Chapter Four

He almost had Ellery’s number.

The thought keeps spinning in Noah’s mind, and the fact that he hadn’t managed to ask for it left him feeling unsettled. He’s had no problem asking for numbers in the past, whether it was for a casual hook-up or a new connection. It had never been a big deal—just a simple exchange of digits. But this time, it felt like an insurmountable task.

Noah leans heavily on the bar, turning his phone over and over in his palm. It’s warm from his constant handling, and the screen remains frustratingly blank. He watches his beer slide across the bar top as he nudges it idly, streaking through the puddles of condensation that have collected. The phone in his hand might be heating up from overuse, but his beer is growing warm from being ignored, forgotten in his grip as his mind races through the events of the night.

“Another drink, sir?”

Noah looks up, a sharp retort almost forming on his lips. But he catches himself, recognizing that the bartender is merely performing his job. The man likely can’t gauge the level of Noah’s drink from a dark bottle. A part of him considers ordering another beer, hoping the cold alcohol might snap him out of his current state, but another part insists against it. He needs to rein in his indulgence; there are games just around the corner, and the combination of cigarettes and alcohol has made practices brutally difficult lately.

“Nah,” Noah says with a resigned sigh, tapping his phone on the bar top. “I’ll be out of your hair soon enough.”

“Hey, there’s no rush. Take your time.” The bartender’s smile is genuine, and he directs his attention back to the other patrons, leaving Noah alone with his thoughts. Noah closes his eyes, turning his phone in his palm, and fights the urge to check the screen again.

Turns, turns, turns.

It’s maddening, he thinks. Why is it bothering him so much? He doesn’t even want Ellery’s number, does he?

Noah buries his forehead in his free palm, grimacing at the touch. It’s not as complicated as he’s making it out to be. He’s straight, sure, but he’s not without empathy. He feels bad for the way he used Ellery and then just vanished. That’s not the kind of person he wants to be. He remembers one instance with someone—a girl whose name he can’t even recall—where things ended badly, but that had been different. She hadn’t been able to get him off, and the whole situation was a disaster from the start.

“I just want to thank him, then?” Noah mutters to himself, rubbing his temples and shaking his head slowly. But he had thanked Ellery, hadn’t he? Right after everything had happened, before he left? He tries to recall their last interaction. Did he even express his gratitude properly, or had he just taken what he wanted and left like an inconsiderate jerk?

The uncertainty gnaws at him. Maybe that’s why he’d wanted Ellery’s number—to offer a proper thank you. But he’d chickened out, and now it’s consuming his thoughts. It’s ridiculous. He feels like he’s been missing something important, even though he can’t pinpoint exactly what it is.

Like a persistent bug buzzing in his ear, the thought of Ellery has taken up every available inch of Noah's brainspace. He can’t seem to shoo it away, no matter how hard he tries. It's consuming him, and he’s starting to worry that this fixation is going to mess with more than just his practice sessions. It could spiral into other areas of his life if he doesn’t address it soon.

The simple solution seems so clear: he needs to talk to Ellery again. Maybe he should thank him properly or apologize for being so abrupt. Perhaps he could offer to buy him some porn or something to help with the awkwardness of their previous encounter. Ellery had mentioned watching porn, after all. It wouldn’t involve any physical reciprocation, just a gesture to show his appreciation or make amends. That could work, right?

But the problem is that Noah doesn’t have a way to contact Ellery. The thought of asking around, trying to find a gay guy on campus through hearsay, is daunting. It would be too obvious and could lead to unwanted conclusions before he even has a chance to explain himself. People would be quick to judge, and Noah is not ready to deal with that kind of scrutiny.

Then it hits him—social media. Noah snaps out of his mental fog and grabs his phone, fumbling to open Facebook. He’s never been a fan of the platform and only uses it sporadically, mostly to check for game updates, but it might just be his best bet right now.

However, he doesn’t know Ellery’s last name, which complicates the search. Fine, he’ll start with just the first name and hope for the best.

