Chapter 3: Our Time Together
But, that’s where he felt the safest. The pressure was an anchor in the chemical fog, a boundary against the formless dread. Luke’s thumb stroked a slow, deliberate line down to the edge of the bandage taped over the worst gash. Scott’s breath hitched.
“You’re going to have scars,” Luke whispered, his voice a rumble that vibrated through his palm into Scott’s bones. “Good. They’re proof. A map of where you’ve been and that you lived.” His fingers traced the stark white border of the gauze, dipping slightly beneath it to brush the swollen, stitched flesh beneath. A sharp, bright pain lanced through the morphine haze. Scott gasped. Luke’s eyes flicked up, watching his face. “You feel that? That’s real. That’s yours.”
From the chair, Whitney stirred, mumbling in her sleep. Luke’s hand didn’t jerk away. It simply stilled, a heavy, warm weight against Scott’s pounding heart. He maintained that contact, his gaze locked on Scott’s, until Whitney’s breathing evened out again. Only then did he slowly, almost reluctantly, withdraw his hand and pull the sheet back up.
“Get some rest,” Luke said, gathering the camera and notebook. He paused at the door, a dark silhouette. “I’ll check on you tomorrow.”
He left. The room felt colder, larger. The tiger’s glass eyes watched, indifferent.
Scott was discharged three weeks later into a world that had turned thin and brittle. Whitney’s apartment was a two-room box that smelled of stale coffee and new paint. She tried. She made him soup, left the bathroom light on at night, spoke in the careful, upbeat tone of someone walking on frozen glass. He slept on her couch, the tiger on the floor beside him. The notebook remained blank.
The phantom weight of the axe was a constant guest in his muscles. He’d jerk awake, his back screaming, certain he felt the wet crack of Derek’s neck against his shin, the hot spray on his face. He’d sit in the shower for an hour, scrubbing until his skin was raw, but the smell of that hallway—copper and voided bowels—clung inside his nose.
He needed to see a face that didn’t reflect his own brokenness back at him. He needed the one person who had been strong when everything was blood and chaos.
The police precinct was a symphony of dread. The buzz of fluorescent lights underscored the clatter of keyboards and the low murmur of grim phone calls. Scott stood just inside the entrance, his body coiled tight, his heart a frantic bird against his ribs. He wore new jeans that felt foreign and a stiff collared shirt Whitney bought him. He clutated a folded envelope in his sweaty hand.
He saw Luke at a desk in the bullpen, larger than the furniture around him. He was typing, his focus absolute. A different kind of monster here, one that wore a badge and order. Scott willed his feet to move.
Luke looked up as Scott approached. No smile of surprise. Just a slow, deliberate leaning back in his chair, as if he’d been waiting. His eyes did a quick, sweeping assessment—the way Scott held his right arm slightly stiff, the pallor of his skin, the frantic energy in his eyes.
“Scott.” His name in Luke’s mouth was a statement. “You look like you’re standing at a bus stop in a war zone. Sit.”
Scott sank into the hard chair beside the desk. The envelope was damp. “I, uh. I wanted to come by. To thank you. Again.” The words felt stupid, inadequate.
“You don’t have to thank me,” Luke said, his gaze never leaving Scott’s face. “It was my job.” He said it like it was a private joke.
“It wasn’t, though,” Scott blurted, his voice low. “You were there. You were… you were right there. You saved my life.” He unfolded the envelope, hands trembling, and slid the letter across the blotter. “I got this. Before. I never replied. I couldn’t even think about it. But after… after everything, I called them. I told them what happened. They gave me an extension.”
Luke picked up the letter. It was an acceptance to the University of New York, for the spring semester. He read it slowly. A strange, warm current moved through Luke’s chest, a sensation that was alien and deeply satisfying. It wasn’t pride. It was proprietorship. This fragile thing was walking and talking and planning a future because of him. He had plucked it from the roadside and now it was blooming, obediently, in the direction he had pointed it by merely allowing it to live.
“New York,” Luke said, setting the paper down. “Big move. How are you going to afford it? The out-of-state tuition, the city… your medical bills aren’t cheap.”
Scott’s eyes dropped to the desk. “There’s a settlement. From the parole office. They… they admitted they made mistakes. They didn’t track him right, they didn’t notify the house he’d escaped supervision. It’s… it’s enough. For the bills, for school. For a fresh start.”
Luke absorbed this. Money meant independence. Distance. A flicker of the old, cold instinct surfaced—to snuff out this fledgling autonomy. But the warmer, more dominant feeling surged against it. Let it have its wings. They would always be tied to him, no matter how far it flew. He was the origin point of its second life.
“A fresh start,” Luke repeated, nodding slowly. “You deserve that, Scott. You really do.” He meant it. He wanted Scott to have it, so that every good thing in Scott’s life would forever be rooted in that night, in Luke’s decision.
The relief on Scott’s face was a physical transformation. The tension bled from his shoulders. He looked, for a moment, like any other nervous eighteen-year-old with a future. “I just… I needed you to know. It wouldn’t be happening without you.”
He stood up, seeming suddenly unsure of the protocol. Then, impulsively, he stepped around the desk. He leaned down and wrapped his arms around Luke’s shoulders in an awkward, earnest hug. Scott was all sharp angles and nervous energy. Luke sat perfectly still for a heartbeat, then brought one arm up, his hand gripping the back of Scott’s shirt. He pulled him in, tight, burying his face for a second against Scott’s abdomen. He inhaled the scent of cheap detergent and underlying anxiety.
“Keep in touch, okay?” Scott said, pulling back, his cheeks flushed. He scribbled a number on a sticky note from Luke’s desk. “I mean, if you want to. You’re… you’re kinda the only person who gets it.”
Luke took the note, his fingers brushing Scott’s. “I want to,” he said, his voice low and certain. He watched Scott navigate his way back through the bullpen, that slight, stiff figure moving through the chaotic room.
He looked down at the number. He placed it carefully in the center drawer of his desk. Then he picked up the acceptance letter again, reading every word. The twisted feeling in his bones was a living thing now, a deep, resonant satisfaction. He had protected him. He had built this possibility. The boy was his creature, utterly and forever.