Chapter 8
Oliver
After our pretzel-making session, I napped for most of the day. Though “napped” might have been too generous a word. It resembled more a retreat into unconsciousness. The bruises bloomed into their peak mottled agony, new aches cropping up in every muscle group, on every area of my body.
When I surfaced, still groggy, the day had turned into evening.
I blinked at the ceiling, turning my head to find Luke in the cushioned rocker, his legs stretched out in front of him, laptop balanced on his thighs, brow furrowed as his eyes tracked the screen, fully absorbed in whatever he was reading.
It struck me he had likely been there all day, keeping silent vigil while I slept.
Luke carried a gentleness and warmth unlike anything I had known, and he paid attention. He caught my restlessness, the way my mind demanded stimulation before it sank back into the horror of what had happened, and he offered me something to do.
While making pretzels, I’d felt more like myself than I had in years.
That version of me, the one who was playful, unguarded, a bit snarky, had gone missing.
Yet with Luke, I didn’t have to reach for it.
I’d teased him without fear, laughed without flinching, spoke without scanning his face for signs of anger.
I still couldn’t believe I’d started the flour fight.
But Luke made it safe to exist, and in doing so, coaxed dormant parts of me to the surface.
Despite his formidable size, his presence was neither imposing nor intrusive. Against all logic and every lesson trauma had drilled into me, despite knowing next to nothing about him, I found myself choosing to trust him.
As if he sensed my thoughts, he looked up and smiled, a little crooked, the left side lifting higher than the right. A dimple flickered at the corner of his mouth before vanishing. His eyes crinkled at the corners as the smile spread across his face.
Allowing myself to look at him, it occurred to me how good looking he was. His hair, so dark it contained blue undertones, sat in a long crew cut. Stubble dusted his square jaw. His nose, faintly misaligned, perhaps once broken, stood out just enough to make him human.
The dark cotton of his shirt stretched across the breadth of his torso, revealing the firm lines of muscle beneath and his sculpted shoulders. The sleeves strained around the girth of his biceps, showing the rounded swell of muscle, accentuated further by his tattoo sleeve.
My stomach had no reason to flutter, but it did anyway, trying to nest somewhere in my heart.
I shouldn’t be seeing him like this, not now.
Not after Vincent. Not after months, years of confusion, where love had been currency, affection had been twisted into a tool, and every kiss came with concealed manipulation.
I had promised myself long ago if I ever got out from under Vincent’s thumb, I’d be smarter and more discretionary.
Despite my resolve, I catalogued Luke with an admiration that owed nothing to the safety he gave me and everything to longing.
Yeah, sure, Oliver, I thought bitterly. Go ahead. Become one more walking cliché while you’re at it. The shattered guy who falls for the man who rescues him. Real original. Real pathetic.
Shame and embarrassment filled my cheeks. I’d always hated that my pale complexion broadcast my thoughts like a neon sign. I only hoped the bruises might provide some camouflage. Severing the connection before it became a confession, I hung my head.
Okay, fine. I could admit it. Luke was, by any measurable standard, a smoke show.
My trauma hadn’t made me blind, only wary.
I was purely observing the aesthetics. I could admire the architecture without making plans to move in.
I would be doing the world a disservice if I didn’t acknowledge how he looked.
A man like Luke should draw the eye. It didn’t have to mean anything more.
The sound of my phone vibrating against the cushion beside me broke my reverie. I reached for it without thinking, thumbing the screen open. The name flashed across the notification.
Vincent.
The air in my lungs turned to cloying smoke. My stomach dropped in a nauseating free fall. My breath hitched, shallow and fragmented. The warmth that had suffused my face moments before fled in an instant, replaced by icy stillness.
I didn’t read the message. I couldn’t. The sight of Vincent’s name alone sent me into a panicked frenzy.
The phone trembled in my hand. I should have expected this.
Should have known he wouldn’t let me go quietly and that he would contact me.
I should have blocked his number, but I hadn’t.
I hadn’t protected myself. One more entry in my ever-growing journal of failures.
Another reminder that I couldn’t sever what should have been cut clean.