He scrolls through the search results for Ellerys who live nearby. He squints at each profile picture: not him, not him, that’s a car, not him, that’s a baby… maybe this one? It’s a silhouette shot of someone overlooking a scenic valley, but the person is facing away from the camera. Noah lets out a heavy sigh. None of these profiles are definitive, and he’s not about to send messages to random people asking, “Hey, did we hookup at a party recently?” That would be obscenely awkward.

He closes the app, pressing his phone against his lips in frustration. There’s no clear way to find Ellery, and the lack of leads is maddening.

Why is this so difficult?

Feeling exasperated, Noah decides to head to the bathroom. Maybe taking a moment to clear his head will help. The bar is crowded but not too noisy, making it easy enough to navigate through the sea of people. As he approaches the restrooms, the smell of alcohol and smoke is replaced by the sharp, sterile odor of disinfectant.

Inside, the bathroom is surprisingly quiet and private. Noah stands at the urinal, his mind still swirling with thoughts of Ellery. He glances around at the mint-green stalls, which oddly remind him of the campus restrooms. The thought of Ellery peeking out from one of the stalls, looking at him with those intense eyes, sends a shiver down his spine. Noah shakes his head, trying to clear the intrusive thought.

He snaps his gaze to the wall in front of him and there, scrawled in black permanent marker above the porcelain fixture, are the words:

m4m? hmu @ 555…

Noah stares at the graffiti, his stillness masking the turbulence of the idea that careens into his mind and slams him like a freight train. He’s frozen in place, but inside, his brain whirls at the thought. The string of numbers scrawled on the wall? That’s not what’s making his pulse quicken. There’s no way in hell he’s going to chase after a cryptic set of digits like some cat chasing a ball of yarn. It’s not the numbers that matter to him—it’s the m4m.

Before Ellery, Noah had been fine—solid, even. No questions about who he was or what he wanted. He hadn’t needed to remind himself I’m straight like some sort of lifeline. But Ellery had a way of making certainty unravel. So when Noah sees ‘m4m’ beneath the graffiti, it’s not some generic invitation that gets him thinking.

How could he have forgotten about hookup apps? The whole world seems to run on them now, especially for people like Ellery. Noah’s fingers twitch as the plan starts to take shape. He could download an app—keep his profile as bare as possible, just enough to find Ellery. Then what? Ask him how he’s doing? Whether he regrets what happened between them, or whether it’s been weighing on him the same way it’s been crushing Noah. And once he’s had his answer, once he’s satisfied the gnawing curiosity, he could just delete the app. Like it never even existed. Simple. Clean.

Except Noah’s not naive. He knows it’s not that simple. People know him, or at least, they recognize his face—enough to stop him on the street or at parties. His stomach churns at the thought of someone glancing over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the app’s interface, and making assumptions. He’s not famous, but he’s not invisible, either. The risk of someone recognizing the app looms large.

But it’s a risk he’s willing to take.

Noah washes his hands, heart pounding, and ducks into a bathroom stall. His fingers fumble with his phone as he pulls up the app store, feeling the weight of what he’s about to do pressing down on his chest. He scrolls past the smaller, lesser-known apps until he lands on the one everyone uses—the one with a reputation. His heart hammers as he downloads it, forcing himself not to think too hard, not to let the panic sink in. Before he can second-guess himself, the app’s loading screen disappears, replaced by a sleek registration process.

Email. Password. His hands shake slightly as he types, wondering if this is a mistake. Then the app prompts him for a name. He hesitates, the urge to use his real name bubbling up before he squashes it. Brett , he types instead. Safe. Generic.

Next, the app asks, "What are you looking for?"

Noah lets out a breath, relieved when he sees ‘friends’ as an option. For a moment, he considers it, feeling the tension in his chest ease. But the relief is short-lived. He knows this app isn't really for finding friends. And if Ellery’s on here—and God, does he hope he is—Noah’s not sure he’ll find him by playing it safe. Ellery might not be on the app for friendship. This is a hookup app , he reminds himself. He might have to choose something else, something more explicit, if he wants any chance of crossing paths with Ellery.

Assuming Ellery’s even on here.

Noah swallows hard. The idea that he might not even be on here and this is a waste of time is definitely possible, but he clings to it out of desperation. He wants Ellery to be here. Needs him to be here, as if that would somehow make everything less complicated, less painful.

