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You are here: Home > Story Shelf > All Authors > SalientLane > Will and Luka | Sworn Protector | SalientLane

Will and Luka

by SalientLane

Sworn Protector

The bell rings, and Will Shaw emerges from his math class with his textbook tucked under one arm, scanning the crowded hallway until he spots a familiar dark-haired figure weaving through the masses. Luka Hirschberg catches his eye and grins, that crooked smile that always makes Will feel like they share some private joke about the universe. They move toward each other like magnets, the sea of students parting between them, and when they collide, it's with the comfortable familiarity of planets that have been orbiting each other for years.

"Did you survive Algebra?" Luka asks, already knowing the answer as he falls into step beside Will.

"Barely," Will admits, shifting his heavy textbook. "Mr. Peterson called on me three times. I think he knows I was zoning out."

"That's because you insist on sitting by the window. Rookie mistake." Luka taps the side of his head. "Strategic seating is essential, my friend. Middle row, three seats back. Invisible zone."

Will laughs, sunlight catching in his blond hair as they push through the double doors and step outside. The September afternoon wraps around them, not quite summer anymore but not yet surrendering to fall. Will's broad shoulders and athletic frame cast a longer shadow than Luka's, but they move in perfect sync, two parts of a well-rehearsed dance.

They make an odd pair, anyone can see that. Will, with his golden-boy looks and pre-superhero build, stands nearly a head taller than Luka. His blue eyes and easy smile carry all the hallmarks of the boy next door – the kind mothers approve of and coaches fight over. Even at thirteen, his shoulders have begun to broaden with the promise of the man he'll become, courtesy of endless laps in the pool and weekend bike rides through the countryside.

Beside him, Luka moves with calculated precision, each step deliberate yet effortless. What he lacks in height, he makes up for in presence. His dark eyes miss nothing, cataloging the world with keen intelligence. His curls have a mind of their own today, falling across his forehead in a way that would look unkempt on anyone else but somehow makes him look like he stepped out of a magazine.

"You're coming over today, right?" Will asks as they navigate the crowded sidewalk. "Mom's making that chicken thing you like."

"Mrs. Shaw's famous lemon chicken? Try and stop me." Luka adjusts his backpack. "My mom's working late again anyway. Dad's presenting some new research paper tonight."

Will doesn't comment on the hint of resignation in Luka's voice. He doesn't need to. Instead, he bumps his shoulder against his friend's – their silent language for *you've always got a place with us*.

"Race you to the corner?" Will suggests, already bouncing on the balls of his feet.

Luka narrows his eyes. "You have six inches on me and the muscle mass of a young Greek god. How is that fair?"

"You saying you can't beat me, Hirschberg?"

"I'm saying I'll destroy you using physics and superior strategy rather than brute strength, Shaw."

They're off before either can properly count down, bags bouncing against their backs as they weave through pedestrians. Will's longer legs give him an early advantage, but Luka takes a shortcut through a gap between two parked cars, emerging ahead with a triumphant laugh.

"Cheater!" Will calls out, but he's laughing too hard to sound properly indignant.

Luka reaches the corner first, arms raised in victory. "Science wins again! The trajectory of—"

"Oh shut up," Will cuts him off good-naturedly, catching up. "You're such a nerd."

"Your nerd," Luka reminds him, not even winded. "Without whom you would have failed science last year."

"True," Will concedes. "And you would have drowned in PE without me."

"A mutually beneficial arrangement," Luka agrees, his smile softening. "Like Darwin's finches."

Will gives him a blank look.

"Coevolution, Will. We help each other adapt and survive."

Will rolls his eyes. "See? Nerd."

They fall into comfortable silence as they cut through the park, taking their usual shortcut. A group of kids from their grade are hanging out by the basketball courts, and several call out to Will.

"Shaw! We need one more. Game's about to start!"

Will hesitates for just a fraction of a second – so brief only Luka notices it – before waving back. "Can't today. Next time!"

As they walk on, Luka gives him a sideways glance. "You could have played, you know. I can wait."

Will shrugs. "Wouldn't be as fun." It's simple and honest, the way most things are with Will. "Besides, we're in the middle of that model rocket, and you promised to help me with the science fair project."

"That I did." Luka smiles, something warm unfurling in his chest at Will's easy dismissal of the invitation. It's always been like this – the two of them choosing each other over everything else. "Though if your mom's making lemon chicken, we might have to push the rocket assembly to tomorrow."

"Will-and-Luka!" a voice calls out, the names blended together as if they're a single entity. They turn to see Mrs. Abernathy, their former fifth-grade teacher, waving as she walks her dog. "I thought that was you two! Still joined at the hip, I see."

They wave back politely, but share a private look once she's passed. People have been doing that for years – treating their names like a compound word, observing their friendship as if it's some kind of scientific curiosity.

"You think we'll still be friends when we're old?" Will asks suddenly as they cut through the community garden. "Like, really old. With gray hair and stuff."

Luka considers this, head tilted. "I think we'll be those two weird old guys who live next door to each other and argue about whose turn it is to host dinner."

"You'll probably have invented something amazing by then," Will muses. "Like a robot butler or a hover car."

"And you'll be coaching the Olympic swim team," Luka adds. "Or maybe you'll be the one competing. Oldest gold medalist in history."

Will laughs, but there's something thoughtful behind it. "As long as we're still hanging out, I don't really care what we're doing."

They reach the large oak tree that marks the halfway point to Will's house. Without discussion, they both drop their bags and climb up to their usual branch – a ritual dating back to when they were nine. The branch is getting a bit small for them now, especially for Will, but neither mentions it.

"We should carve our initials," Will suggests, leaning his back against the trunk. "Make it official."

"Deface public property? William Philip Shaw, I'm shocked." But Luka's already pulling out his pocket knife – a birthday gift from Will's dad last year. "What are you thinking? W.S. + L.H. inside a heart?"

Will shoves him gently. "Shut up. Just our initials. For posterity."

"For posterity," Luka echoes, setting the tip of the blade against the bark.

They work together, Will holding the knife with Luka's hand steadying his wrist, carefully etching "WS & LH" into the weathered wood. When they finish, they both stare at their handiwork, oddly satisfied.

"There," Will says softly. "Now even when they tear this park down to put up a parking lot in fifty years, there'll be proof we were here."

Luka looks at him, surprised by the sentiment from his usually practical friend. "That's almost poetic, Shaw. You been reading in secret?"

"Maybe you're rubbing off on me," Will replies, bumping their shoulders together.

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching a pair of squirrels chase each other across the branches above them. The afternoon light filters through the leaves, casting dappled shadows across their faces. In moments like these, the rest of the world fades away, and it's just the two of them in their own universe.

"We should get going," Will finally says, though he makes no move to climb down. "Mom will wonder where we are."

"Five more minutes," Luka negotiates, leaning his head against Will's shoulder. "Your mom loves me. She'll forgive us."

"She does love you," Will agrees. "Sometimes I think she'd trade me for you."

"Nah. Package deal, remember? She'd have to take both of us."

The phrase hangs in the air, familiar and comfortable. Package deal. That's what they've always been – Will-and-Luka, Luka-and-Will. A matched set. Inseparable.

When they finally climb down, they gather their bags and continue their journey, falling back into easy conversation about homework and video games and whether aliens definitely exist or probably exist. To anyone watching, they're just two boys walking home from school – one tall and golden, one shorter and dark-haired. But there's an invisible current between them, a connection forged through years of shared secrets and inside jokes and quiet moments that belong only to them.

They are an odd couple, these two thirteen-year-old boys – the athlete and the intellectual, the sunshine and the spark. But together, they make perfect sense in a way that defies explanation. They're best friends, blood brothers without the blood, each the keeper of the other's truest self.

And for now, that's enough.

~ ~ ~

Will sits at his usual lunch table, saving Luka's spot with his science textbook, even though everyone knows better than to take it. The cafeteria hums with the chaotic energy of eighth grade, but he hardly notices, checking the clock for the third time in two minutes. Luka is late, held back by their English teacher to discuss an assignment, and Will feels oddly unbalanced, like he's missing a limb. He catches himself fidgeting and stops, wondering when exactly Luka's presence became as necessary as oxygen.

"Is this seat taken?" Madison Chen slides her tray onto the table across from him, not really waiting for an answer.

"Uh, no. I mean, not that one." Will gestures vaguely to the empty chairs around them. "Just this one." He taps the seat beside him where Luka's textbook guards his territory.

Madison rolls her eyes. "I figured. You guys are literally never apart." There's something in her tone—not quite mockery, but close—that makes Will's cheeks warm.

"He's talking to Mrs. Parker about the poetry assignment," Will explains, though nobody asked.

"Will-and-Luka," Madison says, as if testing how the combined names feel. "You know that's what everyone calls you, right? Not even separate people anymore."

Will picks at his sandwich, suddenly not very hungry. "That's stupid. We're obviously separate people."

"Are you, though?" Madison tilts her head, her observation uncomfortably perceptive. "When was the last time you did anything without him?"

Will opens his mouth to answer and realizes he has to think about it. Swimming practice yesterday, but Luka had been in the bleachers working on homework. The dentist appointment last week, but Luka had texted him the whole time. He frowns, trying to remember the last time he'd gone a full day without seeing or at least talking to his best friend.

He's saved from answering when Luka arrives, sliding into the seat beside him with a dramatic sigh. "Mrs. Parker wants me to submit my poem to some contest. Like I need that kind of pressure in my life."

"You'll win," Will says automatically, relief washing over him at Luka's presence. "You always do."

Luka grins and immediately reaches over to snag half of Will's sandwich—a ritual so familiar that Will has already pushed his tray toward the middle of the table in anticipation. "Not always. Remember the spelling bee disaster of sixth grade?"

"You misspelled 'necessary' on purpose because Jeremy Kang was about to pass out from nerves."

