7. Noah

The elevator dings, and I step out into the hallway. Two huge guys I recognize as linebackers from the football team are pounding on the door next to ours. They look pissed. Our neighbor, and the starting keeper for the soccer team, opens the door and starts cussing at the two guys who woke him. I wouldn't want to be the target of his anger, however small in stature the guy is. I'm pretty impressed with the way he tears into the two giants looming in his doorway, and in my inebriated state, I snicker audibly. He scowls at me, even though I have nothing to do with waking him up.

I"m barely processing whatever they"re arguing about, but from what I can gather, the two brick shithouses live in the apartments below and are pissed that someone up here is making a bunch of noise. But it"s clearly not Lionel, as he was obviously sleeping and pretty pissed they woke him up. They eye me as I"m fumbling with my key. I hold my hands up in front of me.

"I"m just getting in. I don"t know shit." I may or may not also mumble under my breath that my roommate's biceps are bigger, and that I wouldn't fuck with him, but then I realize I'm just asking for trouble.

I finally get my key in the door, and one guy pushes me through the threshold. The door swings open so hard it crashes into the wall behind it.

"What the fuck, dude?! You can"t just?—"

There"s a single lamp casting a dim light in our living room, but it"s enough to see Lane. He"s laying on the couch, sweating profusely, shaking and pale. Ignoring the two behemoths that step into the room behind me, I run to his side.

"Shit. Lane? What"s wrong?" His pulse is fast, but he"s breathing and doesn"t seem to have a fever or anything.

"What"s wrong with him?" One guy asks, looming behind me.

"Did he take something?" The other guy asks. "I can call an ambulance."

"Definitely not. He"s as straightedge as they come. Just give me a second."

My mind spins. The smell of cleaning solution is so strong my eyes are burning. With a quick glance around, I notice that everything in our apartment is sparkling clean.

Oh.

I"m pretty sure I know what"s happening. Lane would hate me for knowing, but I"m pretty sure he has panic attacks. I think he uses exercise as some kind of coping mechanism. Not a healthy one, for sure, because I"ve seen him overdo it to where he made himself physically ill like this before. I'm not going to tell these meatheads his business, but I also can"t have them calling an ambulance like they"re suggesting.

I struggle to come up with an excuse to get these two assholes out of here so I can take care of him in private. My brain feels fuzzy, and I regret the number of screwdrivers I drank at that party tonight.

Wait.Screwdrivers. That"s it.

"Would you mind grabbing some orange juice from the fridge for me? Cups are above the sink."

One guy heads into the small galley kitchenette next to the sitting room, and the other helps me prop Lane up on some pillows. Lane"s eyes flutter, and I panic a little, knowing how out of sorts he can get when anyone else sees something he considers a weakness. It"s why he hates me so much, I think.

"Thanks," I say, taking the coffee mug of juice that"s handed to me. "He"s, uh, got low blood sugar," I explain while herding the two beefcakes from our apartment. "When it gets bad, he has these fits and passes out, gets kind of loopy and weird. But I"ve got this." I push them through the door. "I can take it from here. Thanks so much for your help. I don"t know what would have happened if you didn"t hear him."

They look a little stunned as I thank them again and slam the door shut in their faces. When I turn back to Lane, he"s still slumped against the pillows. He looks like he"s about to puke when he finally opens his eyes a little. I worry he"s going to react badly to my presence, but I need to make sure he"s okay. Just because I'm not a huge fan of his doesn't mean I want him to suffer.

"Hey man," I say cautiously. "I, uh, got you some juice."

"Juice?" His voice is gravelly, like he"s been asleep for a long time.

"You passed out, dude. I thought maybe you had low blood sugar or something?"

He blinks several times before realization dawns on him, and his eyes dart around the room. "Was someone else here?"

"Huh? No. I was talking to someone in the hallway before I came in," I lie, holding the mug out to him. He takes it gingerly, looking into the cup with suspicion. "I didn"t spike it or anything," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Thanks, I guess."

"You guess?"

"I was just sleeping. I fell asleep on the couch waiting up for your dumbass. How much did you drink tonight?"

Too much.

"Just a couple. I"m fine." The last part isn"t a lie. I"m certainly feeling sober now. "You sure you"re okay?"

"I"m fine," he says sharply.

My jaw tenses, and it"s an effort to not talk some serious shit. I"m just trying to be a nice guy and he"s glaring at me like I"m being unreasonable for worrying that I found him passed out like that. I decide not to fight with him, or mention that he"s completely drenched in sweat and clearly not fine. When he tries to stand up, he falters and has to slump back down on the couch. I reach out to steady him.

"Whoa, okay. Maybe you should just drink the juice, yeah?" I tap the bottom of the mug with one finger. With narrowed eyes, he reluctantly sips the juice. His eyes trace over me as he drinks, and I realize I"m all but caging him in with my body. Our eyes meet.

I"m expecting anger. I"m expecting rage.

What I get instead is a slight flash of something decidedly not angry, before a pink flush spreads over his skin. I don"t know how to read the expression, but I feel warm, like his blush is contagious.

Clearing my throat, I pull back to give him some space. I didn"t mean to crowd him or make him uncomfortable.

"I don"t like it," he says, his voice oddly small for someone so large.

"I know. I said I"d stop, I meant it.".

"But I-I think I need… something."

I nod, understanding his meaning. He needs an outlet. He needs something or someone to force him out of his head. It"s not something he can do on his own, because he takes it too far and ends up like this.

"Let"s get you to bed. We"ll figure something out tomorrow."

He tries to shoo me away when I move to help him up.

"Shut up and let me help you." My sharp tone seems to do it for him. He allows me to pull him up and steady him as he shuffles to his room.

I hover in the doorway and watch him fall into bed, stepping into the room to turn off the light for him. His room is similar to mine, but he's moved his bed to a different wall, making the space seem larger. It takes me a while to figure out the biggest difference in our rooms isn't just that everything in here is neat and orderly, with very few personal items displayed. His room doesn't have a window, which makes the room darker. Does he prefer it that way, or did he choose this room to be polite?

After opening a shopping app on my phone and picking out some items that can be delivered tomorrow, I stand in the doorway for probably too long, listening to his breaths evening out.

There"s something about Lane Blakely. Something broken that I am magnetized to. Only, I can"t tell if I want to fix him, or if I want to break him the rest of the way.