Chapter Text
Luke wakes like he’s been dropped into the world rather than eased into it. There is no gentle drift from dream to waking—only the abrupt snap of awareness, breath caught halfway in his throat, chest tight as if something is still pressing down on it. For a moment he doesn’t move. He lies there, staring up at the ceiling, eyes wide in the dim grey of early morning, trying to orient himself. His room. His bed. Quiet. No noise. No echoing laughter. No lockers slamming in a corridor that stretched too long and too narrow to escape. But the feeling doesn’t leave. It lingers, clinging to him in the way only certain dreams do—the kind that don’t fade when you wake, the kind that follow you, reshaping themselves into something that feels uncomfortably close to memory.
In the dream, he’d been walking too fast, then not fast enough. Books clutched to his chest, footsteps behind him that never quite matched his own rhythm. Voices. Always voices. Not all of them clear, not all of them directed at him—but one always was. One always cuts through the rest. Low. Amused. Certain. “C’mon, puppy—keep up.” Luke squeezes his eyes shut. His fingers are twisted in the sheets, nails digging into the fabric hard enough to hurt. He hadn’t noticed until now. Slowly, deliberately, he forces them to loosen, one at a time, until the tension drains out of his hands in small, reluctant increments.
It’s just a dream. He repeats it in his head like a fact, like something measurable and therefore controllable. Just a dream. Except it isn’t entirely. That’s the problem. The details change—sometimes it’s the corridor, sometimes the locker room, sometimes the empty classroom where the lights flicker too bright—but the feeling is always the same. The awareness of being watched. Followed. Chosen.
Luke exhales slowly through his nose, long and steady, the way he’s learned to when his thoughts start running ahead of him. He focuses on the room instead—the familiar outlines, the quiet, the steady tick of time moving forward without him needing to do anything. Eventually, his breathing evens out. Eventually, the sharp edge of the dream dulls just enough that he can sit up without feeling like he’s stepping back into it.
He swings his legs over the side of the bed, feet finding the cold floor, grounding him in something real. The chill helps. It always does. It forces him into the present, into something physical and immediate. Morning. Routine. Normal. He can do normal. Can’t he?
The bathroom light is too bright at first. Luke squints at his reflection as he flicks it on, blinking a few times until his eyes adjust. He looks… fine. That’s the first thing he notices. There’s no visible trace of the way he woke up—no evidence of the tightness in his chest, the lingering echo of something he can’t quite shake. His hair is a mess, falling into his eyes in uneven strands. He reaches up automatically, pushing it back, fingers lingering for a second longer than necessary. He studies himself. Composed. Neutral. Unremarkable. That’s good. That’s what he aims for. No one at school needs to know anything beyond that. They don’t need more ammunition to use against Luke. He knows he’s an easy target what with being smart and having good grades. It's ridiculous really, why was he getting bullied for doing what he was supposed to do at school?
The water runs hot in the shower, steam curling up and filling the small space. Luke lets himself stand under it longer than he probably should, head tipped forward, water beating steadily against the back of his neck. It drowns things out. Thoughts. Leftover fragments of the dream. The word that keeps trying to surface again. Puppy. His jaw tightens slightly. It shouldn’t bother him. It’s just a word. People get called way worse things every day, things that stick harder, cut deeper. This is nothing in comparison—light, almost ridiculous in isolation. Except it never feels like nothing when it’s directed at him. It always carries that same tone—amused, knowing, like it’s less about the word itself and more about the way it’s used. Luke exhales, long and controlled, and reaches to turn the water off. Enough. He doesn’t have time to get stuck in his thoughts. His room feels smaller when he comes back into it, warmer from the steam that follows him. He dresses quickly, simple black skinny jeans, white shirt and black zip up hoodie. He always dressed this way, so he won’t stand out in the crowd, he could just blend in at school. Most of the time anyway.
