The air tasted like pennies and vehicle exhaust. Tommy didn’t look back. He couldn't. If he turned his head, he’d lose the rhythm of his feet hitting the cracked pavement, and if he lost that, he was dead. Well, maybe not dead. But certainly bleeding. Definitely humiliated. And he was so tired of bleeding.
His lungs burned. A sharp, jagged heat that clawed up his throat with every gasping inhale. He vaulted over a rusted park bench, his converse snagging on the wood, stumbling but keeping his momentum. Behind him, the heavy thud of boots. Three pairs. Maybe four. The distinct, jeering laughter of guys who knew they had the numbers, the size, and the time.
"Run, little rabbit!" someone shouted. It was Kyle. Of course it was Kyle. The voice was thick with the promise of violence.
Tommy didn’t scream. He saved the oxygen. He cut sharp left, off the main path of the city park and into the 'Ramble'—a section of overgrown trails, dying elms, and piles of wet, rotting leaves that smelled of sulfur and deep, earthy decay. It was darker here. The late afternoon sun was struggling to pierce the grey cloud cover, casting the world in a flat, desaturated gloom. The orange and brown leaves stuck to the wet asphalt like wet paper, slick and treacherous.
He needed to hide. He needed to disappear. That was his specialty, wasn’t it? Being invisible. Sitting in the back of the class, hoodie up, headphones blasting aggressive phonk just to drown out the silence of his own life. He was a ghost in the machine, scrolling through feeds of people living actual lives while he just… existed. Waiting for something to break.
He scrambled up a muddy incline, fingers digging into the cold slime of the earth, his nails packing with grit. He slipped, his knee slamming into a hidden rock. Pain exploded up his thigh, hot and blinding. He hissed, a wet, broken sound, and scrambled over the ridge, tumbling down into a concrete drainage ditch that cut through the center of the park like a scar.
He hit the bottom hard. Water soaked instantly through his jeans. Cold. Freezing. He gasped, trying to scramble up the other side, but his knee buckled.
"Nowhere to go, Tommy," Kyle’s voice drifted from the ridge above. Closer now.
Tommy backed up, his hands scraping against the rough concrete wall of the ditch. He turned to run down the tunnel, towards the underpass, but he stopped short.
He wasn't alone in the ditch.
Someone was standing there. Not hiding. Just… waiting. Leaning against the graffiti-tagged concrete, maybe ten feet away, was a guy. He looked older—maybe seventeen, possibly eighteen. He was wearing a heavy, distressed leather jacket over a black hoodie, the hood down. His hair was dark, shaved close on the sides, messy on top. He was smoking a cigarette, the ember glowing bright orange in the gloom.
He didn't look startled. He looked bored.
Tommy froze. He was trapped. Kyle and the pack behind him, this stranger in front of him. The stranger took a slow drag, his eyes—dark, heavy-lidded—tracking Tommy with a terrifying lack of urgency. He exhaled a stream of grey smoke that curled into the damp air.
"You're loud," the stranger said. His voice was deep, a low rumble that vibrated in Tommy's chest, deeper than the cold or the fear. "You're scaring the rats."
"I…" Tommy’s voice cracked. He sounded pathetic. He hated himself for it. "They're chasing me. Please. Just… move."
The stranger didn't move. He dropped the cigarette and crushed it under the heel of a heavy combat boot. He looked past Tommy, up to the ridge where Kyle and two other varsity-jacket-wearing hulks were just sliding down the mud, laughing.
"Well," the stranger said, pushing himself off the wall. He didn't look at Tommy anymore. He looked at Kyle. "Looks like the rats are here."
Kyle landed in the ditch with a splash, his friends flanking him. He straightened up, wiping mud from his hands, grinning until he saw the stranger. The grin faltered, just for a second. The atmosphere in the ditch shifted. It went from the frantic panic of a hunt to something heavier. Something static and charged.
"Who the hell are you?" Kyle sneered, posturing, puffing out his chest. "Walk away, emo kid. This doesn't concern you."
The stranger tilted his head. He rolled his neck, a sickening *crack* echoing off the concrete walls. He took a step forward. Then another. He moved with a predator's grace—fluid, heavy, inevitable.
"You interrupted my smoke," the stranger said. It wasn't a question. It was a sentence.
Tommy pressed his back against the cold concrete, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He should run. He should use this distraction to scramble up the other side and vanish. But he couldn't. His legs wouldn't work. He was paralyzed, not by fear of Kyle, but by the sheer gravitational pull of this new threat.
Kyle scoffed. "Get him."
It happened fast. Messy. Brutal.
One of Kyle’s friends, a linebacker named Trent, lunged. The stranger didn’t even take his hands out of his jacket pockets until the last second. He sidestepped, a blur of motion, and drove a fist into Trent’s gut. It wasn't a cinematic punch. It was a short, vicious hook that knocked the wind out of the boy with a wet, retching sound.