"Allegedly." Luka winks, and something flutters in Will's stomach.

Madison watches this exchange with raised eyebrows. "See what I mean?" she says to Will, then turns to Luka. "We were just discussing how you two are basically the same person."

Luka laughs, but Will notices it doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Hardly. Will here can barely tell the difference between Whitman and Wordsworth. And have you seen him try to calculate a tip?"

"And Luka swims like he's got an anchor tied to each foot," Will counters, falling into their usual banter.

"Defensive much?" Madison's gaze flickers between them with a knowing look that makes Will's neck hot. "Whatever. Just saying what everyone thinks." She grabs her apple and stands. "Save some cookies for Ryan's party Friday, if you're coming. Or I guess I should just expect to see both of you or neither of you?"

She walks away before they can answer, leaving an uncomfortable silence in her wake.

"What was that about?" Luka asks, picking apart the remains of his half-sandwich in a way that suggests he's not really interested in eating it.

Will shrugs, trying for casual. "Nothing. Just Madison being weird."

But the conversation lingers as they finish lunch, an invisible weight pressing down on them both. Will is achingly aware of every point where their arms brush, each casual touch that has always been part of their friendship but suddenly seems charged with something new.

When the bell rings, they gather their things and head to their lockers, which are—of course—side by side. Will fumbles with his combination, distracted by the way Luka's hair curls against the nape of his neck, a detail he's seen a thousand times but suddenly can't stop noticing.

"Earth to William," Luka says, snapping his fingers in front of Will's face. "Did you hear anything I just said?"

"Sorry." Will blinks, refocusing. "What?"

"I asked if we're going to Ryan's thing on Friday. Though I'm not sure why Madison assumes we're invited."

Will frowns. "Why wouldn't we be?"

Luka gives him a look that suggests he's being deliberately obtuse. "Because Ryan Freeman and his jock squad aren't exactly our biggest fans? Especially since you turned down joining their precious baseball team to do science fair with me."

"That was my choice," Will says defensively. "And anyway, it's not like we're outcasts or something."

"No, but we're not..." Luka gestures vaguely, searching for the right word. "We're not typical, I guess."

The word hangs between them, loaded with unspoken implications.

"Is that bad?" Will asks quietly.

Luka meets his eyes, and for a moment, something raw and vulnerable passes between them. "No," he says finally. "It's not bad. It's just..."

He doesn't finish the thought, and Will doesn't press. They walk to their next class in silence, closer than strictly necessary in the crowded hallway.

Later, during history, Will catches Ryan Freeman and two of his friends looking at them and laughing. He watches as Ryan leans over to whisper something to Jason Miller, whose eyes dart to Will and Luka, followed by a snicker. Will feels his face flush with anger and something else—embarrassment, maybe, or shame—though he's not sure why. He and Luka aren't doing anything wrong. They're just sitting next to each other, Luka absently tapping his pencil against Will's wrist to keep him focused as Mr. Bennett drones on about the Civil War.

"Ignore them," Luka whispers, not looking up from his notes but somehow aware of exactly what's bothering Will. "They're just jealous because they don't have actual friends."

Will nods, but the knot in his stomach doesn't loosen. He thinks about what Madison said at lunch—Will-and-Luka, not even separate people anymore—and wonders if that's what everyone sees when they look at them. And if so, why that feels like both a comfort and a threat.

After school, they head to the library to work on a project, claiming their usual table in the back corner. They've spent countless afternoons like this, heads bent together over books and notes, their conversation a mixture of work and inside jokes that make sense only to them. Today, though, Will finds himself intensely aware of Luka's proximity in a way he hasn't been before. When their fingers accidentally brush as they reach for the same book, he feels a jolt that has nothing to do with static electricity.

"Sorry," they both murmur at the same time, then laugh awkwardly.

"Go ahead," Will says, pulling his hand back a bit too quickly.

Luka takes the book but gives Will a curious look. "You okay? You've been weird all day."

"I'm fine," Will insists, even as he struggles to meet Luka's eyes. "Just tired, I guess."

"Will Shaw, I've seen you tired. I've seen you with the flu, with a broken arm, and after your grandmother's funeral. This isn't that." Luka closes his textbook and leans forward, those dark eyes seeing too much, as always. "Talk to me."

Will fidgets with his pen, twirling it between his fingers. "Do you think we're... I don't know, too close or something?"

Luka blinks, clearly not expecting that question. "Too close? According to who?"

"Nobody. Everyone. I don't know." Will sighs, frustrated with his inability to articulate the strange anxiety that's been building in him all day. "Just... Madison, and the way Ryan and those guys were looking at us, and..." He trails off, not sure how to continue.

Understanding dawns on Luka's face, followed by something that might be hurt. "You're worried about what people think of us."

"No! Well, not like that. I just..." Will drops his voice. "People act like we're joined at the hip. Like we're a package deal."

"We are a package deal," Luka says simply. "That's what best friends are."

Will nods, but he can't shake the feeling that what they have is different from other friendships he sees around them. Jack and Tyler are best friends, but they don't sit pressed together in the cafeteria, or text each other good night, or know each other's nightmares by heart.

"Yeah, but..." Will starts, then stops, unsure of how to put his confusion into words without risking the most important relationship in his life.

Luka watches him struggle for a moment, then reaches out and puts his hand over Will's, stilling the nervous pen-twirling. The touch is deliberate, gentle, and sends a wave of warmth up Will's arm.

"Look," Luka says quietly, "people are always going to have opinions. Ryan Freeman and his goons think anyone who doesn't worship at the altar of sports is weird. Madison thinks everyone should pair up like it's Noah's ark. None of that matters." He squeezes Will's hand once before letting go. "What matters is whether you and I are good. And we are. Right?"

"Right," Will agrees, though the question lingers. Are they good? Is this normal, this constant awareness of each other, this feeling like they're the only real people in a world of shadows?

They return to their work, but the tension doesn't fully dissipate. As they pack up later, Will notices a group of students watching them from across the library. He can't hear what they're saying, but their expressions make his stomach knot. He sees one boy mimic a limp-wristed gesture, and the others laugh.

"Ignore them," Luka says again, but his voice is tight. He's seen it too.

As they walk out, Will deliberately puts a few inches of space between them, then immediately feels guilty about it. Luka notices—he notices everything—but doesn't comment, just hitches his backpack higher on his shoulder and keeps walking.

The afternoon sun is warm on their faces as they head toward Will's house, their shadows stretching out behind them on the sidewalk. The silence between them is unusual, filled with all the things they're not saying.

"Sleepover this weekend?" Luka finally asks, an olive branch. "Mom and Dad are going to some conference. I can come over Friday after Ryan's party, if we're going."

"Yeah," Will says, relief washing over him at this return to normality. "Definitely. We can finish that new game."

Their shoulders bump as they walk, the contact brief but reassuring. Whatever is changing between them, whatever confusing new feelings might be emerging, the foundation remains solid: they're Will and Luka, best friends, inseparable.

But as they turn the corner onto Will's street, Will can't help glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting to see someone following them, watching them with the same sneering curiosity he'd glimpsed at school. The street is empty, but the uneasiness lingers, a shadow cast over what has always been the brightest part of his life.

"We're good," he says suddenly, firmly, as much to convince himself as Luka. "We're always good."

Luka looks at him, a small smile lifting the corner of his mouth. "Always," he agrees, and for now, that's good enough.

---

"I can't walk home with you today," Will says, the words tasting wrong in his mouth as they stand by their lockers after the final bell. His hands fidget with the straps of his backpack, an uncomfortable heat building in his chest that he recognizes as guilt. In all their years of friendship, he can count on one hand the times they haven't made this journey together.

Luka pauses in the middle of stuffing his history textbook into his already overpacked bag. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, just—Coach Donovan wants to talk to me about joining the swim team for real this year. Said it's important." Will shifts his weight from one foot to the other. "I tried to reschedule, but he's leaving for some conference tomorrow."

"That's great, though," Luka says, forcing enthusiasm into his voice. "You should go. You've been talking about competitive swimming forever."

Will nods, but his eyes betray his reluctance. "I can catch up with you after. It shouldn't take more than half an hour."

"Or I can wait," Luka offers, leaning against his locker. "I've got plenty of homework I could start on."

For a moment, Will's face brightens, but then he shakes his head. "No, that's stupid. No reason for both of us to be stuck here. You go ahead, and I'll text you when I'm done. Maybe I can still catch up if you walk slow."

"Me? Walk slow?" Luka places a hand over his heart in mock offense. "I am a precision walking machine, Shaw. Perfectly calibrated for maximum efficiency."

Will laughs, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly. "Right. I forgot I was talking to the kid who practically sprints to the cafeteria on pizza day."

"That's called survival instinct. The pizza vanishes in approximately seven minutes. I've timed it."

Their banter falls into its familiar rhythm, but there's an undercurrent of unease that neither can quite shake. The hallway empties around them as students rush for buses and freedom, but they linger, reluctant to separate.

"Just—" Will starts, then stops, suddenly self-conscious. "Be careful, okay?"

Luka raises an eyebrow. "Walking home? The same way we always go? I think I can manage without a bodyguard for one day, Will." But his teasing smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"I know. Just..." Will trails off, unable to articulate the vague sense of foreboding that's been following him all day. "Text me when you get home?"

"Sure," Luka agrees easily, though they both know it's not their usual routine. "Good luck with Coach. Tell him you'll only join if they change the team colors to something less hideous than maroon and gold."

Will forces a laugh. "I'll be sure to make that my first demand."

They part at the front entrance, Luka heading down the steps while Will turns back toward the athletic wing. Will stops at the door, watching as Luka's figure grows smaller down the sidewalk, an odd sense of wrongness washing over him. He almost calls out, almost runs after him, but then Coach Donovan appears in the hallway and waves him over.

"There you are, Shaw. Come on in."