Breakfast is quiet. The house hasn’t fully woken yet, and Luke prefers it that way. He moves through the kitchen without turning on the overhead lights, relying instead on the pale morning filtering in through the window. He’s too tired for the big lights. Toast in the toaster. Coffee brewing. The low, steady hum of ordinary things. He sits at the table, staring at nothing in particular while the toast cools in front of him. He takes a bite eventually, more out of routine than hunger, chewing slowly. His mind drifts. Back to school. To the corridors. To timing his movements just right—arriving early enough to avoid the worst of the crowd, leaving classes quickly enough not to get caught in the bottleneck between periods. Avoidance isn’t a perfect strategy. But it’s something. And today—Today, he really doesn’t want to deal with Michael.
Michael Clifford. The red haired punk emo boy who bullies him and makes his life a living hell for no good reason. Other than he simply can. Luke hates Michael. The thought settles heavier than he expects. Luke frowns slightly, fingers tightening around his coffee mug. It’s not like anything specific is happening. There’s no event, no reason today should be different from any other. Except for the dream. Except for the way it’s still sitting under his skin, making everything feel just slightly off-balance. He exhales, finishing the coffee in a few quick swallows, ignoring the way it’s still too hot.
If he leaves early, he can get to school before..well before everyone but mainly...He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t need to.
The air outside is cold enough to bite. Luke pulls his jacket tighter around himself as he steps out, the sharpness of it hitting his lungs as he breathes in, regretting not wearing a coat. It’s bracing. Immediate. Real. Good. He walks quickly, not rushing exactly, but not lingering either. The streets are quiet at this hour, the world still in that in-between state where everything feels softer, less defined. He likes it. It makes things feel manageable. By the time the school building comes into view, the calm has already started to thin. It always does. Brick and glass and too many windows reflecting a sky that looks far too calm for what happens inside. Luke adjusts his grip on his bag and keeps walking.
Inside, the corridors are still mostly empty. A few early arrivals. A teacher crossing from one room to another. The distant sound of a locker closing somewhere down the hall. Luke moves through it carefully, instinctively mapping the space—who’s where, what paths are clear, how long he has before the building fills up. Avoiding eye contact. Locker. Books. The first bell hasn’t gone yet. So far, everything is going according to plan. He lets himself relax, just slightly, shoulders easing a fraction as he turns away from his locker. That’s when it happens. “Look who decided to show up early.” The voice lands before the words fully register. Luke stills. It’s immediate—the way his body reacts before his mind catches up. A subtle tightening, a shift in posture that he tries to suppress but can’t quite manage in time. He turns anyway. Because not turning would be worse. He found that out the hard way. Michael Clifford is leaning against the row of lockers like he’s been there the entire time. Like he’s been waiting and watching. There’s an ease to him that Luke has never quite understood—the kind that comes from not caring who’s watching, or maybe from knowing that it doesn’t matter if they are. His clothes, similar to Luke’s in a way. Black skinny jeans with chains hanging at the belt, black shirt with a few holes in it that Luke can’t decide if it’s a fashion choice or if he can’t afford a new one, black leather jacket and big black platform boots. The only colour on him is his beaming red hair. A cigarette is tucked behind his ear. Unlit. But present. Luke’s gaze flicks to it for half a second before he can stop himself. Michael notices. Of course he does.
His mouth curves slightly—not a full smile, not friendly, but something sharper. “Didn’t think you’d be early today,” he says knowing Luke is early everyday, pushing off the lockers in one smooth motion. Luke shifts his bag higher on his shoulder, grounding himself in the movement. “Just had things to do.” Michael hums, stepping closer. “Yeah? You always do.” There’s something in the way he says it—not quite mocking, not quite curious. Like he’s testing the shape of the conversation, seeing where it goes. Luke doesn’t respond. He tries to step past him. Michael moves just enough to block him. Not aggressive. Not obvious. But deliberate. Luke’s chest tightens. “What do you want Michael?” he asks, keeping his voice level. Michael tilts his head slightly, studying him. “Nothing,” he says lightly. “Just saying hi.” Luke doesn’t believe him. He never does.“Hi,” he replies anyway. There’s a pause. The kind that stretches just long enough to feel intentional. Then Michael leans in—not enough to invade completely, but enough that Luke feels it. The shift in proximity. The narrowing of focus. “Sleep okay?” he asks. Luke’s stomach drops. It’s such a normal question. Casual. Expected. But something in the way Michael says it—like he already knows the answer, like he’s already seen the reaction before it happens—makes Luke’s pulse stutter. Does Michael know? About the nightmares? No of course not how would he? Luke tries to still his thoughts and look less panicked. “Fine,” he says quickly. Too quickly. Michael’s expression sharpens. “Yeah?” A beat. Then, softer, “No nightmares?” Luke’s breath catches. Just for a second. That’s all it takes. Michael sees it. He always sees it. “Thought so,” he murmurs with a smirk.