Trent folded. The stranger grabbed the back of Trent’s neck and slammed his face into the concrete wall. *Crunch*.
Tommy flinched, his hands flying to his mouth. The violence was sudden and absolute.
Kyle and the other guy hesitated. The reality of the situation was dawning on them. This wasn't a schoolyard scuffle. This guy hurt people.
"You…" Kyle stammered.
The stranger turned. There was a smear of blood on his knuckles. Not his blood. He looked at Kyle, his expression completely flat. Unimpressed. "You're still here?"
Kyle looked at Trent, groaning in the dirty water, then at the stranger. The bully crumbled. The bravado evaporated, leaving just a scared kid in a dirty letterman jacket. He grabbed Trent by the arm. "We're going. We're going. Jesus."
They scrambled back up the muddy bank, slipping, cursing, dragging their fallen friend. It was pathetic. It was fast.
And then it was quiet.
Just the sound of the distant city traffic—sirens, horns, the low hum of the grid—and the dripping of water in the ditch. And Tommy’s breathing. Ragged. Wet.
The stranger stood there for a moment, looking at the mud where Kyle had disappeared. Then, slowly, terrifyingly, he turned to face Tommy.
Tommy stopped breathing. The adrenaline that had fueled his run was gone, replaced by a cold, trembling shock. He slid down the wall until he was crouching in the dirt, clutching his bruised knee.
The stranger walked over. His boots splashed in the shallow puddles. He stopped inches from Tommy. He smelled like tobacco, wet leather, and something sharp—like iron or copper. Old blood? New blood?
Tommy looked up. He couldn't help it. He had to look.
The stranger was handsome. Violently handsome. High cheekbones, a sharp jawline, and eyes that were so dark they looked like ink. There was a small scar cutting through his left eyebrow.
"Stand up," the stranger commanded. Softly. But it was an order.
Tommy tried. His legs shook so bad he almost fell again. He braced his hand against the wall. He was tall, but this guy was taller. Broader. He felt small. He felt… held. Even without being touched, he felt held in place by the guy’s gaze.
"Why were you running?" the stranger asked. He reached out, his hand hovering near Tommy’s face. Tommy flinched, squeezing his eyes shut.
"Don't," the stranger said. "Don't do that. Open your eyes."
Tommy opened them. The hand landed on his chin. The fingers were rough, calloused, but the grip was gentle. Firm. Possessive. The stranger tilted Tommy’s head up, inspecting a scratch on his cheek from the branches.
"I… I didn't want to fight," Tommy whispered. His voice trembled.
"Clearly," the stranger murmured. His thumb brushed over the scratch. The skin burned under the touch. Electric. Tommy felt a flush rising up his neck, heating his ears. It was humiliating. It was exhilarating. "You just let them chase you like prey. Is that what you are? Prey?"
"No," Tommy said, but it sounded like a lie. "I just… I'm alone. There's three of them."
"And now there's me," the stranger said. He dropped his hand, but he didn't step back. He stayed in Tommy’s personal space, crowding him, consuming the air between them. "I'm Damon."
"Tommy," he breathed out.
"Tommy," Damon repeated. He tested the name, tasting it. "You're shaking, Tommy."
"It's cold."
"It's not that cold."
Damon stared at him. He was analyzing him. dissecting him. Tommy felt like he was being scanned, every insecurity laid bare. His cheap hoodie, his scuffed sneakers, the way he bit his lip when he was nervous. Damon saw it all.
"You have a phone?" Damon asked.
"Yeah."
"Give it to me."
Tommy blinked. "What?"
"Phone. Give it."
Tommy fumbled in his pocket, his hands shaking so much he almost dropped it in the mud. He unlocked it and handed it over. Damon took it. He didn't look at the screen; he looked at Tommy while he typed something in.
"You listen to that garbage?" Damon asked, glancing at the lock screen—a band logo. Some obscure post-punk revival group Tommy was obsessed with.
"They're… they're good," Tommy defended weakly. "The lyrics… they get it."
"Get what?" Damon handed the phone back. Their fingers brushed. A spark. Literal static electricity, maybe, but it felt like a kick to the chest. Tommy’s breath hitched.
"Being… stuck," Tommy muttered, looking at his muddy shoes. "Being invisible."
Damon scoffed. A harsh, sharp sound. He grabbed Tommy’s chin again, forcing him to look up. The grip was tighter this time. Demanding.
"You're not invisible," Damon said, his voice dropping an octave. "I see you. I saw you falling down that hill. I saw you cowering against this wall. You're very visible, Tommy. You're a mess."
Tears pricked Tommy’s eyes. Not from sadness, but from the sheer intensity of being perceived. It was overwhelming. He spent his whole life trying to blend into the drywall, and this guy, this violent, beautiful stranger, was ripping the camouflage off.
