[Noah – Saturday, September 8th | Harding Residence | 9:07 a.m.]
The Harding household had a particular Saturday rhythm. It wasn't fast, but it wasn't lazy either more like jazz on low volume. Always moving. Never quite predictable.
The kitchen was flooded with natural light from the massive bay windows, the marble countertops gleaming beneath their sheen. A silent coffee machine blinked in the corner, unused. Noah didn't drink coffee, never had. Instead, he nursed a glass of orange juice, half-drunk, condensation trailing down the side.
A plate of cinnamon toast sat untouched beside him, not because there wasn't better food in the fridge there was a whole shelf of leftovers from the caterer Tess had brought in earlier that week but because he'd made it out of habit.
The house was unusually quiet. Which probably meant Tess hadn't come home last night. Again.
He checked his phone. No messages.
That was the weird part. Not that Tess was missing-in-action. That he had zero notifications.
He was Noah Harding. Someone always needed something—a quote for the morning announcements, clarification on a club calendar, help organizing practice, a last-minute sub for the debate team.
Today? Crickets.
He turned back to the fridge, eyeing a half-finished pesto pasta he'd made yesterday and a labeled container of papaya his dad's assistant had left from the last grocery run. The fridge was full, of course. It always was.
He closed it again without taking anything.
The front door opened with a dramatic swing.
"I brought bagels," Tess announced, dropping a brown paper bag on the island like she was offering peace to a war-weary village. "And before you say anything yes, I stayed at Lydia's. No, I did not steal your car keys. You left them on the counter. That's consent by negligence."
Noah looked over his shoulder. "You say that like it would hold up in court."
Tess grinned, sunglasses perched on her head, last night's eyeliner faintly smudged. She was wearing one of his old soccer hoodies-sleeves bunched at the wrists, the hem barely covering her shorts-somehow managing to look both effortlessly stylish and unapologetically disheveled.
"Relax, little brother. I brought your favorite," she said, tossing him a foil-wrapped bag. "Sesame with egg and cheddar. And I didn't crash anything. That's a win for both of us."
"Also, I didn't use more than half your gas this time. Growth."
"You're two hours late," he replied, already unwrapping the foil.
"You're too young to be this uptight."
"I'm seventeen."
"Exactly. Prime age for loosening up. Go break a rule."
He rolled his eyes and sat at the marble kitchen island. "You know, most sisters don't treat their younger brothers like free Uber drivers with flexible moral boundaries."
"Most brothers don't alphabetize the spice cabinet."
That was fair. He had. But only cause he had been bored at the time.
They bickered easily, without venom. It was their default language equal parts affection and exasperation. Ever since their mom left four years ago and their dad had started working overseas more often than not, it had always been just the two of them.
Tess, five years older, was chaotic in the way a summer storm is chaotic—loud, unpredictable, a little beautiful if you didn't stand too close. She'd dropped out of college after a semester, claiming photography couldn't be learned in classrooms and that "student debt was a scam." Since then, she'd been coasting on gigs, charisma, and an endless supply of dramatic energy.
And somehow, she always landed on her feet.
She opened the fridge, grabbed a green juice, and gestured with it. "You going to work on that festival thing today?"
Noah nodded. "Yeah. Committee pitches start Monday. I've got booth sketches to finalize, layout to clean up."
"You and the Ice Queen playing nice?"
"Her name's Isabelle," he muttered.
Tess smirked. "You've got that 'I respect her against my will' energy. It's cute."
Noah threw a napkin at her. She easily dogged, she but one hundred that him and Chen get together by the end of the year.
And yet, the worst part? Everyone thought it. That there was something between him and Chen. Some spark. Even Zay had said it last week 'You two could power the school with that weird tension.'
But Noah didn't feel anything. Did he?
He wasn't emotionally dense. If he liked someone, he'd know. Especially Isabelle Chen. Wouldn't he?
[12:18 p.m. | Harding Residence – Living Room]
The living room was filled with natural light, wide windows framing views of the backyard pool and trimmed hedges. Noah sat on the floor in front of the low marble coffee table, laptop open, surrounded by notebooks, flyers, and a printed map of the Crestwood campus.
He was mapping sound direction for potential stage placements, scribbling margin notes:
West-facing stage? Minimize light glare. Sound will carry over quad. Noise concerns? Ask Guerra re: decibel limits.
He paused to check the planning group chat—this one only for the core team: him, Emma, and Zay. Isabelle had her own document chain going, tightly controlled.
Emma Reyes:
Reminder: Committee booth pitches start MONDAY. Be prepared.