Luke’s grip tightens on his bag strap. “Leave it alone.” Michael straightens slightly, considering him. He doesn’t look offended. If anything, he looks more interested. “Leave what alone?” he asks. Luke doesn’t answer. He can’t. Because saying it out loud would make it real in a way he’s not ready for. Michael watches him for a moment longer, like he’s cataloguing the reaction, storing it away for later. Then he steps back. Just like that. The space opens again. “You’re tense,” he says, almost conversationally. “You should work on that” , rolling his eyes. Luke exhales slowly, forcing himself to move past him this time. Michael doesn’t stop him. “See you in class, puppyboy” he calls after him smugly.
Luke keeps walking. He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t slow down. But the feeling follows him anyway. The echo of the dream. The weight of Michael’s attention and words. And beneath it all that same word, lingering, unspoken but impossible to ignore. Puppy. Luke swallows hard, tightening his grip on his bag as he disappears into the corridor. Hoping—pointlessly—that today might still turn out different.
Luke makes it to class. That, in itself, feels like something worth holding onto. The corridor outside had been manageable—louder now than when he first arrived, but still navigable. He’d kept his head down, moved at a steady pace, slipped through the gaps in conversation and bodies like he always does. No stops. No unnecessary eye contact. No reason for anyone to notice him. It should have stayed that way. He liked it that way.
Inside the classroom, the air feels warmer, heavier with the low hum of early conversation. Chairs scrape against the floor, bags thud onto desks, voices overlap in a steady, rising rhythm that fills the space without quite overwhelming it yet. Luke exhales quietly as he steps in. Second row. Slightly to the left. His seat. He moves toward it automatically, like his body knows the path better than his mind does. There’s comfort in that—small, controlled predictability in a place that rarely offers it. He sits. Bag down first. Then a notebook. Then the pen, aligned carefully along the edge of the desk. It’s precise, maybe unnecessarily so, but it steadies him. It gives him something to focus on that isn’t the lingering tension still curled low in his chest. He opens the notebook to a fresh page. Writes the date in the top corner. The letters come out clean. Even. Controlled. He focuses on that. On the shape of each word. On the way his breathing settles, just slightly, as the routine takes over. For a moment, it almost works.
The noise around him builds—students filtering in, conversations picking up pace—but Luke keeps his attention fixed forward. He doesn’t need to look to know who’s where. He’s already mapped the room out instinctively. Who sits in the back. Who talks too loud. Who might glance his way and who won’t. He categorises it without thinking. Safe. Neutral. Avoid. It’s a system that works. Usually. The shift happens before the sound. A subtle change in the room—like something unseen tilts the balance. Conversations dip for half a second, just enough to be noticeable if you’re paying attention. Luke is always paying attention. Then comes the noise. A chair dragged across the floor near the door. Someone was laughing too loudly. The faint, familiar scent that doesn’t belong here at all. Smoke. Not fresh. Not lit. But there. Luke’s shoulders tense before he can stop them. He doesn’t turn. He keeps his eyes on the page, pen hovering just above it, waiting for the teacher to start so he has something else to focus on. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That Michael will sit where he always sits—back row, near the windows, far enough away that Luke can pretend he isn’t there at all. That’s how it usually goes. That’s how it’s supposed to go.
