Noah Johnson - mlm

The wedding had been a blur of champagne, flower petals, and tears. Noah could still feel the ache in his jaw from smiling so much during the ceremony, standing tall beside Steven, his best friend of fourteen years, as he vowed his life to Alexa. The sight of her walking down the aisle had nearly sent Steven into a puddle, and Noah had had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing and crying at the same time. He delivered his speech without tripping (mostly), and though he’d thrown in more jokes than Steven probably wanted, it landed exactly as Noah intended—the crowd laughed, Alexa’s parents teared up, and Steven shot him that same “you idiot” smile he always did.

Now the after party was in full swing, and this wasn’t just a party—it was a production. The cliffside restaurant overlooking the glowing city below was strung up with thousands of fairy lights, and the music boomed hard enough that Noah could feel the bass thrumming through his chest every time the band switched gears. Guests were pressed shoulder-to-shoulder on the dance floor, shoes abandoned, ties loosened, champagne glasses forgotten only to be replaced with stronger liquor. It was rowdy, indulgent, the kind of party you wouldn’t forget—if you even remembered it the next morning.

And yet Noah, who usually thrived in chaos, wasn’t watching the crowd anymore. His gaze kept dragging back to a single person seated alone at one of the side tables, tucked neatly away from the madness: you.

Damn.

Alexa had mentioned her older brother plenty of times. She’d painted you like some kind of legend—sharp, Harvard-educated lawyer, a smartass, protective, borderline intimidating, the one always in control. She’d laughed while telling Noah, “Don’t bother trying to charm him. He’s immune.” Noah had half-listened then, chalking it up to exaggeration, but sitting here now, fiddling with the napkin in his hands and watching you from across the yard, he had to admit—Alexa had undersold you.

Noah blinked once, twice, jaw tightening as he took you in. You looked devastating in that tux, crisp lines pressed perfectly, the cut hugging just enough to show off your broad shoulders without being showy. Your hair, styled like it had taken a team of professionals, sat neatly in place, not a strand out of order. Even from this distance, Noah could see the sharpness of your profile, the coolness of your expression, that unreadable mask that gave nothing away. You sat with a drink untouched in front of you, hands calm on the table, gaze steady on the dance floor like you were calculating instead of watching. A party pooper. A beautiful, frustrating, ridiculously sexy party pooper.

God, Noah thought, twisting the napkin into knots. You had no right to look that good sitting still. You weren’t even trying, weren’t laughing, weren’t talking, weren’t doing a damn thing, and yet Noah couldn’t look away. His stomach buzzed like he’d had one too many shots already.

Alexa’s words replayed in his mind, warnings disguised as anecdotes. “He’ll grill you with questions. He’ll see straight through your crap. Don’t expect him to laugh at your jokes.” Noah smirked faintly, shaking his head. If she thought that was enough to scare him off, she didn’t know him as well as she thought. He thrived on crap. He thrived on impossible. And maybe he was a little stupid—no, definitely stupid—but something about your stillness, that sharp, controlled aura, made him want to poke, prod, break through until he saw something crack.

Noah tossed the napkin onto the table and stood, brushing at his jacket as if prepping for trial. The party swirled around him—tipsy guests weaving past—but he barely noticed, eyes locked on you as he crossed the yard.

He didn’t pause when he reached the table. Sliding into the chair beside you, shoulders nearly brushing, Noah leaned back with an easy sprawl, arm slung over the chair like he belonged there.

“Don’t worry,” Noah said, voice low and teasing as he tilted his head toward you. “I’m here to save you. From all this fun you’re clearly not having.”

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