I am a: man, seeking: men, for: dates. Noah stares at the selection and shakes his head in disbelief.

Upload a profile picture.

Fat chance.

Noah rolls his eyes and taps open his camera, angling it at the floor and snapping a photo of his shoes on the bathroom tile. Black sneakers. Nothing incriminating there. In ten minutes, this app will be uninstalled, and none of these choices will matter anyway.

The screen refreshes and shows a grid of men staring at potential users, a collection of faces with alluring portraits, some showing enough skin to make Noah flush. He’s out of his comfort zone. Way out of it. Dumped into cold water at the deep end of the swimming pool. He scans over the faces, and—

It takes all of one entire second of searching for him to locate Ellery, and Noah’s heart promptly skips a beat.

Ellery’s photo is—well, it’s unmistakably him, for one thing. But it’s also…

Fuck, Ellery is gorgeous.

He’s spread out on a bed, shirtless, only visible from the collarbone up—but he’s got his knuckles relaxed against his cheek and is looking into the camera with a genuinely happy smirk that tickles his eyes. Those blue, blue eyes. Seeing them again makes Noah’s neck hot; they’re exactly as entrancing and ethereal as they are in his memory.

Ellery, 21.

He must get hit up so fucking much. He probably can’t even log on without a slew of messages. Just look at him!

Noah selects his profile. Ellery’s picture fills the screen, and Noah’s gut instinct is to take a screenshot—but a paragraph of text loads and covers the image.

Not sure what I’m looking for, but I’ll know when I find it. ;)

More than just a pretty face. Slow the roll on sexting, please.

Yep. Noah had called it.

But… does that mean he’s looking for something substantial? A relationship? Noah glances at the icons on the side of the screen and barely thinks before nudging the ‘favorite’ button, highlighting a yellow star on Ellery’s shoulder. Best not to lose track of him, now that he’s found him.

I like cult classic films and classic country music, but I wouldn’t call myself ‘classy’. Lol

Love peanut butter, banged-up cars, and warm summer nights.

Warm summer nights… their night on the porch had been a bit brisk. Ellery had still enjoyed it, though. Right? Noah’s head floods with images of Ellery kissing his bicep and Ellery on his knees, his subconscious trawling through that evening and gathering tipsy details until he has to blink them away to focus. This is not the time or place.

Quickly—he’d come here with a job to do, after all—Noah taps the ‘chat’ icon and shoots off a message.

Brett: Hey Ellery. This is Noah. From the party?

No sooner has he sent it than he realizes Ellery doesn’t know why Noah has a profile on a connections app, and he panics and writes more.

Brett: Been looking for a way to contact you and this was a last resort lol.

Brett: Just wanted to see if you were doing okay I guess.

There. That should save face. It’s as good a conversation starter as any.

Just when he’s about to stow his phone and return to the bar—Ellery has better things to do, certainly—the messages shift from ‘unread’ to ‘read’, and Noah’s heart forgets to beat as Ellery types. So fast! Had he checked his phone immediately?!

Ellery: Noah! Hey. Wow.

Ellery: This is the last place I’d expect to hear from you.

Noah huffs a chuckle and shakes his head, strangely grateful that his plan had worked; Ellery is talking to him. He’d found a way to contact him. Now he can get some closure or whatever on their run-in, and he won’t have to worry about this distracting him any more.

Brett: You and me both lol.

Brett: So you’ve been doing okay?

It doesn't take long for his message to get a reply.

Ellery: Why? Been thinking about me?

Souring, Noah frowns at the playfulness. He can’t very well deny that, can he?

Brett: Obviously. Just wanted to make sure you were doing okay.

Brett: Also wanted to make sure I thanked you.

There, he's covered all his bases there, right?

Ellery: You already thanked me, Noah. :)

Ellery: Is that really what this is about?

Fuck. God dammit, no, it’s not, but does he have to get called out like that? Ugh. The sooner Noah’s honest with himself about the ‘closure’ he needs, the sooner he can put this entire thing behind him. He's doing it already. Ellery doesn’t have to be a fucking mind reader about it.