Will follows, casting one last glance over his shoulder at the now-empty sidewalk.

Coach Donovan's office is cluttered with trophies and team photos, the walls a testament to decades of victories. Will sits on the edge of a plastic chair as the coach pulls out forms and schedules, talking excitedly about Will's potential and the upcoming season. Under normal circumstances, Will would be thrilled—this is his chance to join a real team, to channel his natural athleticism into something meaningful. But today, he struggles to focus, his attention drifting to the clock on the wall, to the window where the afternoon sun casts long shadows across the empty school grounds.

"You'd be a real asset, Shaw," Coach is saying. "With your build and natural talent in the water, you could go far. Maybe even get some college scouts interested in a few years."

"That would be great," Will replies automatically, his leg bouncing under the desk. "I definitely want to join."

The coach beams. "Excellent! Now, there are a few things to go over. Practice schedule is intensive—five days a week, including some Saturday mornings. Think you can handle that?"

Will's mind immediately jumps to his weekends with Luka—their movie marathons, bike rides, the ongoing model rocket project. "Five days a week?"

"Competitive swimming requires commitment, son. Your friend—what's his name, the small dark-haired kid—he'd understand, right?"

"Luka," Will supplies automatically. "And yeah, he'd understand." But even as he says it, he feels that twist of wrongness again, sharper now.

Coach Donovan keeps talking, but Will's attention is split, half-listening while the other half of his mind follows Luka's route home. They're about fifteen minutes into the meeting when a cold certainty washes over him—something is wrong. He doesn't know how he knows, can't explain the sudden urgency flooding his system, but it's overwhelming.

"I'm sorry, Coach," he interrupts, standing abruptly. "I have to go. Family emergency." The lie feels clumsy on his tongue, but he's already backing toward the door. "Can we finish this tomorrow?"

Coach Donovan blinks in surprise. "Uh, sure, Shaw. Everything okay?"

"Fine, just—I really need to go. Thanks!"

Will is running before he even clears the office door, his backpack bouncing against his spine as he sprints down the empty corridors and bursts out into the afternoon sun. He pulls out his phone as he runs, checking for texts from Luka. Nothing. He fires off a quick message—*Where are you? Everything ok?*—and picks up his pace, following their usual route home.

Meanwhile, Luka walks alone, his footsteps echoing in the unusual quiet. The weight of Will's absence feels heavier than he expected, like a phantom limb he keeps reaching for. It's silly, he knows. They're thirteen, not three. He's perfectly capable of walking six blocks by himself.

Still, he finds himself glancing over his shoulder more than once, an uneasy prickle creeping up his spine. The route feels different without Will's steady presence beside him—longer, somehow, and less familiar. When his phone vibrates with a text, he pulls it out eagerly, but it's just his mother reminding him she'll be working late again.

He's so busy typing a reply that he doesn't notice the three figures watching him from the shadow of the convenience store, their eyes tracking his movements with predatory focus.

Ryan Freeman nudges Jason Miller, nodding toward Luka. "Look at that. Little genius boy all alone for once."

Jason smirks, cracking his knuckles. "Where's his bodyguard?"

"Who cares? He's not here now." The third boy, Derek Thompson, spits on the ground. "About time we taught that smartass a lesson."

Ryan's eyes narrow as he watches Luka continue down the sidewalk, unaware of their presence. "My dad says those two are unnatural. Always together like that, no interest in girls. It's not right."

"My brother says they're probably gay," Jason sneers, the word twisted into something ugly in his mouth. "Disgusting."

"Let's follow him," Ryan decides, shouldering his backpack. "Wait till there's nobody around."

The three boys fall into step, maintaining a careful distance as they trail after Luka. They've been waiting for this opportunity for weeks—a chance to catch one of the inseparable pair alone. Ryan still burns with humiliation from when Luka corrected him in front of the entire class last month, making everyone laugh. And Jason hasn't forgotten how Will turned down joining the baseball team, citing his commitment to "help Luka with his science thing" as if that was more important than sports.

But their resentment goes deeper than these petty slights. There's something about Will and Luka's friendship that provokes them, something that feels like a challenge to their understanding of how boys should behave. They're too close, too comfortable with each other. They don't fit the rules, and for boys like Ryan, Jason, and Derek, rule-breakers need to be punished.

Luka turns onto Cedar Street, a quieter residential road lined with oak trees and well-kept houses. The afternoon is waning, most people still at work, the street largely deserted. He picks up his pace slightly, that prickle of unease growing stronger. His phone buzzes again—this time it's Will asking where he is, if he's okay. The concern makes Luka smile despite his unexplained anxiety. He starts to type a response, telling Will not to worry.

Behind him, Ryan signals to the others. They break into a jog, cutting through the alley that runs parallel to Cedar Street. The multi-level parking garage for the medical center sits at the corner, its open-air design creating shadowy alcoves perfect for an ambush. They position themselves just inside the ground level entrance, waiting for Luka to pass.

Luka rounds the corner, still focused on his phone, when he hears a shuffle of movement ahead. He looks up, his instincts screaming danger seconds before he sees them—three figures emerging from the shadows of the parking garage, spreading out to block his path.

"Well, look who it is," Ryan says, his voice carrying in the quiet street. "The brain trust."

Luka stops, immediately assessing the situation. Three against one, no witnesses nearby, and the cold calculation in their eyes tells him this isn't a chance encounter. His fingers tighten around his phone, thumb hovering over the call button.

"I'm not looking for trouble," he says evenly, already scanning for escape routes. "Just heading home."

"That's the problem with you, isn't it?" Ryan takes a step closer. "Always think you're so smart. Better than everyone else."

"I don't think that," Luka replies, backing up slightly. He considers running, but knows he can't outpace all three of them. "Look, I don't know what your problem is—"

"You're our problem," Jason cuts in, moving to flank him. "You and your boyfriend."

The word hits like a slap, not because of what it implies, but because of the hatred behind it. Luka feels his face flush with anger, but keeps his voice steady. "Will's at school. If you've got an issue with me, just say it."

"Oh, we'll do more than say it," Derek promises, cracking his knuckles.

Luka realizes with crystal clarity that this was planned—they were waiting for a day when he would be alone. His mind races, calculating odds and options. The street behind him is empty, but if he shouts, someone in one of the houses might hear. His phone is still in his hand, but there's no time to call for help.

Ryan steps forward, his intention clear in the set of his shoulders. "Let's see if you're as smart without your teeth."

The three boys move as one, closing in from different angles. Luka braces himself, adrenaline surging through his system. He may be outnumbered, but he's not going down without a fight.

As Ryan lunges, Luka's world narrows to the space between heartbeats, time seeming to slow as survival instinct takes over. Behind him, unheard over the rush of blood in his ears, footsteps pound against pavement—Will, running at full sprint, a desperate prayer on his lips.

---

Ryan's fist cuts through the air, aiming for Luka's face with practiced precision. But Luka isn't where he's supposed to be—he ducks at the last second, years of roughhousing with Will having taught him something about avoiding blows. His body moves on instinct, compact and quick, as he drives his own fist upward into Ryan's solar plexus. The larger boy doubles over, surprise flashing across his face—he hadn't expected the brain to know how to fight.

"Son of a—" Ryan wheezes, stumbling back, and for a brief moment, Luka thinks he might have a chance.

That illusion shatters when Jason lunges from the left, catching him with a glancing blow to the shoulder. Luka pivots, using his smaller size to his advantage, and delivers a sharp jab to Jason's ribs. The punch lands with a satisfying thud, but Derek is already circling behind him, creating an inescapable triangle.

"Not so smart now, are you?" Derek taunts, feinting forward.

Luka backs up against the wall of the parking garage, giving himself one less direction to defend. His heart hammers against his ribs, adrenaline sharpening his senses. He's never been in a real fight before—schoolyard scuffles and play-wrestling with Will don't count—but he's watched enough action movies to know he's in serious trouble.

"Three against one," he says, surprised by the steadiness in his voice. "Really brave of you guys."

Ryan straightens, rage darkening his features. "Shut your mouth, Hirschberg."

They attack together this time, coordinated like wolves bringing down larger prey. Luka manages to duck the first punch and land another solid hit on Jason's jaw, a burst of pride flaring as the bigger boy yelps in pain. But the victory is fleeting—Derek grabs his arm from behind, twisting it up between his shoulder blades. Pain shoots down Luka's spine as he struggles against the hold.

"Not so tough without your boyfriend, huh?" Derek growls in his ear, wrenching his arm higher.

Luka grits his teeth against the pain. "Let go of me, you—"

Ryan's fist connects with his stomach, driving the air from his lungs in a violent rush. Stars explode behind his eyes as he gasps, unable to breathe, unable to think past the white-hot agony radiating through his core. Before he can recover, another blow lands against his ribs, and another.

"This is for making me look stupid in class," Ryan snarls, punctuating each word with a punch.

Luka tries to fight back, but Derek still has his arm pinned. He kicks out blindly, his foot connecting with something solid. Jason curses, hopping back, and for a fleeting second, Luka feels a surge of satisfaction.

"Little bastard kicked me!" Jason's voice is high with indignation and pain.

"Hold him still," Ryan commands, and Derek tightens his grip, yanking Luka's arm until he cries out.

The next blow catches him across the face, splitting his lip. Warm, copper-tasting blood fills his mouth as his head snaps back, cracking against the concrete wall behind him. The world tilts and blurs, reality fracturing around the edges. Through the haze, he hears laughter—cruel and unfamiliar.

"Not so pretty now, is he?" One of them—Jason, he thinks—sounds gleeful.

Somehow, despite the pain, despite the fear coursing through him, Luka manages to stay upright. He spits blood onto the pavement, fixing Ryan with a defiant glare. "That all you got?"