Another damning piece of evidence proving I lacked even the simplest instincts for self-preservation.
I couldn’t manage my life. I couldn’t manage myself.
All the old scripts came rushing back, narratives I’d learned by rote. I was useless, weak, incompetent.
“Oliver?”
Luke’s voice reached me like a hand through murky water drawing me back to the surface. I looked up to see him crouched in front of me, close enough to be with me but far enough away to avoid boxing me in.
His brow was furrowed with concern, eyes scanning my face. “What is it?”
My vision blurred from the tears in my eyes. I fought them. I didn’t want to cry again. Not over Vincent. Not after everything it had taken to finally crawl out from under his clutches.
Turning the phone over, I pressed it face down against my thigh. “It’s nothing.”
Luke didn’t say anything, but his eyes didn’t leave my face. He stayed quiet, letting the silence hang open.
A fresh wave of frustration consumed me. I had finally found the means and had the support to cut myself free from Vincent. I didn’t want him to hold dominion over me in escape. I wasn’t going to let him steal my voice, not again, not when I had survived the worst of him.
“It’s him, he texted.”
Luke nodded in this way that indicated he’d suspected as much. “Did you read the message?”
“No.”
Luke nodded again. “We can forward it to my phone so he won’t see it’s been read. I can read it for you, or we can read it together, or we can ignore it. Whatever you prefer.”
I knew I couldn’t ignore it. It would fester otherwise, like an infection, blistering until it consumed everything else. Avoidance would only give him more ground inside my head.
At first, I wanted to refuse, to push Luke away, insist it wasn’t worth his concern and I could handle it alone.
I wanted to build the wall higher and thicker so he couldn’t see the parts of me still broken and bleeding.
He’d seen enough. Another part of me wanted to let him in. I was tired of carrying this alone.
“I need to know what it says, but I don’t want him to see I’ve read it.”
“Okay, to bypass the read receipt, you’ll need to download an SMS forwarding app. Do you have one already or know how to use it?”
“No,” I said, fighting the urge to apologize, inadequacy holding me fast in its firm grip.
“We use it at work to help protect our clients,” Luke said.
“It’s standard procedure for us to reroute incoming messages to our secure work phones so we can monitor for potential threats.
Unless you’ve ever needed to use it, most people don’t know it exists.
But it’s user-friendly. I can walk you through it step by step. You’ll pick it up in no time.”
Luke had an uncanny way of anticipating the shame and insecurities that lived inside me, countering them with reassurance that neither belittled nor spotlighted my vulnerability. Uncanny, and maybe a little exposing, but I appreciated it all the same.
“Is it alright if I join you on the couch?” he asked.
It amazed me once again that Luke treated my boundaries and autonomy as inviolable, never as inconveniences to dismiss or wear down.
He didn’t assume that because something had been okay in the past it remained okay in the present.
With every small, unremarkable act he honored me in ways Vincent never had.
Vincent had never asked permission, not once, not even in the beginning.
Back then, I mistook his assumptions for intimacy and his entitlement for passion.
With every minute I spent with Luke, I grew more certain he was the best person I had ever encountered.
“You can join me,” I said, my voice quieter than I intended but sure enough.
Luke settled onto the couch, instructing me on what to do but letting me take the lead. He didn’t get impatient or reach for the phone when I fumbled over adjusting the settings. He allowed me to operate at my own pace. I appreciated that too.
With the app downloaded and configured, I pressed the button to forward the message. A second later, Luke’s phone buzzed. He didn’t move immediately. Looking at me, he waited for my nod before he reached for it.
“Do you want me to read it first or for us to read together?” he asked.
“With me,” I said.
Navigating to the app, he pulled up the message, shifting closer, not enough to crowd me, but enough to make the screen visible for both of us.
Vincent: I let you have your games but it’s time to come home now. Running away like a baby is not the answer. You’re going to regret this, Oliver. No one else will want you. No one else will love you. You’re nothing without me. Come home and we can talk.
Even though I’d braced for disdain, the text hit harder than I expected. A soft, wounded sound escaped me—not quite a whimper, not quite a keen, but something unnamable and aching in between.