His eyes widen, terror spilling into them, but I lean closer, the words tearing themselves out of me like glass shredding my throat.
“I want you alive. But Broken every day, waking up stuck in this place in pain, wishing you were gone, but never finding relief. Because that’s what you gave me. I am still in pain. Youleft me stuck in hell, stuck in that damn treehouse. And until I claw my way out of that hell, until the storm in my head finally clears—you don’t get to die. You live, you suffer, and you rot. You carry what you did.”
He’s shaking now, sobbing, his eyes are filled with fear and terror that I have waited years to see, and I hope he carries this trauma with him until death finally takes him.
I release him with a shove, stumbling back as my throat closes. My chest is tight, my breath uneven. A tear slips down before I can stop it.Damn it. Damn it, Lucas, hold yourself together.
I lift my gaze, and Alex is there. Still there. Still holding Nate pinned, silent and watchful, letting me have every word, every strike, every release. His eyes hold mine, steady, grounding.
I try to speak, but nothing comes out—just a broken sound caught in my throat.
And then Alex moves—slow, certain. He lets Nate go and steps toward me. His presence, steady, unyielding, like gravity itself pulling me back from the edge. He takes my shaking hands gently, prying them from the fists I didn’t realize I was making. He doesn’t say a word, just walks me out of the room.
The door shuts behind us with finality, and suddenly I’m in his arms. His chest is solid, warm, and I collapse into him, burying my face against him as the storm breaks free. My body folds, trembling, but his arms never loosen.
“It’s okay, baby,” he murmurs, his voice low and grounding, his fingers threading through my hair. “I’m here. Always here.”
And I know he is. God, I know.
“Thank you,” I whisper, the words muffled against him, my voice cracking under the weight of everything. “I love you, Alex.”
He tilts my chin up, his eyes fierce and soft all at once. “I love you more, krasivy.”
His lips brush my forehead, firm and tender, sealing me back together piece by piece.
FIFTY-ONE
LUCAS
MAY. Six months later.
I stare down at my final paper and let out a long, shaky sigh of relief.
“Done,” I whisper to myself, the word tasting almost unreal on my tongue.
Around me, the exam hall is steeped in silence—just the soft scratching of pens and the occasional cough. Every head is bowed low over their desks, faces tight with concentration. For a moment, I just sit there, watching them, and a small, nervous laugh slips out of me. My fingers tighten on the edge of my paper as I look back down to cross-check my answers, more out of habit than necessity.
Finally… It’s over. The spring semester has come to an end, and it’s been one hell of a ride.
I still remember walking into my first class in January, so unprepared for how brutally different Blackwood University would be from community college. Nothing could’ve prepared me for the stress, the workload, the endless assignments, the lecturers who seemed determined to squeeze out every last drop of my sanity. It’s been exhausting, diabolical even, but in its own strange way, it’s been worth it.
Worth it because I wasn’t completely alone. I had my Alex, steady as ever by my side, and my crazy, sweet best friend, Tyler, who somehow made the chaos bearable.
Adjusting to this school, though… God, that’s been hell. Not starting as a fresher was already enough to make me feel like the odd one out, but the people here? Some are insufferable. The gossip is relentless, and the whispers about me never seem to die down. It still amazes me that some students recognized me as the guy who used to work at the café off-campus. Yes, I worked there for two years—but to be remembered for that, of all things, feels strange.
And then there’s Alex’s family name. The Petrovs are practically carved into the walls of this school, and everyone knows it. Being tied to him, even quietly, only fuels more speculation. There’s even a ridiculous rumor floating around that I’m dating Maksim. Maksim of all people.
It’s not like I didn’t expect rumors; he’s always hovering around me, breathing down my neck. He studies Art here, but thank God, he’s graduating soon. Maybe then I’ll finally get some peace. I don’t hate hanging out with him; I love hanging out with Maksim. He’s easy, familiar, safe in his own way. But being around him often means being around his friends sometimes—those rich kids with their tailored smiles and bored arrogance. And that… I don’t like. It’s not that I feel inferior to them, maybe the Lucas who hadn’t met Alex would have, but now… things are different. Being with Alex changed everything.
There is nothing that I want that I do not get to have. I have my own monthly allowance from my trust fund, I have Alex’s Amex card with my name engraved on it, and even the weekly money he still insists on giving me for our ASL lessons. We don’t practice as much these days, but I still teach him when I can. He pretends not to know much, but I swear, Alex already understands more sign language than he lets on.
Also, life threw me a curveball I never expected. Months ago, I did a photoshoot for Davika’s beauty brand, just something I thought would disappear into the blur of my life. But when the campaign dropped in March, it didn’t just land—it exploded. It went viral, my face was everywhere online and even on the damn Times Square billboard, People seemed fascinated. Not just because I was the only guy, but because the makeup made me look so androgynous that people couldn’t tell if I was a guy or a girl. Somehow, that difference made me stand out. Suddenly, I had other brands sending PR packages, and this growing world of attention at my fingertips.
There was a time I would’ve wanted this, craved it, even. I used to dream about the beauty world, about being seen, about being a popular gay makeup artist, model, influencer… whatever label would fit. But now, I don’t want it anymore. I don’t want the spotlight, or the eyes, or the endless scrutiny. The attention feels suffocating. All I do is post the PR packages I receive, because I feel like I should. Rarely do I post myself. My personal life is mine. I guard it like it’s oxygen. Alex isn’t a social media person; he doesn’t even have it.
If someone had told me last year that my life would look like this now, I wouldn’t have believed them. It feels like everything is moving too fast, but somehow also exactly right.
Therapy has been a part of that. I started five months ago. At first, it was awful, like peeling back skin I didn’t want to see beneath. But slowly, with Joanna’s patience, it’s become bearable. She’s kind in a way that doesn’t feel pitying. Open-minded. Steady. She’s also Maksim’s therapist, so I trusted her, but even then… letting her in wasn’t easy.