It's the wrong thing to say. Ryan's face contorts with fury, and the next punch lands like a sledgehammer against Luka's cheekbone. His knees buckle, and suddenly Derek releases his arm, shoving him forward. Without that support, Luka crashes to the ground, concrete scraping his palms as he tries to break his fall.

The world spins sickeningly around him as he struggles to get up, to get his bearings, to fight back. But before he can regain his footing, a kick lands against his side, driving him back down. Pain explodes along his ribs, sharp and nauseating. Another kick, and another, from different directions now as all three boys circle like vultures.

"Stay down, freak," Ryan pants, his voice thick with exertion and something darker. "Know your place."

Luka curls into himself, trying to protect his head and vital organs the way he's seen in movies. Each impact sends new bursts of agony through his body, but he refuses to beg, refuses to give them the satisfaction of hearing him plead. Instead, he thinks of Will—steady, loyal Will who would never let this happen if he were here. Who's probably still in his meeting, unaware that anything is wrong.

A particularly vicious kick catches him in the back, right over his kidney, and a strangled cry escapes his lips before he can suppress it. The sound seems to encourage them, like blood in the water attracting sharks.

"Not so tough now," Jason gloats, pulling his foot back for another strike.

Will rounds the corner at a dead sprint, lungs burning and heart hammering against his ribs. The strange urgency that drove him from Coach Donovan's office has only intensified, a voiceless alarm screaming in his head. He's nearly at the intersection of Cedar and Maple when he hears it—a pained cry that stops his heart.

Luka.

Will skids around the corner, and the world narrows to a single, horrifying tableau: Luka on the ground, curled in on himself, while three boys—Ryan, Jason, and Derek—surround him, kicking him with vicious abandon. Blood stains Luka's face, his lip split and swollen, and even from a distance, Will can see the way he's struggling to protect himself from the relentless assault.

Something inside Will—something primal and dangerous—snaps.

He doesn't remember closing the distance between them. One moment he's at the corner, frozen in horror; the next, he's ripping Jason away from Luka with a strength he didn't know he possessed. Jason tumbles backward, eyes wide with shock, but Will doesn't pause to watch him fall. He's already pivoting, the heavy Algebra textbook clutched in his hand like a weapon.

"Get away from him!" The voice that tears from Will's throat doesn't sound like his own—it's deeper, darker, filled with a rage he's never felt before.

Ryan and Derek look up, momentarily startled by the interruption. In that split second of hesitation, Will launches himself at Ryan, driving his shoulder into the bigger boy's chest with enough force to send them both crashing to the ground. They hit the pavement hard, Will on top, his free hand already drawing back for a punch.

"What the hell—" Ryan starts, but Will's fist connects with his jaw, cutting off whatever he was going to say.

Will pulls back to hit him again, but movement to his right makes him roll away just as Derek aims a kick at his head. He scrambles to his feet, positioning himself between the three bullies and Luka's crumpled form.

"Back off," Will snarls, his chest heaving. "All of you."

Jason has regained his footing, and the three boys spread out, circling Will with newfound wariness. They still have the advantage of numbers, but the feral intensity in Will's eyes gives them pause.

"Should've stayed at your meeting, Shaw," Ryan spits, blood trickling from his split lip. "This doesn't concern you."

"He's my friend." Will's voice is deadly calm now, at odds with the storm raging inside him. "It concerns me."

"Your *boyfriend*, you mean," Derek sneers, but he doesn't step closer.

The slur barely registers through the roaring in Will's ears. All he can focus on is Luka's labored breathing behind him, the metallic scent of blood in the air, and the white-hot rage burning through his veins.

Ryan lunges first, perhaps emboldened by Will's apparent stillness. It's a mistake. Will sidesteps the charge with fluid grace, bringing the Algebra textbook down with all his strength onto Ryan's outstretched arm. The impact reverberates up Will's arm, the spine of the book connecting with bone.

There's a sickening crack, followed by Ryan's howl of pain—a high, keening sound like a wounded animal. He staggers back, cradling his arm, his face drained of color.

"You broke my arm!" he shrieks, voice cracking with shock and agony. "You fucking broke my arm!"

Will doesn't answer. He's already turning to face Jason and Derek, the textbook still gripped in his hand. His eyes are cold, calculating—so unlike his usual warm blue gaze that for a moment, the two boys simply stare.

"Who's next?" Will asks quietly.

Jason and Derek exchange glances, their earlier confidence evaporating in the face of Ryan's continued wailing and Will's unnerving calm. Self-preservation wins out over pride; they back away, hands raised in surrender.

"Come on, man," Jason says, his voice pitched higher than normal. "We were just messing around. No need to go crazy."

"Messing around?" Will repeats, and there's something dangerous in the softness of his tone. "You call this messing around?"

He gestures to Luka, who has managed to push himself up to a sitting position, one arm wrapped protectively around his ribs. His face is a mess of blood and already-darkening bruises, his breathing shallow and pained.

Will takes a step toward them, and both boys flinch. "Get out of here," he says. "Now. And if you ever—*ever*—come near him again, a broken arm will be the least of your worries."

Derek grabs Ryan's good arm, tugging him away. "Come on, man. We need to get you to a doctor."

Ryan continues to curse and sob, his injured arm hanging at an unnatural angle. As the three boys retreat, casting fearful glances over their shoulders, Will remains standing guard until they disappear around the corner. Only then does he drop the textbook and rush to Luka's side.

"Luka," he breathes, kneeling beside his friend. The rage that possessed him moments ago drains away, replaced by cold fear as he takes in the extent of Luka's injuries. "God, Luka, I'm so sorry. I should've been here."

Luka manages a pained smile, though it reopens the cut on his lip. "Better late than never, Shaw." His voice is raspy, each word clearly an effort. "Nice timing with the textbook. Remind me never to make you mad during study hall."

Will's hands hover uncertainly, afraid to touch and cause more pain. "How bad is it? Can you stand? We need to get you to a hospital."

"Not that bad," Luka insists, though his grimace as he shifts tells a different story. "Nothing's broken. I think." He reaches out, and Will immediately clasps his hand, providing stability as Luka struggles to his feet.

The movement draws a sharp gasp from Luka as pain lances through his ribs. He sways dangerously, and Will's arm immediately goes around his waist, careful and supporting.

"Easy," Will murmurs, his voice gentle now—worlds away from the cold fury of moments ago. "I've got you."

Luka leans heavily against him, seeming small and fragile despite the toughness he'd displayed. Will feels a surge of protectiveness so intense it almost chokes him, followed by a wave of guilt that threatens to drown him entirely.

"I'm so sorry," he says again, the words inadequate against the backdrop of Luka's injuries. "I should've been with you. I knew something was wrong, I felt it, but I didn't get here fast enough."

"Will." Luka's hand comes up to grip Will's shoulder, surprisingly strong despite his condition. "Stop. You couldn't have known. And you did get here. You saved me."

Will looks down at him, at the bruises blooming across his face, the blood staining his shirt, and feels something shift inside him—a fundamental realignment of his world. In that moment, with Luka battered but unbowed beside him, Will realizes that there is nothing—*nothing*—he wouldn't do to protect this boy.

"Let's get you home," he says finally, his voice thick. "My house is closer. Mom can decide if we need to go to the hospital."

Luka nods, wincing as the movement jars his injuries. Together, they begin the slow journey toward Will's house, Luka leaning heavily against Will's side, Will's arm a gentle constant around his waist.

Behind them, the discarded Algebra textbook lies on the pavement, its cover smeared with blood—a testament to the lengths Will Shaw will go to protect what matters most to him.

---

They make their way down Cedar Street at a snail's pace, Luka's arm draped over Will's shoulders, Will's arm secure around Luka's waist. Each step draws a small, involuntary hiss of pain from Luka, though he tries to hide it. The afternoon sun casts long shadows ahead of them—one tall, straight figure supporting a smaller, hunched one—and Will thinks it looks like they've aged fifty years in the span of minutes.

"You don't have to pretend it doesn't hurt," Will says quietly, adjusting his grip to better support Luka's weight. "I know it does."

Luka attempts to straighten up, but the movement sends a fresh wave of pain through his ribs. He sinks back against Will with a muffled groan. "Okay, it hurts. But I'm walking, aren't I? Better than being carried home like a damsel in distress."

"I could carry you, you know." Will's offer is completely serious. "It would be faster."

"And completely destroy what's left of my dignity?" Luka manages a small smile despite his split lip. "No thanks. I can make it."

They pause at the corner to let Luka catch his breath. His face is alarmingly pale beneath the smears of blood and forming bruises, and his breathing comes in shallow, careful pulls. Will studies him with worried eyes, cataloging each visible injury—the cut above his eyebrow that's still seeping blood, the darkening bruise on his cheekbone, the split lip, the way he holds himself as if his ribs are made of glass. And those are just the injuries he can see.

"Maybe we should call an ambulance," Will suggests, his thumb hovering over his phone screen. "Or my mom. She could pick us up."

Luka shakes his head, wincing at the movement. "No ambulance. Too expensive, and my parents would freak. And your mom's at work, right? The hospital?"

"Yeah, but—"

"Then we walk. It's only four more blocks." Luka straightens his shoulders with visible effort. "Besides, my people wandered the desert for forty years. I think I can handle four blocks."

Will can't help but laugh, though it comes out sounding more relieved than amused. "That's not exactly the same thing."

"You're right—they didn't have you to lean on. I'm already ahead of the game." Luka takes a deep breath and nods. "Okay. Onward, my Gentile steed."

They resume their careful progress, Will matching his pace to Luka's labored steps. The street is quiet around them, most people still at work, though occasionally a car passes by. Will half expects someone to stop and ask if they need help—Luka's face is a mess, after all—but no one does. It strikes him as strangely fitting; they've always been a self-contained unit, Will-and-Luka against the world.

"So," Luka says after they've gone another block, his voice strained but determinedly light, "on a scale of one to Incredible Hulk, how scary were you back there? Didn't really get to see the show from my position on the ground."