Brett: Maybe not.

That’s all Noah can handle until he knows Ellery is okay with talking about this. And if he’s not, that would probably be a blessing in disguise. Not like Noah needs this shit, either.

Ellery: Care to elaborate?

Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

This was supposed to be simple.

Reckoned with the task of asking one question, Noah stares at the screen for a long while… long enough for Ellery to send another message.

Ellery: Noah, I’m not going to tell anyone that you made an account here, or that you messaged me, or even what your motive is.

Ellery: Safe space. Remember?

Noah doesn’t need a safe space. He’s not like that, and he’s not some coward in need of protection. He can do this, and he’ll feel better afterwards. Shaking, he finally responds:

Brett: I just wanted to know if you took care of yourself that night.

The time in between ‘read’ and a response is excruciating. Noah chews his bottom lip and glares at their chat, willing it to update. It does.

Ellery: You’re asking if I got myself off after sucking you off…?

Noah is going to die. He’s going to combust from embarrassment and regret, and while he’s on fire he’s going to not only delete this app but also move to a different city and ditch his phone somewhere along the way. Hell, change his name, dye his hair, maybe a few tattoos just to seal the—

Ellery: Twice. It was a lot.

Air leaves Noah’s lungs in a quiet hush as he leans back against the stall door, face aflame, arms and neck searing.

The words burn into him from the low-lit screen, branding him and feeding steam to the new heat in his stomach. The images that come with an admission like that. The thought of Ellery toying with himself over the course of hours, dripping wet and wrecked with it, no need for porn—instead, simply closing his eyes to think about Noah in the same way Noah had thought about—fuck. Had Ellery known he would come twice…? Could he tell, was he just that ready for it? Had he kept stroking through the first load and just…

Oh. Noah’s leaving him on read, isn’t he? That’s awfully telling.

Fighting for a decent reply, he tries to keep it flippant in spite of the now-painful tightness of his jeans.

Brett: Seriously? lol

Brett: Good. Glad to hear you got taken care of.

Brett: That’s all. Sorry to bother you.

There, that sounds pretty neutral. Right?

Ellery: Not a bother. I like talking to you.

Ellery: Speaking of, are you in the bathroom?

Noah cools a little, and he nods to his phone with a smile.

Brett: Yeah. Pic’s a dead giveaway huh?

The reply comes quickly.

Ellery: That too, but

Ellery: It says you’re 20 feet away, Noah.

Ellery: Are you in the bathroom of O'brien's???

What.

Noah locks up, staring at the messages in the fearful hopes he’s misread them. But no matter how much he panics and frets, the words don’t change, and in a daze, Noah taps back to examine Ellery’s profile.

There it is. Somehow, he’d missed it.

18 ft away. Right there under Ellery’s name. Holy shit, this thing tells you the exact distance between?!

He can’t—he can’t just vanish mid-convo, can he? How the fuck—Ellery had been in O'brien's this entire time, and Noah hadn’t even bothered to look around for the person he’d been hoping to contact?! Not that he'd have had the guts to just waltz up to him, but somehow this is worse. This is so much worse, to be caught in a public bathroom sneaking onto apps like this.

Swallowing, he slowly clicks into their chat and types with numb fingers.

Brett: I am.

He’s not at all prepared for the reply:

Ellery: Stay there.

Oh, Christ. An unwelcome flurry of panic and thrill rushes through Noah’s limbs, and he becomes self-aware again—he’s still hard, he’s holed up in a stall, he hasn’t showered since last night, he isn’t even sure he looks all that nice, and Ellery is going to be here any second. Ellery is going to walk through that door and be next to him again, in the flesh, standing close and looking up at him.

Noah needs to run.

“Noah?” comes the voice from the door, through the noise beyond, and all intention of leaving drains from his system. Awkward and quiet, Noah pushes his phone into his pocket and unlocks the stall to peer out. Sure enough, there he is.

As unrightfully stunning as he was the first time Noah had laid eyes on him.

