Chapter 9
Brendon
Jericho wakes me up by smacking me in the face.
He does this thing where he sits on my chest and taps my cheek with one paw, claws just barely out like he’s deciding whether I’m worth the effort of keeping alive. I groan and roll my head to the side, trying to avoid him. He follows, of course, tail flicking right under my nose.
“Okay, okay,” I mumble, voice rough. “I’m up.”
Jericho blinks slowly, unimpressed, then walks off with the kind of offended dignity only cats and priests have, padding down to the end of the bed. I flop onto my back and stare at the ceiling, and for a second I forget why my stomach feels like somebody scraped it out.
Then I move my wrist.
Leather drags against the sheet, and my heart drops straight through the mattress.
The cuff sits snug on my skin, dark against my wrist and warm from sleep. For one long beat, I just stare at it. It’s the same thing I’ve done ten times already since he left my apartment yesterday and silence finally dropped over the space.
I spiraled—no other word covers it. I sat on this bed with my back against the headboard, heart racing, thoughts all over the place, staring at the leather on my wrist as if it might explode.
Jericho climbed onto my lap at some point, turned around three times, and flopped directly over my forearm so he could pin it down with his full, dramatic eight pounds.
It was almost like he was personally offended that I’d let someone put something on his human without his approval.
He kept looking up at me with those judgmental yellow eyes every time I shifted, as if he knew exactly how badly I’d fucked up.
I told myself I’d take it off, and leave it off.
I told myself I’d throw it in a drawer, in the trash—into a river if I had to.
Instead, I only took it off when I showered; fingers shaking as I unbuckled it, wrist feeling oddly naked without the weight.
By the time I’d dried off, my hand reached for it again before my brain caught up.
I slid it back on without looking in the mirror, buckled it one notch tighter than Dominic had, and then immediately wanted to throw myself out the window.
I’m still wearing it now as I cross the quad.
Campus feels too bright when I get there.
The quad’s busy, the fall air crisp enough that people have swapped shorts for jeans and hoodies, the grass damp from last night’s sprinklers.
I move through it on autopilot, coffee in one hand, bag strap digging into my shoulder, and it doesn’t take long for the attention to start.
“Brendon!” A girl from my constitutional law class jogs up beside me, her ponytail bouncing. “You okay? You missed everything yesterday. I thought you were dead.”
Her choice of words punches me in the gut, but I keep my face neutral. “Yeah, fine,” I lie smoothly. “Just a bug or something.”
She grimaces sympathetically. “That sucks. Professor Hartman said you hardly ever miss.”
“Yeah, well,” I say, forcing a little shrug. “Guess I’m human.”
She laughs and pats my arm. “Let me know if you need notes, okay?”
“Thanks,” I say. “I’ll grab the slides.”
By the time I reach my first class, three more people have checked on me. The student worker at the front desk asks if I’m feeling better.
One of my professors pauses before starting lecture, glances at me, and says, “Glad you’re back, Brendon; we missed you yesterday,” and the class turns to look, some faces curious, some genuinely concerned.
I raise my hand in a small wave, smile on automatic. “Just a twenty-four-hour thing,” I say. “I’m okay.”
Everyone seems relieved. It should make me feel gratitude or warmth, but instead all I feel is hollow. It’s like I’m on the other side of a pane of glass, watching myself move through my life. I take notes, answer questions when the professor calls on me, and nod at the right moments.
But inside there’s this numb space where everything loud used to be. The only sharp thing left is the faint pressure of leather against my skin whenever I shift my wrist.
At least I don’t see Dominic.
Between classes, between buildings, at the coffee stand; I keep half-expecting him to appear.
It’s almost reflex now, scanning for the shape of him, for dark hair and broad shoulders and that easy, coiled way he moves.
Every time I realize he’s not in my line of sight, I feel a mix of relief and… confusion.
He has practice, film, and other places to be that aren’t my classes. I know that. Still, part of me is braced for him to walk up behind me, lean down, and say something filthy right in my ear. I know he won’t, because he values his reputation too much.
The hours tick by: one lecture, then another, a quick sandwich eaten over my notebook, students asking for clarification on assignments, and professors thanking me for rescheduling office hours. My day looks exactly like it usually does, but the difference sits under my sleeve.
My phone stays on vibrate in my pocket, and half the time I forget it’s there until it buzzes hard enough against my leg to drag my attention back.
Most of the vibrations are harmless—group chat pings, department emails, a notification from the campus app—but the first time his name lights up the screen, my stomach drops.
Dominic: Answer your fucking phone, Little Sin.
I stand dead still in the hallway, staring at the message. It came in less than five minutes ago. There’s another bubble below it.
Dominic: You alive or did you crawl under your bed and die of shame?
A bitter laugh wants to claw its way up my throat. He’s annoyingly close to the truth, minus the dying part.
Me: I’m in class.
The three dots show up almost immediately.
Dominic: So you can text.
Dominic: Gold star.
Dominic: You wear the cuff?
I glance down at my wrist instinctively, even though I already know the answer. The sight of it there sends a hot flush up my neck.
Me: I’m at school. I have work.
It’s a non-answer, and we both know it.
Dominic: That’s not what I asked.
I stare at the screen, jaw tight. Again, I could stop. I could slip my phone back into my pocket and pretend this conversation never started, but instead I take a quick picture of the cuff and send it to him.