Will's jaw tightens at the memory. "I don't know. I don't really remember much. Just seeing you down and them... kicking you." His voice catches. "I just lost it."

"Well, Ryan's arm definitely lost something." Luka's attempt at humor falls flat as he stumbles slightly, a sharp intake of breath betraying the spike of pain. Will's arm tightens around him, steadying him until the wave passes.

"I'm sorry," Will says, and they both know he's apologizing for more than just the rough movement.

"Don't be. He deserved it." Luka pauses, considering. "Though my Rabbi might disagree. 'An eye for an eye leaves everyone blind,' and all that."

"I'm not sorry about his arm," Will clarifies, his voice harder than Luka is used to hearing. "I'm sorry I wasn't there sooner. I'm sorry I let you walk home alone."

Luka stops, forcing Will to stop with him. Despite the pain evident in every line of his body, he turns to face his friend directly. "Listen to me, William Philip Shaw. This is not your fault. You didn't 'let' me do anything—I'm not your responsibility. Those three decided to ambush me because they're hateful idiots. That's on them, not you."

Will meets his gaze, his blue eyes troubled. "But if I had been with you—"

"If you had been with me, maybe they would have jumped us both. Or maybe they would have waited for another day. Or maybe they would have gotten more friends to even the odds." Luka's voice is firm despite its raspy quality. "What matters is that when it counted, you showed up. And you brought an Algebra book to what was supposed to be a fistfight, which, by the way, was kind of brilliant."

A reluctant smile tugs at Will's lips. "It was the heaviest thing I had."

"Geometry would have been better—all those pointy angles. But I'll take what I can get." Luka grins, then immediately regrets it as his split lip reopens. "Ow. Remind me not to be funny for a while."

"That'll be a challenge for you," Will says, relieved to see a flash of the normal Luka beneath the injuries.

They continue their slow journey, each step a victory against pain and exhaustion. As they pass Mrs. Delaney's house, her old dachshund barks at them from behind the fence, a familiar greeting that seems surreal in the context of what they've just been through. The normality of the neighborhood—sprinklers hissing on well-manicured lawns, mail waiting in boxes, a kid's bicycle abandoned on a front walk—feels like it belongs to a different world than the one they're currently inhabiting.

"You know what's ironic?" Luka says after a while, his voice slightly slurred with fatigue. "They kept calling you my boyfriend, like it was the worst insult they could think of. But you're the one who rescued me. Very knight in shining armor, if you ask me."

Will feels his face warm, though he's not sure why. "Yeah, well. That's what friends do."

"My bubbe would say you're a mensch," Luka tells him seriously. "That's high praise, in case you're wondering."

"I figured," Will says, smiling despite everything. "Your pronunciation got very Jewish just now."

"Pain brings out my cultural heritage," Luka deadpans. "If I start speaking Yiddish, you'll know I'm really hurting."

They turn onto Will's street, the familiar houses a welcome sight. Will's grip on Luka tightens protectively, as if afraid he might collapse in the final stretch. They're both sweating now, though the afternoon isn't particularly warm—Luka from pain and exertion, Will from the stress of supporting his friend's weight and the lingering adrenaline of the fight.

"Almost there," Will encourages as they approach his house, a tidy two-story colonial with blue shutters. "Just a few more steps."

"Thank God," Luka mutters. "I think I've aged about three decades in the last twenty minutes. I can practically feel my hair turning gray."

"Pretty sure that's just the blood drying," Will says, guiding him carefully up the front walk.

"Always the optimist." Luka leans more heavily against him as they climb the three steps to the porch. "This is why we're friends, you know. You balance out my natural pessimism."

Will fumbles with his keys, trying to support Luka and unlock the door at the same time. "I thought we were friends because I let you copy my English homework."

"That too. And because your mom makes the best lemon chicken this side of Tel Aviv." Luka's joke ends in a grimace as a particularly sharp pain catches him off guard. "Speaking of your mom, is she home?"

Will pushes the door open and helps Luka inside, kicking it closed behind them. The house is quiet and still, the only sound the gentle hum of the refrigerator from the kitchen. "No, she's on shift at the hospital until eight. Dad's away at that conference in Detroit until Friday, remember?"

Luka nods weakly, relief and apprehension mingling on his battered face. Relief because he's not sure he wants adults involved just yet; apprehension because he's starting to realize how much he's actually hurting, now that the immediate danger has passed.

Will eases him down onto the sofa, arranging a throw pillow behind his back. "Stay here. I'll get the first aid kit and some ice."

"Not going anywhere," Luka assures him, sinking gratefully into the cushions. "Though if I get blood on your mom's nice couch, she might ban me from future chicken dinners."

"She loves you more than me; she'd probably just buy a new couch." Will hesitates, reluctant to leave Luka's side even for a moment. "Are you sure you're okay? Nothing's broken?"

Luka takes a careful inventory of his injuries, wincing as he probes his ribs with gentle fingers. "Pretty sure nothing's broken. Ribs are just bruised. Everything else is just superficial—cuts and bruises. I'll live, Shaw. Go get your medical supplies."

Will nods and heads for the kitchen, returning moments later with a plastic basin of warm water, a clean washcloth, and the family's extensive first aid kit. He sets everything on the coffee table and kneels in front of Luka, opening the kit with practiced movements. Growing up with a nurse for a mother has its advantages.

"This is going to sting," he warns, saturating the washcloth with warm water. "But we need to clean these cuts before they get infected."

Luka steels himself, hands gripping the edge of the sofa cushion. "Do your worst, Dr. Shaw. I can take it."

Will begins gently cleaning the blood from Luka's face, his touch feather-light as he works around the worst of the bruising. Luka hisses as the cloth makes contact with his split lip, but doesn't pull away.

"You know," Luka says through gritted teeth, "there's an old Jewish joke about a man who goes to the doctor. The doctor says, 'I have bad news and worse news.' The man says, 'Give me the bad news first.' The doctor says, 'You have twenty-four hours to live.' The man says, 'That's terrible! What could be worse?' And the doctor says, 'I've been trying to reach you since yesterday.'"

Will pauses, washcloth suspended in midair, and stares at Luka in disbelief. "You're making jokes now? Seriously?"

Luka grins, despite the pain it causes. "Humor is how my people cope with adversity. We've turned it into an art form. Besides," he adds, his expression softening, "it makes you look less like you're about to cry."

Will hadn't realized how close to the surface his emotions were until Luka pointed it out. He swallows hard, focusing on the task at hand. "I'm not going to cry. I'm just...worried about you."

"I know." Luka's voice is gentle now, all traces of humor gone. "But I'm okay. Really. Thanks to you."

Their eyes meet, and something passes between them—gratitude, understanding, and something deeper that neither is ready to name. Will's hand lingers on Luka's cheek, ostensibly cleaning a smudge of dirt, but the touch feels like more than just first aid.

"You're going to have some impressive bruises," Will says finally, breaking the moment. "But I think most of these cuts are superficial. Except maybe this one." He gently probes the gash above Luka's eyebrow. "This might need a stitch or two."

"No hospitals," Luka insists. "Just clean it up as best you can. If it's still bad tomorrow, I'll reconsider."

Will nods, though he's clearly not happy about it. "We should check your ribs too. And then I'm getting you in the shower. You've got dirt and...stuff...all over you."

"Stuff?" Luka raises an eyebrow, immediately regretting it as pain shoots through his forehead. "Is that the technical medical term?"

"Shut up and let me help you," Will says, but there's no heat in his voice—just concern and a deep, abiding affection that wraps around Luka like a blanket.

As Will continues his careful ministrations, Luka watches him through half-closed eyes, struck by the gentle competence in his friend's hands. For all his size and strength, Will has always been gentle with the things he cares about. And right now, it's very clear that what he cares about most is making sure Luka is okay.

"Thanks," Luka says softly, the word encompassing far more than just the immediate care. "For everything."

Will looks up, his blue eyes serious. "Always," he promises, and in that moment, they both know it's true. Whatever comes next—hospitals or healing, school or bullies or the complicated feelings growing between them—they'll face it together. Always.

---

"We need to get you upstairs," Will says, his voice gentle but firm as he helps Luka to his feet. The shorter boy sways slightly, one arm still wrapped protectively around his ribs. Will steadies him with a hand at his elbow, feeling a strange mix of tenderness and fury—tenderness for his injured friend, fury at the ones who hurt him. It's a complicated heat in his chest, like holding a flame that both warms and burns.

"Stairs. Great." Luka eyes the staircase as if it's Mount Everest. "This'll be fun."

"I could carry you," Will offers again, only half-joking.

"And forever ruin my reputation as a tough guy? No thanks." Luka takes a deep breath, wincing at the pressure on his ribs. "Lead the way, Shaw."

They tackle the stairs one at a time, Will's arm around Luka's waist, Luka leaning heavily against him. Each step draws a muffled sound of pain from Luka, though he tries to disguise it with muttered commentary.

"Whoever invented stairs clearly had a vendetta against injured people," he grumbles as they reach the halfway point. "Elevators. That should have been the priority invention."

"Almost there," Will encourages, his grip firm but gentle. "Just a few more."

By the time they reach the top, Luka's face is pale and sheened with sweat, his breathing shallow. Will guides him straight to the bathroom, kicking the door wider with his foot.

"We need to get you cleaned up properly," Will says, lowering Luka to sit on the closed toilet lid. "And I need to check if anything's broken."

Luka grimaces. "If something was broken, I probably wouldn't have made it up those stairs."

"Still need to check." Will runs hot water into the sink, testing it with his fingers until it's the right temperature. He soaks a clean washcloth and turns back to find Luka struggling with the buttons of his shirt.

"Here, let me," Will offers, kneeling in front of him. He gently moves Luka's hands away and begins unbuttoning the shirt himself. "This is pretty wrecked anyway."

