Chapter 15 #2
The sound of my name, said so plainly, anchored me. I took the glass and drank the cool water in it. The smell of melting butter was starting to fill the air. Adrian was kneeling in front of me, his eyes blocking out the chaos. He gave my hand a squeeze that said, I know it's a lot, just hold on.
He started to say something, but his eyes flickered up, past me.
He stood. "I'm taking him upstairs—he needs rest," he announced to the room.
Before I could protest, Adrian's arms hooked under my knees and back, lifting me against his chest with surprising ease.
A startled noise escaped me as my face flushed hot, my hands instinctively curling into his shirt collar.
The room erupted in whistles and dramatic sighs, but I barely registered them—not when Adrian's breath tickled my temple, not when I could feel the steady, reassuring thud of his heartbeat through his ribs.
"Relax," he murmured, just for me. His voice rumbled where my shoulder pressed against his chest. "I've got you."
And God help me, I believed him. My head found the hollow between his shoulder and neck as he carried me toward the stairs, the world narrowing to the warmth of his arms. My earlier blush deepened when his grip shifted slightly, his fingers flexing against my thigh in an absent, possessive squeeze.
No one had ever held me like this—not just with strength, but with certainty, as if my weight in his arms was exactly where I belonged.
Behind us, Diana brandished a spatula at Phoenix’s theatrical swooning, and I caught Sam's dry observation—"Make him a grilled cheese. He'll eat that"—before the steps creaked beneath us, swallowing Adrian's quiet chuckle.
ADRIAN
The moment we stepped inside, I knew I’d thrown a live grenade into our living room. I felt Jesse trembling under my arm, saw the wild, vacant look in his eyes as he stared at my friends. His phone, clutched in my hand, was vibrating non-stop. Each buzz was a phantom punch.
I watched Phoenix go from zero to a hundred, watched Diana go into full mother-hen-battle-mode.
I could see Jesse flinch at their sudden movements, at the sheer volume of it all.
They were building a fortress of noise and love around him, but he looked like a man who thought the walls were about to fall on him.
Sam was the first one to get it right. They brought him water, spoke his name, and gave him an anchor in the storm. I saw a flicker of awareness return to Jesse’s eyes. He was here, present, but hanging on by a thread. The chaos downstairs could wait. He needed silence. He needed a sanctuary.
"I'm taking him upstairs," I announced, adjusting my grip beneath his knees.
He curled tighter against my chest instinctively, his breath hitching as I shifted him slightly higher, his hands fisting in my shirt like he expected me to let go.
In another world, this moment would have been everything—his weight in my arms, his body pressed against mine, the way he clung to me like I was the only solid thing in his world.
I would have teased him about it, savoured the blush on his cheeks, maybe even kissed him just to hear that startled little sound he made when I caught him off guard.
But now, all I felt was the fragility of him trembling against me, the way his breaths came too fast, too shallow.
My stomach churned at the thought of what he’d been through to end up here, what he’d risked.
He felt so small like this, so broken, and I hated it.
Hated that this was how I got to hold him for the first time.
I tightened my grip unconsciously, as if I could shield him from the world just by holding him close.
I carried him through the chaos, my focus narrowed to the warmth of him shivering against me, the way his nose pressed into the hollow of my throat like he was memorizing my pulse.
I bypassed the spare room completely—that was for guests, for temporary things.
Jesse wasn’t temporary, not to me. The door to my bedroom creaked as I shouldered it open.
My space was messy—law books stacked haphazardly on the dresser, a t-shirt draped over the chair, the sheets unmade from where I'd bolted upright at his text. But it smelled like me, like safety, and when his breathing finally slowed as I crossed the threshold, I knew I’d made the right choice.
"Yours," he murmured against my chest as I lowered him carefully onto the mattress where he sat upright on the edge, my arms reluctant to let go even when he was safely deposited. His fingers lingered against my collarbones for a heartbeat too long before falling away. I wanted to stay there, to climb into the bed beside him and pull him close until the shaking stopped, until the haunted look in his eyes faded. But the sounds from downstairs—the low hum of voices, the clatter of dishes—reminded me that this wasn’t over. Not yet.
