossed near the couch, and a pair of skates resting beside the entryway.

Guess someone’s secretly an interior designer. Or rich enough to pay one.

Either way, I barely take it in. Right now, all I want is my room and a good cry.

One bedroom door stands wide open, revealing what I assume is Miles’s room, so I drag my suitcase toward the only other bedroom. 

I push the door open, sink onto the edge of the bed, and drag both hands down my face.

What a disaster of a day.

After taking a shaky breath, I unlock my phone and stare at Tyson’s message again. A bitter laugh escapes me as another tear slips free despite my best effort to hold it back.

Seriously? Two years together, and all I get is ‘I’ve been thinking about us lately’?

Thinking about what? 

A week ago we were perfectly fine. We’d spent weeks counting down to my move to Michigan. 

As much as I hated uprooting my life every time Mom fell in love, finally getting to meet Tyson in person after two years of late-night calls, endless texts, and video chats had been the one thing making this move feel worth it.

And now this? Without a good explanation?

Nothing’s adding up.

“No. I refuse to accept this.” Shaking my head stubbornly, I hit his contact and press call. It rings once before stopping. 

When I try again, the call doesn’t even connect.

I stare at my screen in disbelief. “Did he seriously block me?”

A fresh tear slides down my cheek, this one fueled less by heartbreak and more by anger.

“What a fucking coward.”

Just as I tap his name again, another call flashes across the screen.

Mom.

For a second I’m tempted to let it ring. I’m in absolutely no state to talk. But I’ve already ignored her calls all day, and if I ignore another one, she’ll probably drive over here convinced I’ve been kidnapped.

I wipe my face as best as I can, take a slow breath, and answer.

“Christ, Noah!” Mom blurts out. “You nearly scared me to death. Why haven’t you been answering your phone?”

“Just… busy.”

“Oh.” Relief softens her voice. “That makes sense. So, how did registration go? Have you met your new roommate? What’s she like?”

He, Mom. 

But telling her that would be the fastest way to guarantee she’d march straight to campus and demand the university fix it immediately. 

That’s the last thing I want right now.

“She’s great,” I lie. “I’ve already moved in.”

“Good.” She sounds pleased. “I hope you didn’t forget dinner tonight. It’s at seven, and Carl’s really looking forward to meeting you.”

My fingers pause halfway through unzipping my suitcase.

Another dinner. Another man. Another fresh start I never asked for.

Ever since Mom and Dad divorced when I was twelve, it’s been the same cycle. She meets a guy, gets engaged, we move, I change schools, she gets divorced again. 

And somehow, every new man just happens to live in another city. 

At this point, I’ve lost count of how many classrooms, houses, and almost-friendships I’ve left behind.

Now Tyson’s gone too.

“Noah?” Mom’s voice pulls me back. “You still there?”

“Yeah.”

She sighs softly. “I know you’re not thrilled about any of this, sweetheart, but I really believe this time will be different. I promise it’s for the best.”

I close my suitcase a little harder than necessary.

“Can we not talk about that?” I’m unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.

I’ve lost count of how many times we’ve had this exact conversation. Every single time Mom throws us into the life of another man, she swears it’ll be different. 

That ‘this’ one is the right one. 

As if we’re two damsels in distress who’ll somehow fall apart without a man riding in to save us.

“Just believe me this time, honey.” she adds gently.

“Right.” The word leaves my mouth flat and lifeless as I unzip my suitcase.

While she keeps talking, my hand finds Dad’s old camera tucked safely between my clothes. I lift it onto my lap, running my fingertips over the worn leather strap before tracing the familiar scratches along the body.

A small smile tugs at my lips.

It was Dad’s favorite camera. He gave it to me the day he left for what was supposed to be another photography trip, kissing the top of my head and promising we’d take pictures together when he got back.

He never did.

Dad had always said cameras weren’t just for preserving memories. They were proof that even the most beautiful moments, no matter how fleeting, had existed. 

After he left, this camera became the closest thing I had left of him. 

Whenever life became too lonely or heavy, I’d pick it up and disappear behind the lens until the world felt a little easier to breathe in.

“Just get dressed, okay?” Mom says, pulling me back to the present. “Wear that blue evening dress I bought you for your birthday. I’ll pick you up around six-thirty.”

After the line goes dead, I drop my phone onto the bed with a quiet sigh. Then I go back to unpacking. 

Well… half unpacking, technically.

I fold a few clothes into the wardrobe, set my toiletries in the bathroom, and leave everything else inside the suitcase. 

Experience has taught me not to get too comfortable. Sooner or later, Mom and I will probably pack everything up again and move for the hundredth time. 

I’ve learned the hard way that getting attached to places or people only makes leaving hurt more.

While I unpack, Miles’s raised voice drifts in from somewhere beyond my bedroom door. I can tell he’s speaking with someone over the phone. 

I can’t make out every word, but I don’t need to. The irritation in his voice carries clearly enough.

Sounds like Mr. Rude-and-Grumpy isn’t exactly thrilled about this whole opposite-gender roommate situation.

The feeling is mutual.

By the time six-thirty rolls around, I’ve changed into the blue dress. It’s simple, the soft blue bringing out my emerald eyes. 

After twisting my chestnut-brown hair into a neat low bun, I give myself one last glance in the mirror.

Good enough.

When I step into the living room, the apartment is quiet. Miles is nowhere in sight.

Thank fuck. One more icy glare from him today might actually be my breaking point.

Outside, Mom’s old silver Honda CR-V is waiting at the curb. The passenger door swings open before I even reach it, and I slide into the seat.

She looks as beautiful as always. At thirty-nine, most people mistake her for someone in her early thirties. 

Tonight she’s wearing a fitted black wrap dress that falls just below her knees, soft waves of her chestnut-brown hair spilling over one shoulder, and just enough makeup to make her already striking features glow.

People say I look exactly like her. Personally, I don’t see it.

“Are you okay?” Mom’s eyes narrow with concern as she studies my face. “Your eyes look swollen. Have you been crying?”

Shit.

I quickly turn toward the window. “Probably too much screen time.”

She watches me for another second, like she’s deciding whether she believes me. Thankfully, she lets it go.

The drive passes mostly in silence. 

Every few minutes I unlock my phone, half expecting Tyson’s name to light up my screen with another text. 

Maybe he’ll tell me it was a mistake. That someone stole his phone. Maybe…

I let out a quiet breath. If only wishes were horses.

Minutes later, Mom slows the car to a stop.

“We’re here.”

I look up.

Dang.

The mansion rising before us looks like something straight out of an architectural magazine. Warm stone walls, towering glass windows, and perfectly trimmed hedges frame a circular driveway with an elegant fountain at its center. 

Judging by this house alone, Carl is wealthier than every one of Mom’s ex-husbands put together.

A man dressed in a crisp black butler’s uniform opens the front door before we’ve even climbed the steps.

“Welcome, ma’ams,” he says with a polite bow. “Please, come this way.”

“Thank you,” Mom replies warmly as we follow him inside.

The foyer is breathtaking. Polished marble floors reflect the glow of an enormous crystal chandelier overhead, and there’s a sweeping staircase curving gracefully toward the second floor.

“Sire will be down shortly to join—” The butler cuts himself off as footsteps echo from the staircase. 

He looks up immediately, smiling.

“Oh, young sir. The guests are here.”

I lift my gaze, and the second my eyes land on the man descending the stairs, every coherent thought evaporates.

Sharp jaw, tousled dark hair, bluish-gray eyes as cold as a Michigan winter…

My mouth falls open as disbelief crashes over me.

No fucking way.

Miles Presley?