The chair beside him scrapes back. Too close. Luke’s head turns before he can stop himself. Michael drops into the seat next to him like it belongs there. Like it was always meant to be his. Luke just stares at him. For a second, nothing else registers—not the noise, not the people still filing in, not the teacher setting things up at the front of the room. Just him. Cigarette tucked by his ear, like he couldn’t care less about the rules. Shirt slightly wrinkled. Hair slightly messy and a smug look on his face.
Michael’s mouth curves—not quite a smile, but something close enough to count. “…what are you doing?” Luke asks, his voice quieter than he intends. Michael leans back in his chair, one arm draped lazily over the backrest like he’s settling in. “Attending class,” he says. “Heard it’s good for you.” Luke doesn’t react. “Your seat’s over there .. at the back.” Michael glances briefly toward the back of the room—empty desks waiting, familiar territory. Then back at Luke. “Didn’t feel like sitting there today.” There’s a pause. Not long. Just long enough. “Problem?” Luke looks away first. “No.” It’s easier. It’s always easier.
The teacher walks in before anything else can build, cutting off the moment before it stretches into something worse. The room shifts, conversations dying down as attention moves forward. Luke focuses on the board. On the marker. On the steady cadence of the lesson beginning. He writes. That’s what he does. Pen moving across the page in neat, measured lines. Each word is placed carefully, evenly spaced, controlled in a way that makes everything else feel a little less unpredictable. He lets himself sink into it. For a few minutes, it almost works.
Then, “Your handwriting’s ridiculous.” The voice is low, close enough that Luke feels it more than hears it. His pen stills. He doesn’t look up. “What?” he murmurs. Michael leans slightly closer—not enough to be obvious, but enough to shift the space between them. “Neat,” he clarifies. “Like—annoyingly neat.” Luke resumes writing and says “That’s not a bad thing.” more harshly than intended. Michael rolled his eyes “Didn’t say it was, did I?” A pause. Then— “It’s very you.”
Luke’s grip tightens slightly around his pen. He doesn’t respond. He doesn’t know how to respond to that. The silence that follows isn’t comfortable. It isn’t hostile either. It just… sits there. Heavy. Present. Luke tries to focus on the lesson again, but it’s harder now. The words on the board blur at the edges, his attention split between what he should be doing and the constant awareness of the person beside him. He feels so on edge. Michael shifts occasionally—small movements, barely noticeable, but each one pulls Luke’s focus back without meaning to. The brush of fabric. The creak of the chair. The steady sense of being watched. Luke keeps his eyes forward. He doesn’t look. He doesn’t give him anything.
“ What’d you dream about?” The question lands softly. Too softly. Luke’s breath catches. He doesn’t react immediately, but his pen falters—just for a second, ink pooling slightly where it shouldn’t. “I didn’t,” he says. Too fast. Michael hums. “Right.” There’s something in the sound—something knowing, something that makes Luke’s stomach tighten uncomfortably. “Look at me.” It’s quiet. Controlled. Luke hesitates. He shouldn’t. Every instinct tells him not to—tells him to ignore it, to keep his focus where it belongs. But something in the tone, steady, certain, makes it difficult. Slowly, reluctantly, he turns his head. Michael is already watching him. There’s no hesitation in it. No uncertainty. Just a smug focus. “You’re lying,” he says. Luke swallows. “I’m not.” Michael’s mouth curves slightly. “Yeah, you are.” He leans back again, like the moment didn’t just happen. Like it doesn’t matter. “But that’s fine,” he adds. “You don’t have to tell me.” Luke turns back to his notebook immediately, heart beating faster than it should. He doesn’t understand this. He understands the usual sharp comments, passing remarks, things that sting and fade in equal measure. This is different. This lingers. This feels like attention. And attention is worse. He prefers the normal mean bullying.