Luka looks down at his once-white school shirt, now stained with dirt, blood, and what looks suspiciously like motor oil from the parking garage floor. "Mom's going to kill me. This was new."

"Better the shirt than you," Will points out, carefully easing the fabric off Luka's shoulders.

He sucks in a breath as the shirt falls away, revealing the extent of the damage underneath. Angry red marks mottle Luka's torso, already darkening into what will be spectacular bruises by morning. The worst is a boot-shaped mark on his left side, the clear imprint of a heel visible against his pale skin.

"Jesus, Luka," Will whispers, his hands hovering uncertainly over the injuries.

"That bad, huh?" Luka tries to look down at himself but stops with a wince. "Scale of one to ten?"

"About a fifteen." Will's jaw clenches. "I should have broken more than just Ryan's arm."

"Hey." Luka's hand catches Will's wrist, his grip surprisingly strong. "You did enough. More than enough."

Will nods, not trusting himself to speak. He focuses instead on the task at hand, gently cleaning the smaller cuts and scrapes on Luka's chest and arms with the warm washcloth.

"You need a shower," he decides, setting the now-dirty washcloth aside. "A proper one, with soap. There's dirt ground into some of these scrapes."

Luka looks at the shower stall with trepidation. "Not sure I can stand that long."

"I'll help you." The words come out automatically, and then Will realizes what he's offering. There's an awkward pause as they both process this.

"I mean, I won't look or anything," Will adds hastily. "Just... be there to make sure you don't fall."

Luka's lips quirk in the ghost of his usual grin. "My hero."

The next few minutes are an exercise in careful navigation. Will helps Luka stand, then tactfully turns away while Luka struggles out of his pants and underwear. By unspoken agreement, Will keeps his eyes fixed on the bathroom wall as he helps Luka into the shower stall, one hand firmly gripping his friend's elbow for stability.

"Water okay?" Will asks, still looking away as he adjusts the temperature.

"Perfect." Luka's voice is strained but grateful. "This actually feels good."

Will risks a glance then, but keeps his eyes carefully above shoulder level. Luka stands with his face tilted up into the spray, eyes closed as the water sluices over his battered features. The water at his feet runs pink, then clear.

"Here," Will says, reaching for his mother's fancy shampoo. "This'll be gentler than mine."

Luka opens his eyes, blinking away water. "Your mom won't mind?"

"Are you kidding? She'd be offended if I didn't offer you the good stuff."

Will squeezes a dollop into his palm and, before he can overthink it, reaches up to work it gently into Luka's hair. Luka closes his eyes again, a small sound of relief escaping him as Will's fingers massage his scalp, careful to avoid the bump where his head had hit the wall.

"Feels nice," Luka murmurs, and Will's heart does a strange little skip.

He works methodically, shampooing Luka's hair and then helping him rinse, supporting him when he sways. Next comes body wash—he hands the bottle to Luka to handle that part himself, keeping a steadying hand on his shoulder as Luka gingerly cleans around his injuries.

"Turn around," Will directs when Luka finishes. "Let me check your back."

Luka complies, revealing another canvas of forming bruises across his shoulder blades and lower back. Will winces in sympathy. There's a particularly nasty mark just above Luka's left kidney that draws his concern.

"This one looks bad," he says, fingers hovering just above the injury. "Does it hurt to pee?"

"Haven't tried yet," Luka answers, twisting to try to see. "But I don't think they did any permanent damage. Just hurts like hell."

Will carefully washes Luka's back, mindful of the tender areas. "Almost done," he promises. "You're doing great."

When the last of the dirt and blood has been washed away, Will turns off the water and reaches for a fluffy towel from the rack. He holds it open, eyes averted as Luka steps out of the shower. With as much dignity as possible under the circumstances, he helps Luka dry off, still maintaining a careful balance between necessary assistance and privacy.

"Here," Will says, retrieving a clean pair of his own pajama pants and a soft t-shirt from his bedroom. "These'll be big on you, but they're clean."

Luka accepts them gratefully. "Thanks. For all of this."

Will shrugs, as if helping his battered best friend shower is something he does every day. "That's what friends are for."

Once Luka is dressed—the clothing indeed comically large on his smaller frame—Will guides him to his bedroom and helps him sit on the edge of the bed. The shower seems to have helped; Luka's movements are a little less pained, his face less drawn.

"Let me check your ribs," Will says, carefully lifting the hem of the t-shirt.

Luka allows this with minimal protest, raising his arms as much as he can while Will gently palpates each rib, the way he's seen his mother do when checking for fractures.

"Anything feel broken? Sharp pain when I press here?"

Luka winces but shakes his head. "Just bruised, I think. Breathing hurts, but not in a 'punctured lung' kind of way."

"Good." Will pulls the shirt back down. "Now for the secret weapon."

He crosses to his dresser and pulls out a dark brown glass bottle from the bottom drawer. The label is medical-looking but hand-written: DMSO - EXTERNAL USE ONLY.

"What's that?" Luka asks, eyeing the bottle suspiciously.

"DMSO. Dimethyl sulfoxide." Will unscrews the cap, and immediately a pungent smell fills the room—sharp and garlicky. "Mom gets it from a pharmacist friend. It's amazing for bruises and sprains. Athletes use it all the time."

Luka wrinkles his nose. "Smells like my grandmother's kitchen during Passover."

"Yeah, it's not subtle," Will admits. "But it works. Mom swears by it for everything. She used it when I sprained my ankle last year, and I was back running in half the normal recovery time."

He pours a small amount into his palm—a clear, oily liquid—and rubs his hands together to warm it. "This might feel cold at first, but then it gets warm. And it might tingle."

"You're really selling this," Luka deadpans, but he lifts his shirt anyway, presenting his bruised ribs for treatment.

Will applies the DMSO with gentle fingers, careful not to press too hard on the worst of the bruises. The liquid absorbs quickly into Luka's skin, leaving a slight sheen behind.

"Whoa," Luka says after a moment, his eyebrows rising. "That's... weird. I can taste it."

"Yeah, it does that. Goes straight through your skin and into your bloodstream. That's why it works so fast." Will continues his careful application, working his way across Luka's torso. "By tomorrow, these bruises will be half as bad as they would have been otherwise."

"If you say so. But I'm going to smell like garlic bread for days."

Will chuckles. "Small price to pay."

He finishes with Luka's ribs and moves on to his back, guiding him to turn and lift the shirt higher. His fingers work slowly, methodically, over each injury. The intimacy of the moment isn't lost on either of them—this careful tending, the trust implied in allowing such care.

"What are we going to do about those guys?" Luka asks quietly as Will applies DMSO to the bruise on his lower back.

Will's hands pause momentarily before resuming their gentle work. "What do you want to do? We could tell the principal. Or the police."

Luka is silent for a moment, considering. "Ryan's arm is broken. That's probably punishment enough for now."

"They hurt you," Will points out, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. "They ambushed you, three against one."

"And you made them pay for it." Luka twists to look at Will over his shoulder. "I'm not saying let them off the hook completely. But escalating might make things worse."

Will sighs, reluctantly seeing the logic. "We could at least tell your parents. And mine."

"And tell them what, exactly? That you broke a kid's arm defending my honor?" Luka's attempt at humor falls flat as Will's expression darkens.

"This isn't funny, Luke."

"I know." Luka's voice softens. "I know it's not. But it happened, and we dealt with it. If we tell our parents, they'll freak out. There will be meetings with the principal, and Ryan's parents will probably try to sue yours for his arm, and it'll be this whole thing."

"So we just... what? Pretend it didn't happen?"

Luka shakes his head, wincing slightly at the movement. "Not pretend. But handle it our way. Keep an eye out for each other. And if they try anything again..."

"They won't," Will says with quiet certainty. "Not after today."

He finishes applying the DMSO and screws the cap back on the bottle. Already, the worst of the red marks on Luka's skin seem less angry, though that might be wishful thinking.

"You should rest," Will says, helping Luka lie back against the pillows. "The DMSO works better if you're still for a while."

Luka doesn't protest, his earlier bravado fading as exhaustion takes over. The day's events have clearly taken their toll, both physically and emotionally. He sinks into Will's bed with a small sigh of relief.

"Thanks for taking care of me," he murmurs, eyes already half-closed. "Don't think I could have managed all this myself."

Will sits on the edge of the bed, oddly reluctant to leave even though Luka is now settled. "You'd do the same for me."

"In a heartbeat," Luka agrees, his voice growing sleepy. "Though I'd probably be less competent. More panicking, less actual first aid."

Will smiles, affection warming his chest. "You'd figure it out."

Luka's eyes drift closed, his breathing evening out as the pain medication Will had given him earlier finally takes effect. Will watches him for a moment, struck by how young and vulnerable he looks in sleep, the usual sharp intelligence and wit softened by unconsciousness.

Without thinking, Will reaches out and gently brushes a damp curl from Luka's forehead. His fingers linger, tracing the edge of a bruise with the lightest touch.

"I won't let anyone hurt you again," he whispers, so quietly it barely disturbs the air. It's a promise, not just to Luka but to himself. "Not ever."

Luka doesn't stir, already deep in the healing refuge of sleep. Will stays by his side a while longer, keeping watch, his hand resting protectively on the bed beside Luka's. The garlic smell of the DMSO fills the room, oddly comforting in its medicinal pungency—the scent of healing, of care.

Outside, the afternoon sun begins its slow descent, casting golden light across the bedroom floor. Within this warm cocoon, as Luka sleeps and Will maintains his faithful vigil, something shifts between them—something tender and essential, like a seed long planted finally beginning to push toward the light.

---

Will waits until Luka's breathing deepens into sleep before slipping out of the room to make the necessary phone call. Mrs. Hirschberg answers on the third ring, her voice distracted in the way of someone trying to do several things at once. In the background, Will can hear the clatter of her home office—keyboard clicks and papers shuffling. He clutches the phone tighter, suddenly unsure how to explain why her son won't be coming home tonight without telling her the whole terrible truth.

