I have a list of things I need to do for Zoey and Sabali. The work of a personal assistant is ever-expanding lately. Scheduling time for Zoey to interview my replacement is one of them. I went in the back gate and skillfully avoid the front gate where Noah's workshop was. He lived in the workshop in a bed I knew all too well that overhung the workshop floor. Whereas the back gate, which had a good view of the wrap-around porch, was a lovely way of avoiding contact. That night at the One-Night-Only Ball stayed with me. It burned me up inside for the need to want it to happen again and the pain we extracted from each other. It was ugly in that way. You can't let go of someone when you're drowning.

Not a lot of good can come from engaging and Noah isn't my problem anymore. Or, at least until his new personal assistant is trained. Then he fully isn't my problem.

I flip through the books in the back room. My steps became a habit, my actions in a long-ago routine. I put the sample of clothes that got shipped up away and bagged in plastic. Did a color-coded wood hanger for the outfits. Also, set up a room for Sabali clothing samples in Zoey's house as she asked me to. It would be a while before the two singers hit Sacramento again. I grabbed the items, so mailing a few things to them for the road was on the list of things to do. Nether had an official stylist yet. But both needed it. They had a very good idea of the things they liked and I could follow what they wanted easily. A flurry of interviews and events always followed each city and each concert. It takes a shocking amount of clothes to make sure you're not wearing the same thing everywhere. It's actually easier to be a guy because no one notices when they wear a black shirt and jeans at more than one event. Does anyone really say a word other than that he's being roguish and mysterious. But heaven forbid a woman who is going to over 29 cities in 2 months wears the same outfit twice. Gasp, what if the radio station interviewed notices? When she has to do at least 4 or 6 interviews and events a week. The best and easiest is when they do press junket-style events. Takes fewer clothes and less effort for me. I had to make a spreadsheet and keep a list of all outfits that's worn. Then figure out ways to wear things differently so they don't appear like the same outfit. Then mark that off the list of options. The whole thing is nuts, a clothing racketeering for small music artists.

As my day went on, it felt so close to old times working for Noah and Zoey before the breakup. In that weird before the time when my day would be organizing and filling out schedules. Then a round of replying to messages, editing and then my day would be done. I'd put the kids to sleep, then Noah would slip into the door of my room and it was our time. But it's not old times. The weirdness lingers even when I'm going through the same habits. I headed out to sit at that wrap-around porch like old times. The glass of water I poured for myself would normally be coffee. But I've yet to have a cup since the last one Noah made. The habit of my life last year was so automatic my brain didn't even fully process most of it. The cup of water was already on the table. My butt was sitting on the front porch seat. Then I was opening the notebook to work on Sabali and Zoey's social media. It was weird and my thoughts barely processed the cold water as I clicked through the first of today's work. But when my eyes did the normal glance at Noah's workshop.

The black BMW outside Noah's workshop turned on without anyone inside it. A beep beep of lights and the front door opened remotely. Noah didn't get a lot of visitors. His agent, his friends, and his sister were normally the extent of the traffic. None of them had black BMW's with all the trim. It was the nosiness in me that had me stopping work and watching the woman in her hooded, tight-cut trench coat. She walked to the car without looking back at Noah at the entrance of his workshop. My gut clenched. She was a little too far away to see her face, but Noah didn't wave at her when she left. But he stood and watched her car leave through the front gate. He didn't leave his spot as she cleared the front gate.

He was back in his non-activated mode. Not the bespoke red carpet Noah from the event night. I always thought of Noah in four ways. Clark Kent when he's going under the radar but still being a super sweet guy. He wears these henleys, flannels, and jeans and looks unsuspecting, like Clark Kent. You get this feeling like some things here that I'm missing. Then he has his Superman mode. Superman is well Superman. He's got this bigger-than-life about him when he's creating art. Like he's dialed into a world you can't even see. It's beautiful. After that, you have Saiyans and powered-up mode Super Saiyan Neptune god mode Noah. When he does something so unexpected and sexy, it catches you completely off guard. Sometimes, it's as if he powered-up and went on a training montage while you weren't looking, and bam Neptune.

Noah went inside the workshop. I kept working on the porch without him even looking my way. But when he came back out in his workout clothes running past the porch, his eyes flip to me. He takes off his t-shirt and a pinch deep in my lower belly went off. His exposed muscles free that t-shirt bear's chest with just the right amount of hair. Not too busy to be a carpet, but thick enough to know he didn't care. It was all that subtle man stuff. A guy not caught up on himself. What top it off was his hair in beachy waves. He wasn't playing around. It was a blast from the past, with Noah shirtless in jogging shorts running past me. Thick muscle body working overtime. I wasn't mistaken. The night of the event, he was bigger. His hair was longer. The thickness is REAL. With each lap of his workout, his body labored more. Sweat rolled down his exposed, muscular chest. Brawny thick thighs pumping hard for more speed. With each one of his labored breaths, his jogging short dipped with his movements. The peaking of an oh-so-happy sandy blonde trail flashes down. Noah always is lightly tan everywhere. It's not over-the-top orange, but it's more like I live in California and it is what it is.

He went by again and I shift in my seat. With my finger tapping on the notebook, I count the time until the next lap. Sweat rolls from my brow. Why does this feel like torcher? I had a stank face. I could feel it. Like when someone hit the spot, but it's on slightly the wrong side of hitting it too hard. But it still feels good and you just dealing with it to get to the cum. I had that stank face. Because it was like a meal was being offered, but a meal he knew I couldn't have. With each one of his goddamn laps, all that hot thick flesh and hot thick thighs were telling me. You want it and you can't have it. So yeah... stank face.

I take a large gulp of water, but it's not enough. His last footsteps to the warehouse are hard thumps to the ground. I know Noah's irritated face. It's been directed at me recently. The warehouse has two safety showers on both sides. And they paid me to be his personal assistant for a year. I knew Noah's habits inside out. But today he surprised me. He steps into the outdoor shower on the wrong side of the house.

Wet.. wet...water cascaded down his body. That cool liquid outlined every bit of his beautiful beloved thickness. I was stuck on pause. Down bad. Even if I wanted to look away at this point. I was stuck. His turbulent ocean gaze watched me. As he pulled off his jogging shorts. Water running down his body over his chest down between his...

Brain fully short-circuited as his hard cock bobbed up proudly. Noah has a pretty cock. I know you're not supposed to call cocks pretty. Maybe handsome was the right wording or manly, but Noah's cock was always pretty. It's like somehow these meaty, thick thighs found a way to frame his cock perfectly.

The water glass was empty, not a drop of liquid left to cool my thirst. When our eyes met again, he stared me down. Without a single bit of shyness. Neptune gave me a run for my money. I also realized he knew very well what he was doing.

He steps out of the shower, wiping down. Then he pulled on a pair of jeans, tucking his still hard cock into them. Grabbed his tool belt and headed towards the lake.

If that wasn't a big fuck you. I'm not sure what is. Not even the good fuck you. Angry Noah is hot but mean, but it was directed towards me. So, yes, warn me, things aren't fixed. We aren't even, and he's still mad at me.

God, together we are so fucked up. Well, fucked up, and toxic.

...err...

A/n: Attempting to catch up on post. I'll leave a proper a/n when I do. Just know I'm catching up on the missing. Which is why you got 3 this week.