The rest of the lesson drags. Time stretches, each minute feeling longer than it should. Luke writes what he can, answers when he’s called on, keeps everything as normal as possible on the surface. But underneath he’s aware. Constantly. When the bell finally rings, it’s almost jarring. Relief comes quick and sharp. Luke closes his notebook immediately, sliding it into his bag with practiced efficiency. If he moves fast enough, if he gets out before— “Hey.” Michael’s hand lands lightly on the edge of his desk. Not blocking him completely. Just enough. Luke pauses. “What?” he asks. Michael tilts his head slightly. “You’re in all my classes today?” Luke frowns “No.” Michael fakes a sigh, smirking in the process “Shame.” The word isn’t joking. Luke shifts his bag onto his shoulder. “I have somewhere to be.” Michael watches him for a second longer. Then steps back. “Yeah,” he says. “I know.” Luke doesn’t ask. He doesn’t want to. He tries to move past him but Michael sticks his leg out sending Luke flying to the floor, his pens and books falling from his bag. As soon as he lands he can hear Michael laughing smugly “Watch where you’re walking next time.” Luke is red in the face and he can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or anger, he stands up off the floor with all his stuff and glares at Michael as best as he can, he knows he doesn’t look tough or scary but it’s all he can do to not cry. Michael just laughs in his face “scary puppy” he taunts as he walks away and out of the classroom. Luke sighs, wiping at his eyes, not letting the tears fall. He can’t let Michael get to him, it's only the first period he’s got hours left.
Out into the corridor, into the noise and movement and chaos of everyone trying to get somewhere at once. It’s louder now. Harder to navigate. But easier to disappear in. Luke weaves through it carefully, head down, eyes focused just ahead. Even though his heart is still racing from Michael tripping him over. If he keeps moving— If he doesn’t stop— “Watch it, puppy.” The word lands just before the contact. A shoulder knocks into his—not hard, not enough to hurt, but enough to disrupt his pace, to force him to stumble half a step before he catches himself. Luke freezes for a fraction of a second. He can’t fall twice today. He can’t. Then keeps walking. He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t react. But his pulse spikes anyway, the word echoing louder than everything else around him. Puppy. He hates it. He does. He tells himself that as he turns the corner, as the corridor shifts, as the crowd thins slightly. He hates it.
“Oi, you’re gonna break him if you keep doing that.” The voice is new. Luke slows. Just slightly. He shouldn’t. But— Curiosity gets the better of him. He glances back. Michael is there, exactly where he expected him to be—moving through the corridor like it parts for him without effort. But he’s not alone. Calum Hood walks beside him, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, expression easy but watchful. There’s something quieter about him—not as sharp as Michael, but not entirely detached either. On Michael’s other side, Ashton Irwin is talking, animated, a grin pulling at his mouth like everything is either a joke or about to be. They don’t look like they belong in the same space as everyone else. Not really. Too loud without trying. Too present. “Relax,” Michael replies, tone lazy. “He’s fine.” Calum’s gaze flicks briefly toward Luke. Not unkind. Just… assessing. “He doesn’t look fine.”
Luke looks away immediately. Keeps walking. But the words stick. “Looks like he might bolt if you breathe wrong,” Ashton adds, not lowering his voice in the slightest. There’s a brief pause. Then— “Maybe I want to see if he does,” Michael says. There’s something in it—something that settles low and uncomfortable, even at a distance. Luke’s grip tightens on his bag. He doesn’t look back again. Doesn’t slow down. But he can feel it. The awareness. The attention. And now—it isn’t just one person. It’s three. Luke turns another corner, disappearing into a different corridor, letting the noise swallow him up again. Trying—failing—to shake the feeling that this isn’t going to stay contained. Even though he’s always been bullied. It feels like it’s only just starting.
The final bell doesn’t feel like freedom. It should. Everyone else reacts like it is—chairs scraping back, voices lifting, the restless energy of a day ending spilling out into the corridors all at once. Bags are thrown over shoulders, conversations restart mid-sentence, laughter carries louder now that there’s nothing left to contain it. Luke moves with it. Not part of it—never part of it—but carried along in the current all the same. His books are already packed. He doesn’t linger, doesn’t stop to talk, doesn’t give himself time to think. The goal is simple: get out, get home, put distance between himself and everything that’s happened today. Between himself and Michael.