"Hi, Mrs. Hirschberg. It's Will." He moves down the hallway, keeping his voice low to avoid waking Luka. "I was wondering if Luka could stay over tonight?"

"Will, hi." There's a brief pause, more typing. "Is everything okay? Luka didn't mention a sleepover."

Will swallows hard. "Yeah, everything's fine. We, uh, we were working on a project for science and lost track of time. It's getting late, and since you and Dr. Hirschberg are working late anyway..." He lets the implication hang, hoping she'll fill in the blanks herself.

"That sounds like Luka," she says with a fond sigh. "Always getting caught up in his projects. Is he there? Can I talk to him?"

Will's stomach knots. "He's actually in the shower right now." Not entirely a lie—Luka was in the shower earlier. "I can have him call you when he's out?"

"No need. Just tell him it's fine." Another pause, more clicking. "Will your mother be home?"

"Yes, ma'am. She gets off her shift at eight." Will's conscience twists at the half-truths. He hates lying, especially to Luka's mom, who has always been kind to him. But the alternative—explaining about the fight, about Luka's injuries, about Will breaking another boy's arm—seems impossible over the phone.

"That's fine, then. Tell Luka I left some dinner in the fridge for tomorrow, and don't forget his math assignment is due on Friday."

"I will. Thanks, Mrs. Hirschberg."

"Thank you for looking after him, Will. I'm glad he has you."

The simple sincerity in her voice makes Will's chest ache. "Me too," he manages, and means it more than she could possibly know.

After hanging up, Will stands in the hallway for a long moment, phone clutched in his hand. The weight of the day settles on his shoulders—the fear when Luka was missing, the rage when he saw him being hurt, the tenderness of caring for him afterward. It's a lot to process, and he's only thirteen, after all. He takes a deep breath, then another, centering himself the way his swim coach taught him.

Back in his bedroom, Luka is still asleep, one arm flung over his head, the other resting protectively across his injured ribs. The oversized t-shirt has ridden up slightly, exposing a strip of skin and the edge of a darkening bruise. Will quietly closes the door and crosses to the bed, carefully tugging the shirt back down to cover the injury. Luka stirs but doesn't wake, his face relaxed in sleep in a way it hadn't been since the attack.

Will settles into his desk chair, homework forgotten as he keeps watch over his friend. The afternoon light gradually fades into dusk, casting the room in soft shadows. He should probably start thinking about dinner—his mom will be home soon, and Luka will need to eat something with the pain medication—but he's reluctant to leave, as if his presence alone can somehow protect Luka from further harm.

It's nearly seven when Luka finally stirs, eyes blinking open with momentary confusion before focusing on Will.

"Hey," he says, voice raspy with sleep. "How long was I out?"

"Couple of hours." Will moves from the desk to sit on the edge of the bed. "How are you feeling?"

Luka shifts experimentally, taking inventory of his injuries. "Like I got beat up by three jerks, but maybe like it happened last week instead of today. Your magic garlic potion seems to be working."

"Told you." Will can't help the small smile of relief. "Hungry? I was thinking of heating up some of the lasagna from yesterday."

"Starving," Luka confirms, carefully pushing himself upright. He winces but manages it with less difficulty than before. "Your mom home yet?"

"Not till eight. I called your mom, by the way. Said you're staying over."

A flash of concern crosses Luka's face. "Did you tell her what happened?"

Will shakes his head. "Just said we were working on a project and lost track of time. She bought it."

"Thanks." Luka's relief is palpable. "I'm not ready to explain all this yet."

"We'll have to tell them eventually," Will points out, standing to offer Luka a hand up. "They're going to notice your face."

Luka accepts the help, letting Will steady him as he gets to his feet. "I know. But not tonight. Tonight, I just want to eat lasagna and pretend today never happened."

The stairs are easier this time, Luka moving with more confidence despite the lingering pain. In the kitchen, Will busies himself with preparing dinner—reheating the lasagna, putting together a simple salad, pouring glasses of milk. It's a routine they've enacted countless times before during sleepovers and study sessions, but tonight it carries a different weight, a sense of caring that goes beyond simple friendship.

"My mom texted," Will says as they sit down to eat. "She's bringing ice cream home. She says you can pick the flavor."

Luka smiles around a mouthful of lasagna. "Your mom is the best. Mint chocolate chip, obviously."

"Obviously." Will watches Luka eat, noting with relief that his appetite seems normal despite everything. "How's the food?"

"Good. Really good, actually." Luka takes another big bite. "Getting beaten up works up an appetite, apparently."

Will winces at the casual reference. "Don't joke about that."

"Have to joke about it," Luka counters, his eyes meeting Will's across the table. "Otherwise, it's just sad and scary, and I don't want to give those jerks the satisfaction."

Will understands the logic, even if he can't share the lightness. The memory of Luka curled on the ground, being kicked, is still too raw. "Just... eat your lasagna."

They finish dinner in comfortable silence, the familiar rhythm of forks against plates soothing in its normality. Will clears the dishes afterward, insisting that Luka rest, though Luka ignores him and helps anyway, drying each plate Will washes. Their hands brush occasionally as they work, the contact brief but reassuring—proof that they're both here, both okay, despite everything.

When Will's mother arrives home, they're on the couch watching a movie, the lasagna pan soaking in the sink, all evidence of the day's chaos carefully hidden away. She brings mint chocolate chip ice cream as promised, and if she notices Luka's split lip or the careful way he holds himself, she doesn't comment on it. Perhaps she attributes it to normal teenage roughhousing, or perhaps she's simply too tired after her long shift to notice anything amiss.

Later, after ice cream and the rest of the movie and Will's mom heading upstairs with a kiss goodnight for both boys, they find themselves back in Will's room, preparing for bed. It's a familiar routine—Luka borrowing a spare toothbrush from the drawer where Will keeps one just for him, Will setting out an extra pillow and blanket even though they both know Luka will end up stealing Will's anyway.

"You can have the bed," Will offers, gesturing to the air mattress they usually alternate using during sleepovers. "I'll take the floor."

Luka gives him a look that clearly communicates what he thinks of this suggestion. "Don't be stupid. The bed is big enough for both of us, and I'm not kicking you out of it. Besides," he adds, more softly, "I don't really want to be alone right now."

Will doesn't argue further. He understands completely—after the day they've had, the thought of being separated, even by the distance between bed and floor, seems unbearable.

They settle in together, side by side in Will's bed. It's a tight fit, especially with Will's broad shoulders, but they've managed it countless times before. Tonight, though, Will is achingly conscious of the way Luka's body curls beside his, the soft sound of his breathing, the faint scent of Will's own shampoo in his hair.

"Thanks for today," Luka murmurs into the darkness, his voice heavy with approaching sleep. "For everything."

Will turns his head on the pillow, though he can only make out the outline of Luka's profile in the dim glow of the nightlight from the hallway. "Stop thanking me. You don't need to."

"I do, though." Luka shifts slightly, wincing as the movement pulls at his ribs. "You were... you were amazing, Will. Like something out of a movie."

Heat creeps up Will's neck, and he's glad for the darkness that hides his blush. "I just did what anyone would do."

"No." Luka's voice is firm despite its sleepiness. "Not what anyone would do. What you would do. Because you're you."

Before Will can formulate a response, Luka's breathing deepens and evens out, sleep claiming him once more. Will lies awake beside him, watching the gentle rise and fall of his chest, listening to the quiet sounds of the house settling around them.

His thoughts drift back through the day—the strange certainty that had pulled him from Coach Donovan's office, the blind fury that had seized him at the sight of Luka being hurt, the tender care he'd taken in cleaning and treating his wounds. None of it had felt like a choice; it had felt like the only possible response, as natural and necessary as breathing.

Luka stirs in his sleep, turning unconsciously toward Will, seeking warmth. His face in repose looks younger, more vulnerable, the sharp wit and keen intelligence momentarily set aside. Will feels a surge of protectiveness so intense it's almost painful. He would do anything—anything—to keep Luka safe. To keep him smiling. To keep him in his life.

And suddenly, with the clarity of a lightning strike, Will understands what he's feeling. This isn't just friendship, isn't just the bond of years spent as inseparable companions. This is something more, something deeper and more transformative. This is why he feels Luka's absence like a physical ache, why his heart races when Luka laughs, why he can't imagine a future that doesn't include the two of them together.

He's in love with his best friend.

The realization should be shocking, should be frightening—they're both boys, they're only thirteen, they have their whole lives ahead of them. But instead, Will feels an overwhelming sense of rightness, as if a puzzle piece he didn't know was missing has suddenly slotted into place. Of course he loves Luka. How could he not?

Luka shifts again, murmuring something unintelligible in his sleep. Instinctively, Will reaches out, gently smoothing a hand over his hair to soothe him. Luka quiets under his touch, settling deeper into the pillow they share.

Will doesn't know what this means for them, doesn't know if Luka could ever feel the same way. He doesn't know what his parents would say, or Luka's, or how the world might try to stand between them. But in this moment, with Luka safe beside him, with the truth of his own heart finally clear, none of that seems to matter.

He loves Luka. Simple and complicated, terrifying and wonderful. It's the most honest thing he's ever felt.

Will closes his eyes, his hand coming to rest lightly on the blanket between them. Tomorrow will bring its own challenges—explaining Luka's injuries, facing school, navigating this new understanding of his feelings. But for now, in the quiet darkness of his room, with Luka's steady breathing beside him, Will allows himself to simply exist in this moment of clarity.

He loves Luka, and for tonight, that's enough.