In a form-fitting red print t-shirt and dark skinny jeans, Ellery enters the bathroom and smiles at him, leaning back against the door. His slightly-crooked grin, his bright eyes, the soft hair that screams touch me as loudly as the rest of him does.

“Hey. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

He seems relaxed enough; maybe he’s had a few drinks tonight. But the pink of his cheeks could also be from dancing or… something.

Clearing his throat, Noah bows his head and steps out of the stall, keeping a safe distance from the man across the room. “You’re fine. I, uhh… didn’t realize that app gave out your location.”

“Oh. I made this weird, then, huh?” Ellery frowns, but it dissolves quickly as he meanders over to the sinks. Just a bit closer; not cornering. “You’d better delete it, then. I’m sure some basketball fans would stalk you if they could put two and two together.”

“Hah. Maybe,” Noah warbles. He’s handling this fine. Definitely not listening to the part of his brain screaming filthy daydreams at him. He can hold a normal conversation in a bathroom with a guy. He does it with his teammates all the time. It’s normal.

Only… Ellery isn’t just any guy. That had been the whole point of reaching out, right?

“I guess I just wanted to tell you that it was… kinda sweet, that you were thinking about me.” Ellery turns to the sinks but keeps his gaze level, watching Noah in the mirror. Eye contact is easier this way, somehow. Less intense than if it were direct. “Thanks for being so considerate. Most straight guys just… run for the hills.”

“Y-You—” Noah catches his curiosity and tamps it down, rubbing his neck. “You’ve done that with other straight guys?”

“No. I just meant in general, straight guys don’t like being around ‘queers’.”

“Oh. Right.” Guilt nicks Noah’s neck (I wanted to run too, didn't I?) and he nods. “Sorry.”

“No need to be sorry.” The corners of Ellery’s mouth tug up—a tiny shift that renders Noah speechless, given his perfect lips—and he huffs a laugh. “Okay then. I’ll leave you alone. Should’ve known better than to track you down, honestly. Not sure why I felt the need to, but it won’t happen again.” And just like that, he’s turning and heading for the door, throwing a hand over his shoulder in a wave.

And it’s far too familiar and it jolts Noah into action; he’s not going to have a repeat of last time.

“Ellery. Can I have your phone number?”

Ellery stops and spins, the surprise on his face endearing and… cute. “What? Really?”

“You can say ‘no’.” Noah blathers, “I just—I dunno, I think you’re cool and you’re a nice guy. I think we’d make good… friends… or whatever. If you wanted to, uh, hang out sometime.” It’s laughably weak reasoning and falls all over the place, but Ellery doesn’t look amused. He simply considers Noah with a calm air before pacing back to him.

Ellery holds out his hand. “Give me your phone.”

Noah does as he’s told, watching in something akin to amazement as Ellery adds himself to Noah’s contacts. Without asking for permission, he then shoots himself a text and smiles victoriously when his pocket buzzes.

“And now I have your number,” Ellery beams, and Noah would love to get over feeling like a deer in headlights.

“Right. Thanks.”

“You’re gonna text me, right?” Ellery asks, looking up at Noah with eyes mesmerizing through and through. It’s by luck alone that Noah remembers how to form words in the face of that sort of attention. Coy, yet kind. Is everything Ellery does flirty on purpose, or is he just naturally that charming and self-assured? He carries himself with a confidence that Noah can only hope to replicate on the court, and damn, if that doesn’t have a way of getting under Noah’s skin. To just live that way, unabashed?

“Yeah. I’ll text you.”

Definitely. Probably later tonight, if he knows himself. Fuck.

“Good.” Ellery moves to the door and pushes, revealing the rest of the bar patrons dancing in the dark to a popular song. He pauses just long enough to turn and smile at Noah. “I’ll be waiting.”

And then Noah is alone again. Almost like he’d dreamed Ellery up.

Wave after wave of shock seeps out through Noah’s shoes into the cold bathroom tile until he’s able to look at his phone. The text log is still open. The recipient— Ellery Brooks— has been sent a short and simple text to himself from Noah’s phone:

Ellery: Don’t forget.

Sweating and running a hand through his hair, Noah screws his eyes shut and sees Ellery in every corner of his mind.

Like he could possibly forget.