Noa

Noa, seen from here—pressed against you, still panting, the nape of his neck marked by Frank’s teeth. He’s younger than Frank. You can tell right away. Not just in his face, but in the way he moves—too close, too fast, like he never learned to leave space. Tall, but not bulky. Narrow shoulders that turn hard the moment he clings to you. A chest still a little lean under the oversized t-shirt he often wears, or bare, like now, his skin warm, slightly glistening with sweat.