---

Morning brings a different kind of clarity—the sharp-edged reality of school, of facing other students, of having to explain Luka's bruised face and split lip. Will wakes before his alarm, Luka still asleep beside him, one arm thrown carelessly across Will's chest. The weight of it feels different now, significant in a way it hadn't been twenty-four hours ago. Will allows himself a moment to simply exist in this new awareness, watching the gentle rise and fall of Luka's chest, noticing the way his dark eyelashes fan against his cheeks, the way his hair falls across his forehead. It's the same Luka he's always known, and yet somehow entirely new.

The alarm blares, shattering the quiet moment. Luka stirs, wincing as consciousness brings back awareness of his injuries. He blinks up at Will, momentarily disoriented before recognition settles in his eyes.

"Morning," he mumbles, voice rough with sleep. "Time is it?"

"Six-thirty." Will reaches across him to silence the alarm, hyperaware of the way their bodies brush in the narrow bed. "How do you feel?"

Luka takes a careful inventory, shifting experimentally beneath the covers. "Better than yesterday. Still sore, but I can breathe without feeling like I'm being stabbed, so that's an improvement."

Will sits up, creating a small but necessary distance between them. His newfound understanding of his feelings is too raw, too overwhelming to navigate this early, with Luka sleep-rumpled beside him.

"Mom left some more painkillers for you on the nightstand," he says, nodding to the pills and water glass. "And there's more DMSO if you want it."

Luka makes a face. "And smell like garlic bread at school? Hard pass." He pushes himself up to sitting, moving with more ease than the night before. "Though I guess it did help."

Their morning routine unfolds with practiced familiarity—sharing the bathroom, taking turns in the shower, Will lending Luka clean clothes that hang too loose on his smaller frame. Will's mother is already gone for her early shift, but she's left breakfast on the table—scrambled eggs and toast, kept warm under a plate cover, with a note reminding them to lock up when they leave.

It's all so normal, so unchanged from a hundred other mornings they've shared, that Will could almost believe yesterday never happened—that he never saw Luka beaten, never broke a boy's arm in rage, never realized the true nature of his feelings for his best friend. But then Luka winces as he reaches for the orange juice, or Will catches sight of the bruise darkening his cheekbone, and reality crashes back with painful clarity.

"We should come up with a story," Luka says around a mouthful of toast. "For this." He gestures to his face.

Will frowns. "I don't want to lie."

"Not a lie, exactly. Just... a simplified version." Luka sets his fork down, considering. "We can say I fell. Tripped on the curb or something."

"And got a perfect imprint of a boot on your ribs?" Will's voice is sharper than he intends. "Come on, Luke."

Luka sighs, running a hand through his still-damp hair. "What do you want me to say? 'Oh, these? Got jumped by three guys who hate me because I'm smart and because they think Will and I are gay'? That'll go over well."

The word 'gay' lands between them with unexpected weight. Will feels his face warm, wondering if Luka somehow knows about his revelation, if his feelings are somehow visible on his face.

"Besides," Luka continues, oblivious to Will's internal panic, "I don't want to deal with teachers and counselors and all that. I just want to get through the day."

Will relents, recognizing the exhaustion behind Luka's words. "Fine. You tripped and fell. But if they come near you again—"

"They won't," Luka says confidently. "Not after what you did to Ryan's arm. Trust me, we're officially off their list of potential victims."

The walk to school is slower than usual, accommodating Luka's still-tender ribs. Will carries both their backpacks despite Luka's protests, and keeps a watchful eye on their surroundings, half-expecting Ryan and his friends to jump out from behind every bush and parked car. But the streets are peaceful, filled only with other students making their way to school, many of whom greet Will and Luka with casual waves or nods.

It's at the main entrance that they encounter their first challenge of the day.

"Whoa, what happened to you?" Jack Martinez asks, eyes widening at the sight of Luka's bruised face.

Luka gives an embarrassed laugh that sounds convincingly genuine to anyone who doesn't know him as well as Will does. "Took a header into the sidewalk yesterday. Wasn't watching where I was going."

Jack looks skeptical. "Must have been some fall."

"You should see the sidewalk," Luka quips, and just like that, the moment passes. Jack laughs and moves on, apparently satisfied with the explanation.

Will lets out a breath he didn't realize he was holding. "That was easier than I thought."

"People generally believe what you tell them," Luka says with a shrug that he immediately regrets, judging by his wince. "And I've got a reputation for being clumsy."

"Since when?"

"Since right now. Keep up, Shaw."

The familiar banter steadies Will, a reminder that beneath the bruises and the new, complicated feelings, they're still Will and Luka—still the same duo they've always been.

They part ways for first period—the only class they don't share—with a promise to meet in their usual spot afterward. Will is acutely aware of the curious glances Luka receives as he heads down the hallway, but is reassured by the easy way Luka deflects questions, his natural charm smoothing over potential awkwardness.

In English class, Will finds it hard to focus. Ms. Parker is discussing symbolism in "The Great Gatsby," but all Will can think about is whether Luka is okay, whether he's in pain, whether anyone is bothering him. He keeps checking the clock, counting down minutes until he can see Luka again.

It's a new feeling, this constant awareness, this need to be near him. Or maybe it's not new at all—maybe it's always been there, and Will is only now recognizing it for what it is.

When the bell finally rings, Will is the first out the door, moving with purpose toward Luka's math class. He spots him in the hallway, surrounded by a small group of concerned-looking girls, one of whom appears to be offering him some kind of ointment for his lip.

"It's really nothing," Luka is saying, that easy smile in place despite his injuries. "Just me being a klutz."

Will approaches, feeling an unexpected twinge of something like jealousy at the attention Luka is receiving. It's irrational—these are just classmates being kind—but he can't help it.

"Ready for history?" he asks, a bit more abruptly than he intended.

Luka looks up, relief visible in his eyes. "Absolutely. Ladies, thank you for the concern, but my personal nurse here has me covered." He gestures to Will with a grin that makes the girls giggle and Will's ears burn.

As they walk to history class, Will fights the urge to place a hand on Luka's back or shoulder—touches that would have been unconscious yesterday but now feel charged with new meaning. Instead, he contents himself with walking close enough that their arms occasionally brush, each brief contact sending a small thrill through him.

"You okay?" Luka asks quietly. "You seem tense."

Will startles, wondering if his feelings are that transparent. "Just worried about you," he says, which is true enough.

Luka's expression softens. "I'm fine, Will. Really. Sore, but okay."

"I know. I just—" Will breaks off, unable to articulate the tangle of emotions inside him. "I just want to make sure you stay that way."

Throughout the day, Will finds himself watching Luka more than usual—the way he gestures when he speaks, the slight furrow of concentration between his eyebrows, the way his eyes light up when he understands something new. It's nothing Will hasn't seen a thousand times before, but now each observation feels weighted with significance, each detail precious in a way he hadn't fully appreciated.

During lunch, Will purposely steers them to a table away from their usual spot, avoiding the possibility of encountering Ryan's friends. Luka notices but doesn't comment, simply follows Will's lead with quiet understanding.

"Have you seen them today?" Luka asks as they eat, the question casual but the undercurrent anything but.

Will shakes his head. "Ryan's probably at the hospital or home. The others... I don't know. Haven't seen them."

"Good." Luka picks at his sandwich, appetite still not fully recovered. "Let's keep it that way."

In chemistry, their last class of the day, they work together on a lab assignment that requires careful measurement and precision. Luka's hands are steady as he measures solution into a beaker, his movements methodical despite the remaining soreness in his ribs. Will hands him each tool before he needs to ask for it, their teamwork so seamless it draws an approving nod from their teacher.

"You two work together like you're reading each other's minds," Mr. Chen comments as he passes their station. "Good job."

Will and Luka exchange a glance, a smile passing between them that feels like a secret shared.

As they clean up their station, their hands brush reaching for the same flask. Their fingers touch, and Will feels a spark—static from the dry air, but it jolts him nonetheless. Luka looks up, surprise flickering across his face, as if he felt it too.

"Sorry," Will mumbles, pulling his hand back.

"It's okay," Luka says softly, and something in his tone makes Will look up and meet his eyes.

There's a question there, or maybe a beginning of understanding. Something has shifted between them, something neither of them is ready to name but both can feel. The moment stretches, suspended in the backdrop of classroom chatter and the clinking of glassware.

Then Luka smiles—that familiar, crooked smile that has always been just for Will—and whatever tension had built dissipates, replaced by something warm and anticipatory. Not now, the smile seems to say. But soon.

They walk home together after school, shoulders brushing, conversation flowing easily between them. To anyone watching, they're the same as they've always been—Will and Luka, Luka and Will, inseparable best friends navigating the complex world of eighth grade together.

But Will knows something has changed. In the way he notices how the afternoon light catches in Luka's dark hair. In the way his heart speeds up when Luka laughs. In the way he can't imagine his life without this boy beside him, brilliant and brave and impossibly dear.

He's in love with his best friend. And while he doesn't know yet if Luka feels the same, if they'll ever be more than what they are now, he knows with absolute certainty that what they have—this connection, this understanding, this unwavering loyalty—is something rare and precious.

As they reach the corner where they'll part ways—Luka to his house, Will to his—Luka turns to him with a serious expression.

"Will? Thanks again. For yesterday. For everything."

Will shakes his head, about to brush off the gratitude as he has before, but something in Luka's eyes stops him. "Always," he says instead, the word carrying the weight of a promise.

Luka holds his gaze for a moment longer than usual, something unspoken passing between them. Then he nods, as if confirming something to himself. "See you tomorrow?"

"See you tomorrow," Will agrees, watching as Luka turns and heads up his street.

He stands there until Luka disappears from view, his heart full with feelings he's only beginning to understand. Whatever comes next—whether friendship or something more—Will knows one thing with absolute certainty: Luka Hirschberg is the most important person in his world, and nothing—not bullies, not society's expectations, not his own fears—will ever change that.

With that thought warming him against the cooling afternoon air, Will turns toward home, already counting the hours until he sees Luka again.

I stand in front of you
I'll take the force of the blow

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