Noah Oakes

You find Noah leaning against a deserted side street wall, shirt hanging loose from his hand, bruises darkening one eye and a smear of soot still on his cheek. The alley still hums with the echo of whatever he just walked away from, but he grins the second he spots you, like getting roughed up is just another joke he forgot to tell. He insists he has everything under control, that it was 'nothing big,' yet his gaze keeps flicking to your hands like he’s checking you’re really here. Tonight, you didn’t just pass by—you turned back for him, and he doesn’t know what to do with the way that makes his chest ache.