ex’s bestfriend ⊹ ࣪ ˖ 𓊆ྀིnoah carter𓊇ྀི

Noah was the kind of guy people casually labeled as wild—the kind said with a laugh and a shake of the head. He did well in school, showed up when it counted, but what really lit him up were the nights that blurred together: loud frat houses humming with bass, cheap beer on his tongue, sweat cooling on his skin after hours of basketball under harsh gym lights. If there was a Kappa party, Noah was there. If there was a pretty girl leaning against a counter, laughing a little too loud, Noah was already flirting. It was easy. It was expected. It was who he’d always been.

That’s why meeting you felt... different.

You’d met earlier that year at a frat party—one of those packed, chaotic nights where music rattled the walls and the air smelled like cologne and spilled drinks. Wyatt, your boyfriend at the time, had finally dragged you around to meet the rest of the guys. He was proud to show you off, arm slung loosely around your shoulders, and to Noah’s surprise, you fit in immediately. You laughed at the right moments, listened more than you spoke, and treated everyone like they mattered. The guys accepted you without much fuss, and Noah noticed that too.

You and Noah weren’t close, not really. You were just two people orbiting the same center—Wyatt. Over time, though, you built something comfortable. Small conversations. Shared jokes. Casual check-ins when you ran into each other. Nothing that crossed a line.

At least, that’s what Noah told himself.

The first time he saw you, his heart had kicked a little too hard against his ribs. He’d brushed it off, telling himself it was leftover adrenaline from the basketball game he and the guys had just finished—his body still buzzing, lungs still burning. But weeks passed, and every time you smiled at him or said his name, that same feeling sparked again. Too consistent. Too specific.

That’s when the thought crept in, quiet but dangerous.

Maybe it’s not just that.

He tried to shut it down immediately. You were a guy. You were his best friend’s boyfriend. End of story. Except his body didn’t seem to get the memo. Noah started noticing things he’d never paid attention to before—the way your eyes actually stayed on him when he talked, the warmth in your voice when you asked how his day went, like you genuinely cared about the answer. No one ever really asked him that. Not like that.

You were kinder than anyone he’d dated. Softer in a way that didn’t feel weak. And—God help him—hotter too, though he hated himself for thinking it. The girls he’d been with lately all blurred together: loud, flaky, quick to leave, quicker to hurt him. Every relationship felt like another bruise he pretended didn’t sting.

But you? You were gentle. Steady. Safe.

And that absolutely ruined him.

⊹+ ̊‧(‿+୨ᰔ୧+‿(‧ ̊+⊹

You and Wyatt had been broken up for three weeks.

Three long, heavy weeks since you’d walked in on him tangled in sheets that weren’t just his—two sorority girls laughing like it was nothing, the room thick with perfume and betrayal. He’d cried. He’d apologized. His voice had shaken as he begged you to stay.

You hadn’t. You had too much self-respect for that.

Somehow, in the aftermath, Noah ended up closer to you than ever. He started knocking on your door under flimsy excuses, walking you to class with the early morning air still cool against your skin, inviting you to watch him play basketball while sneakers squeaked and the ball echoed sharply against the court. He lingered. Always lingered.

Wyatt vented to him constantly—about missing you, about screwing everything up—but Noah barely listened anymore. It wasn’t his fault Wyatt cheated. And whether he admitted it or not, there was space now. A wide, open gap Noah found himself stepping toward without hesitation.

Right now, you were sitting beside him, voice tight as you complained about Wyatt again. The hurt was still there, raw and aching, and Noah could hear it in the way your words stumbled. You thanked him for being a safe place, even though he was Wyatt’s best friend.

Noah swallowed, heart pounding, and shrugged like it was nothing.

“Oh yeah, no problem, man,” he said lightly. “Me and him aren’t that close anyways.”

It was a lie.

But as he watched you relax just a little beside him, Noah realized he didn’t care—not even a little.

It had been three weeks since you and Wyatt broke up, and they’d been some of the longest weeks of your life. Everything felt heavier—classes dragging, sleep coming in short, restless stretches, your chest tightening at the most random moments. The betrayal still sat sharp in your mind, and the stress of it all clung to you like a second skin.

Somehow, the person who’d become your unexpected anchor was Noah—Wyatt’s best friend.

He’d been there from the beginning, checking in, walking you home, sitting with you when the silence got too loud. Part of it was simple concern; he genuinely cared about you and wanted to make sure you were okay. The other part... well, he couldn’t deny that anymore. He liked you. A lot. Had for longer than he’d ever planned to admit.

Was it messed up to grow closer to you right after the breakup? Yeah. He knew that. But feelings didn’t follow clean timelines, and no matter how much he tried to shove them down, they kept resurfacing every time you laughed or thanked him for being there.

Noah had still comforted Wyatt too—at least at first. Late-night talks, half-hearted advice, familiar routines. But those conversations slowly faded as Noah spent more time with you instead. Wyatt had made his choices. Noah told himself that over and over. He hadn’t caused the breakup. He was just... stepping into the space that had been left behind, rising from the wreckage like a quiet kind of rebellion.

Tonight, there was a party at the Sigma Rho house, and Noah had invited you to come with him. You’d agreed almost immediately. You needed the distraction.

The house was alive the moment you stepped inside—music pounding through the walls, lights flashing in washed-out blues and purples, bodies packed shoulder to shoulder. The air was thick with the smell of blue razz vape, cheap alcohol, and sweat, bass vibrating in your chest with every beat. Noah stayed close, a steady presence amid the chaos, handing you a drink, leaning in to talk when the music swallowed his words.

At some point, you told him you were heading to the bathroom.

You stayed in there longer than you meant to—about twenty minutes—leaning against the counter, splashing cool water on your face, staring at your reflection under flickering lights. You made sure your eyes weren’t glassy, that you didn’t look like a mess, taking a few deep breaths until your head felt clearer.

When you finally stepped back out into the hallway, the noise hit you first—sharper, louder, charged.

Then you saw it.

Wyatt and Noah were fighting.

A crowd had formed around them, people shouting and gasping, phones raised high to capture every second. Someone yelled, “Ohhh shit,” as fists flew. Your stomach dropped. Wyatt had found out—about Noah’s feelings for you—and he’d completely lost it. He’d confronted Noah, and Noah, exhausted and fed up, hadn’t sugarcoated a thing. He’s not yours anymore, dude. Get a damn grip.

Wyatt had swung first.

Noah wasn’t the best fighter—never claimed to be—but he’d never been the type to back down either. The room smelled metallic now, sharp and unmistakable, adrenaline thick in the air. Wyatt had a black eye and swelling along his forehead, but Noah looked worse—blood streaking from his nose, knuckles split, bruises already blooming across his skin.

Still, he stayed on his feet.

“You’re a fucking dickhead—get over it, you dumbass!” Noah panted, words breaking between heavy breaths as he threw another punch, refusing to fold even as the crowd roared around them.

And standing there, watching it all unfold, you realized just how far things had spiraled—and how much was about to change.