I finally turned off his buzzing phone without asking and set it on the dresser. "You don't have to read those. Not tonight. Not ever, if you don't want to."
That's when he finally broke down. The thread snapped. I was on my knees in front of him instantly, my hands on his. He cried, his whole body shaking with sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than grief, a place where years of pain had been carefully stored away.
"I don't know what I'm doing," he whispered against my hands, his voice raw. "I don't know how to do this."
"You don't have to know right now," I said, my own voice thick. I sat on the bed beside him and pulled him against my side. "We'll figure it out together, I promise."
He leaned into me, boneless with exhaustion and relief. After a long time, the desperate sobs quieted into shuddering breaths.
"Lie down," I murmured, helping him stretch out on the mattress. He was still in his damp clothes, but I didn't care. I pulled my comforter over him, and he curled into a ball. I lay down on top of the covers beside him, one hand resting on his back, just so he'd know he wasn't alone.
His eyes were closed, his face pale and tear-stained. He looked impossibly young and fragile. Every instinct screamed at me to protect this man. The game was so long gone it felt like it had happened to someone else.
He was drifting off when I leaned closer, my lips near his hair.
"I love you," I whispered. I don't know if he heard me. It didn't matter. It was the truest thing I had ever said. "I've got you. Just sleep."
His breathing finally deepened. I stayed there for another few minutes, just listening.
The muted sounds from downstairs had changed.
The frantic energy was gone, replaced by a low, determined hum of activity.
Phoenix wasn't shouting anymore. Diana wasn't barking orders.
They were planning. They were mobilizing.
He was safe. He was here. He was ours to protect.
Leaving the door slightly ajar, I headed downstairs to figure out what came next.
"We need to talk about what happens next," Andrew said, settling into his usual spot on the couch. As fraternity president, he naturally took charge in crisis situations. "Because this isn't over."
He was right. Jesse had escaped, but he had nowhere to go. No money, no legal emancipation, nothing. His parents could come for him—legally force him to return as long as he was financially dependent on them. Or they could cut him off completely, leave him with nothing.
"What if they claim he's mentally unfit?" Sam asked quietly. "Try to get conservatorship?"
"Or just show up here and drag him back?" Diana added. "Court order or no court order, if they think God's on their side..."
Phoenix, uncharacteristically serious but still Phoenix, said what we were all thinking: "Okay, but real talk? We need a legal strategy that's tighter than Beyoncé's security detail. I'm not letting these holy rollers pull some Britney-conservatorship bullshit and drag our boy away."
I'd been thinking the same thing. "I know someone who might help."
I called Professor Okonkwo from the kitchen, stepping away from the group. He answered on the third ring, sounding like I'd woken him up.
"Adrian? It's rather early for constitutional law questions."
"I'm sorry for calling so early Professor, I need help. Not for class—for real. For Jesse Miller."
I explained everything. The escape, the threats, what Jesse's parents were planning. Okonkwo listened without interrupting, which somehow made it worse. The silence on the other end felt like judgment.
"Adrian," he said finally, "this is beyond my scope as an educator."
"But not beyond your scope as an attorney. I know you don't actively practice anymore, but you've still got your bar certifications so you can help us."
Another pause. "What exactly are you asking me to do?"
"Jesse argued for constitutional rights in your class. Now he needs someone to argue for his constitutional rights. For real."
I heard him sigh, a long exhale that could have meant anything. "Come to my office. This afternoon. Bring whatever documentation you have."
Professor Okonkwo's office was exactly what you'd expect—books everywhere, papers stacked on every surface, diplomas and awards covering the walls. But it felt lived-in rather than pretentious. Like someone actually worked here, actually cared about the law beyond academic theory.
Andrew, Elijah, and I sat across from his desk while he listened to the full story. The kiss, the threats, the escape. Jesse's history with conversion therapy. His parents' plan to send him back.
"Do you know where they plan to send him?" Okonkwo asked.
"Place called Restoration Ridge in Montana," I said.
His face darkened. "I'm familiar with them. They've been sued multiple times." He pulled out a legal pad, started taking notes. "Kansas City banned conversion therapy for minors in 2019 via local ordinance, but Jesse's over eighteen."
"So they can just... take him?"