The corridors are crowded again, but differently now—less structured, more chaotic. People cutting across each other’s paths, stopping suddenly, doubling back. It makes navigating harder, but it also makes it easier to disappear if you move carefully enough. Luke keeps his head down. Step, step, turn. He maps it out instinctively—where the gaps are, how to slip through them, how to avoid getting caught in the clusters of people gathered by lockers or doorways.
It almost works. He makes it to the exit. Pushes through the doors. Cold air hits him again, sharper now, late afternoon light casting everything in longer shadows across the pavement. For a moment, just a moment— he thinks he’s done it. That he’s made it through the day. “Leaving already?” Luke stops. It’s immediate. Involuntary. He doesn’t turn straight away, but his body already knows who it is. The relief he’d been holding onto fractures quietly, slipping away before he can grab it back. Slowly, he looks over his shoulder. Michael is leaning against the low brick wall just beyond the school gates, like he’s been there for a while. Like he’s been waiting. Calum stands a little to the side, arms folded, posture relaxed but observant. Ashton is pacing slightly, restless energy carrying through even when he’s standing still. All three of them look up at the same time. At him.
Luke’s grip tightens on the strap of his bag. “…I have to get home,” he says, quieter than he intends. Michael pushes off the wall. “Yeah?” he says. “What’s the rush pretty boy?” Luke doesn’t answer. His face flushes red involuntarily. He turns, intending to keep walking, to move past them the same way he’s moved past everything else today. He doesn’t get far. A step— maybe two— before Ashton shifts, not blocking him entirely but stepping just enough into his path to slow him down. “Relax,” Ashton says, a half-smile pulling at his mouth. “We’re just talking.” Luke stops. There’s nowhere immediate to go that doesn’t make it obvious he’s trying to get away. And obvious never helps. Calum watches him, head tilted slightly. “You always this quiet?” he asks. Luke doesn’t respond. Calum knows the answer, Luke has always been the quiet boy. Michael steps closer. Not rushed. Not aggressive. Just deliberate. “Think he only talks when he has to,” he says, glancing briefly at the others before looking back at Luke. “Right?” Luke swallows. “I don’t have anything to say.”
Ashton huffs a quiet laugh. “That’s kind of the problem, isn’t it?” The space feels smaller now. Not physically—but in the way their attention narrows in, the way it settles on him without shifting. Luke shifts his weight slightly, instinctively trying to create distance. There isn’t enough. “Hey,” Michael says, softer now. Luke looks at him. He doesn’t mean to. But he does. Michael’s gaze is fixed on him—focused in that same way it had been earlier, like he’s looking for something specific, something just beneath the surface. “You’re tense again,” he murmurs. The words land too close to the truth. Luke’s jaw tightens. “Just leave it,” he says. There’s a beat of silence.
Then Ashton snorts lightly. “‘Leave it,’” he echoes. “You hear that?” Calum’s mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “Yeah,” he says. “I heard.” Michael doesn’t look away. “Or what?” he asks. Luke doesn’t have an answer. He knows that. They know that. The silence stretches. Then—“Careful,” Ashton says, stepping a little closer, circling just slightly. “You’re gonna make him nervous.” “Already am,” Michael replies. There’s a flicker of something in his expression—something sharper, more intent, more smug. Then “Isn’t that right, puppy boy?”
