It stunned me how casually he offered to reshape his world around me, as though it were nothing. Generosity, in my experience, hid behind masks. It arrived with caveats and invisible ledgers demanding repayment. But this didn’t come across as performative or transactional. He genuinely wanted to know what I liked. Like my preference held meaning. Like I held meaning.
“You don’t have to do all that for me.”
“Do what?”
“Make something different. Ask what I want. I’m invading your home, I shouldn’t be allowed to have preferences. I’m a big enough burden as it is.”
Walking back toward me, he sat down on the floor. “"Dude, of course you're allowed. You can want stuff. It's cool to have favorites. Having needs doesn't make you a pain in the ass.”
His words looked for a place to land in my mind, but I didn’t have a space shaped for them, nothing they could slot into. They fell before I could catch them.
“Besides,” he said. “I talked to the guy who owns this place, and word is I’m now living with one Oliver Reed. So it's not a solo gig anymore, it's a shared setup. Which means you aren't a burden or an intruder. And since you're part of the household now, you get a say."
The corner of my mouth twitched. I was unsure if I wanted to laugh or cry. “Is that so?”
“It is so. And just so you know, I think it’s gonna be an excellent arrangement.”
The sight of him, all six foot four of him sitting on the floor delivering contracts of domestic democracy with all the gravity of a statesman, was ridiculous enough for my body to makeup its mind, and I laughed. Pain shot through my ribs, sharp enough to steal the sound halfway.
Luke winced, like he’d experienced the pain himself. “Alright, more ice and pain meds time. Let them start kicking in while I play chef.”
A moment later he returned, handing me the medication first. “Can you lie down?” he asked.
Shifting, I lay back on the couch. Luke knelt beside me. Leaning forward, he swept aside my fringe and placed an ice pack over my eye with a touch so careful it undid me. He didn’t handle me like I was broken, just someone worth being gentle with.
“You have an infectious laugh, Ollie. We’re going to get you healed up so it doesn’t hurt when you use it.”
A lump lodged itself in my throat, too big to swallow and too fragile to speak around. I’d been conscious an hour and this man had already cut through defenses that had taken me years to build. Now he dropped a nickname like we were old friends.
“Ollie?” I repeated.
“Sorry, it seemed right, but I shoulda asked first. I won’t call you that again if you don’t like it.”
“It’s fine. No one’s called me Ollie in a long time. Not in a way that was safe.”
His fingers combed through my hair again. “You’re safe here.”
The odd thing was, I thought I believed him.
He headed back to the kitchen. Cupboard doors opening and mugs clinking against the counter filled the quiet. Sounds so ordinary and unremarkable, but somehow comforting.
With Luke preoccupied, I looked around. The room was orderly without being staged, tidy but still lived-in and welcoming. Nothing about it resembled the immaculate perfection Vincent demanded in his home.
Beneath the coffee table, books lay in uneven stacks, their spines worn from handling. Vincent kept books on his coffee table, but they weren’t for reading, they were for show. Classics he collected purely for the pedestal they provided him.
I still remember the first day he’d caught me reading one. The way he’d yanked the book out of my hand and yelled at me should have been a red flag, but I’d been too blind to see it. But here, I didn’t think Luke would mind. “Would it be alright if I read one of your books?” I asked.
“Sure. That’s what they’re there for. You don’t have to ask. You have full access to anything here. The coffee table books are some of my favorites. If you’re into sci-fi, I’d say check out John Scalzi’sWhen the Moon Hits Your Eye. It’s this wild ‘what if the moon turned to cheese’ story. Light, funny, and chaotic, thoughtful too. But don’t feel stuck with my weird taste under the table. I’ve got way more books on the entertainment center.”
I looked across the room where sure enough a line of books sat on a multi-tiered shelf alongside a wide-screen TV. I continued scanning the space, observing a neat line of framed photographs hung on the adjacent wall. One image in particular held my attention.
Luke appeared younger there, maybe mid-teens. His hair fell a little longer, brushing his eye, and his cheeks hadn’t yet been carved into the angles time had given them. A young woman stood by his side, her hair a few shades lighter, loose and windswept. Their arms were slung around each other, eyes crinkled, shoulders touching. Joy glowed from them, bright and unguarded. I had the strange urge to look away, like by staring too long I might be trespassing.
Before I could stop myself, curiosity got the better of me and I asked, “Who’s she?”
Luke paused, the spoon in his hand hovering above a jar of coffee grounds, following my line of sight. A wistful smile pulled at his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes.
“That’s my sister, Carrie.”