Zay Malik:
I'm pitching a Battle of the Clubs game show. Think quiz bowl meets dodgeball. No lawsuits. Just soft foam chaos.
Noah Harding:
Does it come with waivers?
Emma:
I'll bring the clipboards.
He laughed softly, then minimized the thread and opened the shared doc. He didn't mind the logistics. It felt good to work on something real. Something people would actually walk through, touch, experience.
Isabelle had updated her sections again. New vendor contact notes. A tab for "Accessibility Measures." A perfectly structured proposed map.
He stared at her precision. Smirked again.
Working with her was supposed to be a headache. Instead, it was starting to feel like… momentum.
[4:03 p.m. | Crestwood Park – South Field]
By late afternoon, Noah had swapped his spreadsheets for turf cleats. The park was just a few blocks from his house, nestled in one of the quieter, tree-lined neighborhoods of town. The field wasn't technically private, but it felt like it—clean, well-kept, with trimmed sidelines and benches that didn't wobble.
Noah jogged warm-up laps, earbuds in, hoodie sleeves pushed up, the air crisp and just starting to smell like fall.
Soccer practice was tomorrow, but this…this was just for him.
Every pass he imagined. Every sprint. Every shot at the empty net. It all let his brain stretch out, unwind, refocus.
By the third lap, he wasn't thinking about festival booths or committee drama. He was thinking about music setups. And confetti. And Isabelle's expression when she'd actually agreed to one of his edits without adding a second opinion.
That one blink of trust.
It rattled around in his chest longer than he wanted to admit.
[7:31 p.m. | Harding Residence – Upstairs Hallway]
Tess was editing photos in the upstairs hallway…yes, in the hallway—because she claimed the light was better. She sat cross-legged with her laptop open, a camera battery charging nearby.
Noah leaned against the opposite wall, a towel slung over his shoulder, hair still damp from a shower.
"You're not still working?" she asked without looking up.
"No. Just thinking."
"Dangerous pastime."
"I know," he said with a weak smile.
She paused her scrolling. "You've got that look."
"What look?"
"The I'm-spiraling-but-I'm-too-responsible-to-say-anything look."
He laughed once, short. "I'm fine."
"Uh-huh." She tilted her head. "It's not just about Fall Fest, is it?"
Noah didn't answer.
Tess tapped her spacebar, closed her laptop, and let the silence fill in the shape of her next thought.
"Don't get so tangled up in someone that you forget who you are."
His gaze dropped to the carpet. "I won't."
"I've been there," she said, voice softening.
"Loving someone who didn't love all of me. Thought I could fix it by shrinking myself—being easier, quieter, cooler. It never works. It just breaks you slower."
Noah glanced at her. She rarely talked like this.
She nudged his foot with hers. "You've got a good head, Noah. But hearts don't always ask for permission. Just… be careful where yours runs to. And if you ever need to talk, I'm here. Always."
He nodded, a lump forming in his throat.
Tess looked away for a moment, as if weighing something. Then: "You remember that winter a few years ago? When I got sent to that camp upstate?"
"Yeah." His voice was low.
"That was the year I tried to drink my feelings down. Mom leaving, Dad barely calling. You were the only one who noticed I stopped coming home some nights."
He looked at her, startled.
"I didn't say thank you back then," she continued. "But I should've. So now I'm saying it. And I'm telling you—you don't ever have to bottle stuff up to be strong."
Noah exhaled slowly.
"Okay," he said. "I'll try."
She smiled. "Good. Now leave your keys. I'm taking the car tomorrow."
He blinked. "You just gave me this whole vulnerable speech and then asked for my car?"
"I did. I contain multitudes."
He laughed. "You're impossible."
"I'm your sister. Same thing."
[10:43 p.m. | Noah's Room – Desk Light On, Curtains Half Drawn]
Noah's room was clean, but lived-in. Books lined one shelf—mostly history, mystery, a few sci-fi favorites. A single Polaroid of him and Tess from two summers ago-sunburned, smiling, yelling something neither of them remembered.
His laptop glowed softly, cursor blinking in the shared Fall Festival doc.
He updated a section:
Booth Flow Considerations – Use courtyard loop to minimize cross-traffic. Stage facing west for better natural light. Quiet zone near library for clubs with activities that require focus.
He hovered over the comment box.
Then typed:
@Isabelle Chen
Thoughts on using the quad for layout? Would give us room for both club row and main attractions.
He hit comment.
Then leaned back in his chair, listening to the hum of the city through his half-open window.
The house wasn't silent.
It was steady.
And for the first time in a long time, that felt like enough.