The words land heavier than before. Not just because of what they are— but because of who hears them. Ashton lets out a short laugh. “Puppy boy?” he repeats. “Seriously?” Calum glances between them. “…that your thing?” he asks Luke, not unkindly—but not exactly kind either. Luke’s face burns. “Don’t—” he starts, but the word catches, falls apart before he can finish it. “Don’t what?” Ashton presses. “Don’t say it?” Michael adds quietly. There’s a shift then. Something small. But enough. Michael steps closer—just inside Luke’s space now. Luke instinctively leans back. There’s nowhere to go. The brick wall is behind him. He hadn’t even noticed himself being guided there. “Relax,” Michael says again, softer this time. “You’re acting like we’re doing something.” The three boys are too smug and too much. Luke’s breathing feels too loud. Too fast. “I-i just want to go home.” For a second— just a second— something in Michael’s expression flickers. Unreadable. Then it’s gone. “Yeah,” he says. “In a minute.” Ashton shifts beside him, pulling something from his pocket. A lighter. He flicks it open, flame sparking briefly before he shuts it again. “Got one?” he asks. Michael reaches up, pulling the cigarette from behind his ear. Unlit. Until now. The flame flares again, small and controlled, as Ashton lights it.
The smell sharpens immediately. Luke’s stomach turns. He tries not to react. Fails. Michael notices. He always notices. “Don’t like it?” he asks. Luke doesn’t answer. Smoke curls into the air between them, thin and grey, drifting upward before the wind catches it. For a moment, everything feels suspended. Then Michael reaches out. It’s quick. Not enough time to fully process it. The briefest press—heat, sudden and sharp through the fabric of Luke’s sleeve. Luke flinches back immediately, breath catching hard in his chest. It’s not prolonged. Not dramatic. But it’s enough. Enough to leave a sting that lingers, pulsing under the surface. Ashton laughs under his breath. “Shit,” he mutters. “You actually did it.” Calum exhales slowly, gaze flicking to Luke, then away again. Michael watches him. Not laughing. Not apologising. Just… watching. A small smirk tugging at his mouth. Luke’s vision blurs slightly at the edges. Not from the pain. Although it does hurt. From everything else. “Go,” Michael says suddenly. The word is quiet. Flat. Luke doesn’t hesitate. He moves immediately, slipping past them before anything else can change, before anyone can stop him again. He doesn’t look back. Not once.
By the time he gets home, his hands are shaking. He barely registers unlocking the door, barely notices the silence of the house as he steps inside. Everything feels distant. Muted. Like he’s still outside, still standing there, still caught in that moment. The door shuts behind him. And something in him finally gives. His bag drops to the floor without care, books shifting inside with a dull thud. He leans back against the door, sliding down slowly until he’s sitting on the floor, knees pulled in, breath uneven. It hits all at once. The fear. The humiliation. The way they’d looked at him—like he was something to poke at, something to test. The word— puppy boy— echoing louder now that there’s nothing else to drown it out. Luke presses his hands to his face, fingers curling against his temples as the first tear slips through before he can stop it. Then another. He doesn’t cry loudly. He never does. It’s quiet—contained in the same way everything else about him is. Shoulders shaking slightly, breath catching, eyes squeezed shut like that might hold it back. It doesn’t. Minutes pass. Or maybe longer. Time feels strange like this—stretched and uneven. Eventually, the intensity fades. Not completely. But enough. Luke exhales shakily, lowering his hands. His gaze drifts down to his sleeve. There’s no visible damage through the fabric, nothing obvious to mark what happened. It wasn’t hard enough to leave a mark. But he can still feel it. The heat. The pressure. The moment. His fingers hover there for a second, not quite touching. Then drop back to his lap. He should feel angry. He knows that. He should feel nothing but anger and fear and the clear understanding that this is something to avoid, something to stay away from at all costs. And he does feel that. Mostly. But underneath— quieter, harder to define— there’s something else. Something that doesn’t make sense. Not a feeling he can name. Just a pull. A confusion. The way Michael had looked at him—not like the others, not entirely. Something more focused. More deliberate. Luke frowns slightly, shaking his head like he can dislodge the thought before it takes shape. It doesn’t belong there. None of this does. He pushes himself up slowly, wiping at his face with the back of his hand, trying to pull himself back into something steadier. Something controlled. Normal. Tomorrow will come. School will happen again. And he’ll have to go back. The thought settles heavily in his chest. Luke exhales slowly, forcing it down, forcing everything down into something manageable. Because that’s what he does. That’s what he’s good at. Even when it doesn’t quite make sense anymore.