He takes a little longer this time.
Dominic: Good boy.
Two stupid words, and my entire nervous system reacts like he’s in the room with me again. I press the heel of my palm into my eyes until little bursts of color flash behind my lids.
I know all the verses. I could recite them: man shall not lie with man, bodies are temples, flee from sexual immorality… whatever that umbrella term covers.
I’ve heard every sermon about “same-sex attraction,” every story about people who prayed hard enough, and repented deep enough, and came out the other side “healed.” Whatever that means.
I’ve nodded along. I’ve told myself my own impulses are just tests—just thorns in the flesh, just temptation to be resisted.
None of that theology covered Dominic Volkov.
None of it gave me instructions for when temptation has a name, a face, and hands that know exactly where to go. No one told me what to do if the person you’re supposed to run from is the only one who makes you feel like you’re not sleepwalking through your life.
Me: Don’t call me that.
Dominic: Then stop acting like one every time I tell you what to do.
Dominic: Office hours when?
The world narrows to the tiny glowing screen in my hand and the band of leather around my wrist. I jam the phone back in my pocket before I type something worse, and head for the stairs, heart pounding.
By the time I make it to my office, my shoulders ache from how hard I’ve been holding myself up. The small nameplate next to my door looks normal: Brendon Lane, Teaching Assistant.
I unlock the door, step inside, and shut it with more force than necessary, dropping my bag by the desk.
The room is quiet—just me, my desk, two chairs, and the bookshelf, with its crooked spine of casebooks. No Dominic leaning in the doorway. No hand on my throat. Just four beige walls and the faint hum of the building.
I let out a breath and sink into my chair. My phone buzzes again, rattling against the keys in my pocket, but I ignore it for the moment. For the first time today, I let myself sit still and not perform for anyone.
It takes about thirty seconds for my brain to slide back to yesterday.
A man kissed me.
The thought still feels surreal. It’s not like I never considered that I might not be entirely straight.
You grow up in a church where sermons about lust ping off every wall, and your eyes linger a second too long on guys in locker rooms. Nothing on girls hits you quite as hard as it should, and you start to suspect things.
A man kissed me yesterday, and it felt like my whole life finally decided which direction to fall. I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean for everything I’ve built on top of the lie that I’m fine being who everyone expects.
I press my thumb against the edge of the cuff, rolling the leather under the pad of my finger, and close my eyes.
The memory rises so fast it’s overwhelming.
The heat of his body, the scent of his cologne that drives me mad.
The first brush of his mouth on mine, shock freezing me in place and then melting in the same instant.
When girls kissed me, it was soft and shy and sweet.
Sometimes urgent, but in a way that felt rehearsed.
There was always this distance in my head and a part I knew I had to play correctly.
Move your mouth like this. Put your hands here.
Tilt this way. Check the boxes, feel some vague pleasant sensation, and then step back.
Dominic’s kiss cracked that distance straight down the middle.
There was no script. No careful choreography. Just heat and teeth and the shocking realization that every nerve in my body had been waiting for someone to hit that specific combination. It wasn’t even the roughness that got me—though that did things—it was the intention.
My phone buzzes again, the vibration rattling my pocket against the side of the desk. Jericho isn’t here to judge me, but I can practically picture him watching from the bookshelf, tail flicking, while he waits to see how stupid I’m going to be.
I cave.
Dominic: You fucking die?
Dominic: Or did some eager freshman trap you in a question about extra credit?
Dominic: Office hours, Brendon. When.
My fingers hover over the keys. This time, there’s no excuse to hide behind. No lecture, no crowd, no convenient distraction.
Me: Two to four.
He answers so fast he must have been waiting.
Dominic: Good.
Dominic: I’ll see you after.
I stare at the last message for a long time. After. Not maybe. Not if you’re free. A given. My thumb hovers over the screen, but I lock the phone instead and set it face-down on the desk before leaning back in my chair and covering my face with my hands.
“A man kissed me,” I say quietly into my palms, getting the words out where no one else can hear them. “A man kissed me, and I kissed him back, and I… liked it.”
The confession hangs in the air, and I drop my hands to stare at the ceiling tiles. The head of campus ministry would have a field day with this. My father would probably go quiet in that disappointed way that somehow always hurts more than shouting.
I don’t even know what God does about things like this anymore. I spent so long trying to convince myself I was on the safe side of the line. But now that I’ve crossed it, there’s this weird sense of relief mixing with the terror.
At least I know where I stand.
I rub at my chest absently, trying to smooth out the tight ache there, and my fingers bump the cross on its chain.
Metal and leather. Faith and possession.
Jericho will be waiting for me when I get home, jumping onto the bed and sniffing at the cuff, then stomping on my stomach when I keep lying there replaying the same kiss. I’ll probably yell at him for it. I’ll probably deserve it.
For now, I’m alone in this tiny office with my thoughts—a man who kills people sitting at the edges of all of them, wearing a grin, a dark shirt, and the bare skin of his wrist where the cuff used to be.
The door handle rattles once, making me jump. A student pokes their head in, eyes bright, binder in hand.
“Hey, Brendon,” she says. “You have a minute to look over my outline?”
I pull my sleeve down over the cuff, sit up straight, and paste my usual smile on.
“Yeah,” I say, voice smooth, steady. “Come in.”