Chapter 6
Oliver
Iwoke with a jolt, some mixture of a nightmare colliding with reality. The movement awakened the pain in my entire body, and I collapsed back onto the mattress with a gasp, blinking hard as the world swam around me. Careful not to provoke the ache again, I turned, glancing around the room.
Luke slouched in the chair, his body folded into the too-small recliner.
One arm hung loose at his side, the other bent and tucked under his chin as a makeshift pillow.
By any standard the position looked uncomfortable, but he hadn’t moved.
He’d stayed beside me all night. The realization sat heavy on my chest.
Strands of his midnight hair had fallen across his brow, and sleep softened the strong lines of his face, though the faintest furrow still lingered between his brows, a trace of concern that rest hadn’t quite erased.
Luke stirred, eyelids fluttering. Lifting his head, he rubbed the remnants of sleep from his eyes. “Did you sleep okay?” he asked.
Afraid my voice might splinter if I tried to use it, I nodded.
“How are you feeling?”
“Okay.”
It was both a lie and the truth. My body hurt in a thousand different places, but pain like that had become familiar; it was everything else that ate away at me.
Being here. Leaving Vincent. Fear. Relief.
Sadness. I’d fallen asleep with Luke’s hand anchoring me, and now my own hands hovered in my lap, restless and unsure where they belonged.
He got up from the chair, arching his back in a slow stretch, making his shirt ride up. The sight of the lines of his muscles had my eyes flicking away, trying not to think about what that strength could mean.
“I’m going to make coffee. Do you drink coffee?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“I can bring you a cup, or you can join me if you’re up to it.”
Choices weren’t something I’d been given much of.
Most of my life, the “decisions” I’d made were reactions to someone else’s mood, quick calculations for survival.
But Luke let me choose. Such a small thing, but it rippled within me, like he’d thrown a pebble into water and waited for the rings to reach me.
“I . . . I’d like to come,” I whispered. Any second now he’d correct me, tell me I’d chosen wrong, that I should stay in bed and not move.
“Yeah? Awesome. We can mosey on down to the living room. Moving around might do you some good, get the blood flowing.”
Pushing upright, I swallowed back a wince.
Luke took a reflexive step forward, but stopped before taking another, his hand moving to the back of his neck. “Do you need help?” he asked. Another choice, purposefully handed to me, one he had to bite back his instinct to grant me.
“Do I look like someone with dignity left to lose?” I said, my mouth getting ahead of my caution around him, like some old, half-forgotten instinct woke up and whispered I might be safe here.
“You look like someone who’s made the choice not to lose anything more than they’ve already had taken from them, and someone who deserves the choice to hang onto what’s left. Dignity or otherwise.”
Unprepared for his compassion, I froze.
“So, what’ll it be?” Luke prompted, his tone gentle.
“Help would probably be best.” The moment I said it Vincent’s voice slid into my mind. “Need someone to hold you up again? Pathetic. Weak. And you dare call yourself an adult.”
“You got it. It’s okay to need help. All of us do sometimes,” Luke said, extending his hand, silencing the criticism.
I’d prepared for the soreness in my body but not the dizziness that followed. My vision tunneled and my legs wobbled as I stood.
“Easy, I got you,” Luke said, his fingers tightening around mine as he steadied me.
“Sorry, a little dizzy.”
“That’s normal. Take your time. Lean on me if you need.”
I did, listing into his side as we moved down the stairs to the living room, which opened fluidly into the kitchen beyond.
“Make yourself comfortable.” He motioned to the sofa. “I’ll start the coffee and get breakfast goin’. Whatcha in the mood for?”
“Whatever you have is fine.”
“Do you like scrambled eggs?” he asked.
I couldn’t stop my reaction in time, my nose scrunched into a disgusted grimace. “I’ll be fine with whatever you’re having,” I amended, bracing for the punishment sure to follow for expressing my preference.
He shrugged. “I’ll eat most anything, but what would you like? Is it only scrambled eggs that get the thumbs down, or are you anti-egg in general? I’ve got pancake mix, cereal, and there might be some oatmeal somewhere hidden in the back of a cupboard, leftover from my last camping excursion.”
“I . . . I like eggs, just not scrambled.”
“Yeah, the texture’s not for everyone. I get it. What kind do you like?”
“Um, over easy is my favorite, I guess.”
“Well then, I'm gonna whip up some over-easy eggs for you. I got this on lock.”
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 make up 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’s When 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?”