"Why did you help me?" Tommy asked. The question hung in the damp air.
Damon stepped closer. His thigh brushed against Tommy’s. Heat radiated through the wet denim. "I told you. They interrupted my smoke. And…" He paused, his eyes dropping to Tommy’s mouth, then back up to his eyes. "I didn't like the way they were looking at you."
"How were they looking at me?"
"Like they owned you," Damon said. The darkness in his voice spiked. "They don't."
Tommy swallowed hard. "And you do?"
It was a bold thing to say. Stupid, maybe. But the air between them was so thick, so charged, it felt like the only logical question.
Damon didn't answer immediately. He leaned in, his face inches from Tommy’s. Tommy could feel the warmth of his breath. He could smell the tobacco smoke clinging to his skin. He felt dizzy. His heart was beating so fast he thought he might pass out. The 'Gap Moe' was hitting him like a freight train—this guy who just smashed someone's face into a wall was now looking at him with something that looked terrifyingly like… fascination.
"Maybe," Damon whispered. "I haven't decided yet."
He reached out and brushed a wet leaf from Tommy’s shoulder. The gesture was domestic, almost tender, which made it all the more jarring.
"Your knee," Damon said, looking down. "It's bleeding."
Tommy looked down. The denim was torn. Blood was seeping through, dark and wet against the blue fabric.
"I can walk," Tommy said quickly.
"I didn't ask if you could walk," Damon said. "Sit."
"What? No, I need to get home. My mom—"
"Sit," Damon commanded. He pointed to a dry patch of concrete on the ledge of the drainage pipe.
Tommy sat. He didn't want to argue. He didn't think he could win an argument with Damon anyway.
Damon crouched down in front of him. He didn't care about the mud ruining his boots. He rolled up Tommy’s pant leg. His hands were warm against Tommy’s cold skin. The contrast made Tommy shiver violently.
"It's just a scrape," Damon assessed. He pulled a handkerchief—an actual black handkerchief—from his back pocket and dabbed at the blood. He wasn't gentle, but he was precise.
Tommy watched him. The curve of his spine. The way his hair fell over his eyes. The focused intensity of his expression. It was intimate. Too intimate for a drainage ditch with a stranger. It felt like a ritual.
"You go to North High?" Damon asked without looking up.
"Yeah. Junior year."
"I got kicked out of North last year," Damon said. He pressed the cloth against the cut, making Tommy hiss. "Sorry. Not sorry. It needs pressure."
"What did you do?" Tommy asked.
Damon looked up, smirking. "Put a guy in the hospital. He touched my bike."
Tommy’s stomach flipped. Fear and thrill, mixing into a toxic cocktail. "You're crazy."
"And you're bleeding in a ditch," Damon countered. "Who's the crazy one?"
He tied the handkerchief around Tommy’s knee. It was tight. Secure.
"There," Damon said, standing up and offering a hand. "Up."
Tommy took the hand. Damon pulled him up with effortless strength. For a second, just a split second, they were chest to chest. Tommy could feel the solid wall of muscle under the leather jacket. He could feel the dangerous potential energy coiling inside Damon.
Damon didn't let go of his hand immediately. He held it, his thumb rubbing over Tommy’s knuckles. Rough skin against smooth. Heat against cold.
"You have my number now," Damon said. "I put it in your phone."
"Oh," Tommy said. "Okay."
"If those guys come back," Damon said, his voice dropping to that low, vibrating rumble again. "If anyone comes back. You don't run. You call me. Understand?"
"Why?" Tommy breathed. The world felt narrow. Just the two of them in the grey light.
Damon stepped back, finally breaking the physical contact. The loss of warmth was instant and painful. Tommy almost reached out to grab him back.
"Because," Damon said, turning to walk away, his boots crunching on the gravel. He stopped and looked back over his shoulder. The look was intense, searing. "I'm not done with you yet."
He walked away, heading toward the tunnel exit, disappearing into the shadows of the underpass. Tommy stood there, alone in the ditch, the smell of tobacco and rain lingering in the air. He looked down at his knee. The black handkerchief was stark against his pale skin.
He touched it. It was real.
He pulled his phone out. A new contact was saved simply as 'D'.
Tommy stood there for a long time, the cold seeping into his bones, but for the first time in years, he didn't feel the hollow ache of loneliness. He felt something else. Something sharper. Something dangerous.
He felt hunted. And God help him, he liked it.
He limped toward the exit, the ghost of Damon’s touch burning on his hand. The city lights were flickering on above the park, an amber glow against the purple sky. The world was the same—loud, dirty, indifferent. But the silence in Tommy’s head was gone, replaced by the echo of a command.
*Call me.*
Tommy smiled. It was a small, broken thing, but it was there.