Route 44

"You’re limping."

"I am not limping."

"Michael, you’re literally dragging your left leg like a zombie. It’s embarrassing."

Michael didn’t answer. He just shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his windbreaker, focusing intently on the condensation sliding down the bus window. Outside, the suburbs of Seattle were blurring into a smear of wet neon and charcoal darkness. It was that specific kind of April rain—cold, relentless, and smelling faintly of worms and wet pavement.

The bus hit a pothole. Michael’s teeth clicked together, and a sharp, hot line of pain shot up his shin, radiating from the bruise he’d earned clipping the final hurdle in the 110s. He hissed, flinching, his body jerking involuntarily.

A hand—heavy, warm, and terrifyingly solid—landed on his knee. It wasn't a gentle pat. It was a clamp. A stabilizer.

"Sit still," Daniel said. His voice was low, a rumble that Michael felt in his own chest more than he heard with his ears. "You’re making it worse."

"Get off," Michael muttered, though he didn't pull away. He couldn't. The heat coming off Daniel’s palm was absurd. It felt like a heating pad set to high, soaking through the thin synthetic fabric of Michael’s track pants. It was the kind of heat that shouldn't be humanly possible, not after sitting in a freezing dugout for three hours. "People are looking."

"Nobody is looking. Chloe is passed out. The driver hates his life. We’re good."

Michael risked a glance. Daniel was staring straight ahead, his profile cut sharp against the sliding streetlights. He looked... bored. Relaxed. While Michael felt like his insides were being put through a blender, Daniel sat with the stillness of a statue. A very large, very dangerous statue.

That was the thing about Daniel. He was too much of everything. Too fast on the track, too strong in the weight room, too calm when everyone else was freaking out. And recently, he’d become... too close.

The bus engine groaned, shifting gears as it climbed the hill toward the ridge. The vibrations rattled the plastic seats.

"You shouldn't have run that last heat," Daniel said, his thumb brushing back and forth over Michael’s kneecap. It was a rhythmic, unconscious motion. Or maybe it was conscious. With Daniel, you never knew. "I told Coach you were cooked."

"I needed the points. We were down by six."

"We were down by four. And it’s a qualifier, not State. It doesn't matter."

"It matters to me," Michael snapped, the frustration of the loss finally bubbling up. He turned his head, glaring at Daniel’s side profile. "Not everyone is a genetic freak like you, Dan. Some of us have to actually try."

Daniel turned. Slowly.

The movement was predator-smooth. No jerkiness, no hesitation. He just rotated his neck, and suddenly Michael was pinned by those eyes. In the daylight, they were hazel. Under the flickering fluorescent lights of the bus, they looked gold. Not yellowish-brown. Gold. Like a coin catching the sun at the bottom of a well.

"Is that what I am?" Daniel asked. "A genetic freak?"

Michael swallowed. His throat felt dry. The air between them suddenly felt thin, charged with static. This happened sometimes. The air would change. The sounds of the bus—the squeak of the wipers, the hum of the heater—would fade out, leaving just the sound of Daniel’s breathing. Slow. Deep.

"You know what I mean," Michael mumbled, looking away. He hated how easily he folded. "You didn't even break a sweat today. It’s 45 degrees out and you’re in a t-shirt."

"I run hot."

"You run like a furnace."

Daniel hummed, a sound that vibrated through the seat. He didn't remove his hand from Michael’s knee. In fact, his grip tightened slightly, his fingers curling around the side of the joint, offering support. It felt possessive. It felt like being held by gravity.

"Here," Daniel said, reaching into his other pocket with his free hand. He pulled out a tangled mess of white wires. "Distract yourself."

He offered one earbud. The old-school wired kind. Daniel refused to use Bluetooth. He said the frequency messed with his head, gave him migraines. Michael thought he was just being a hipster, but he took the bud anyway.

They sat in silence for a moment, tethered together by the white wire. A synth-heavy track started playing—something slow, moody, with a bassline that thumped in time with the headache behind Michael’s eyes.

Michael leaned his head back against the gritty window, closing his eyes. The cool glass vibrated against his skull. He tried to focus on the music, on the rain, on anything but the burning point of contact on his knee.

He was tired. So tired. The season was grinding him down. School, practice, the constant pressure to keep his scholarship prospects alive. And this... whatever this was with Daniel. It was exhausting trying to act normal when your best friend looked at you like you were a particularly interesting piece of prey.

The bus took a sharp corner. Michael’s body swayed, gravity pulling him to the right. He didn't fight it. He let himself list sideways, his shoulder bumping into Daniel’s arm.

Daniel didn't budge. He was a wall. Solid rock.

Michael stayed there. It was pathetic, really. Seeking warmth like a stray cat. But the heat radiating off Daniel’s bicep was intoxicating. It smelled like cedar laundry detergent and something else—something wilder, like wet fur and crushed pine needles.

"You’re cold," Daniel murmured. It wasn't a question.

"Bus is freezing."

"Take my jacket."

"I’m fine."

"Michael."

"I said I’m fine. I don't want your stupid letterman. It’s huge on me. I look like a toddler."

Daniel chuckled. The sound was dark, amused. "You look fine. You look..." He trailed off. He didn't finish the sentence.

Michael opened one eye. Daniel was looking at him again. The gaze was heavy, dropping to Michael’s mouth, then back up to his eyes. There was no smiling now. The amusement was gone, replaced by that intense, terrifying focus.

"What?" Michael whispered. His heart did a stupid, fluttery thing in his chest. A traitorous organ.

"You’ve got..." Daniel reached up. His hand left Michael’s knee—Michael immediately missed the warmth—and moved toward his face. Michael froze. He stopped breathing. Every instinct he had screamed run and stay at the same time.

Daniel’s thumb brushed the corner of Michael’s eye. The skin there was rough, calloused from lifting weights, but the touch was agonizingly gentle. He wiped something away. A eyelash? A smudge of dirt?

"Tired," Daniel finished softly. "You look tired."

Michael let out a breath he didn't know he was holding. It came out shaky. "Gee. Thanks. You really know how to charm a guy."

"I’m not trying to charm you," Daniel said, his voice dropping an octave. He leaned in closer. Just an inch. But in the cramped space of the bus seat, it felt like miles. "If I was trying to charm you, you’d know."

The bus slowed to a halt. The air brakes hissed violently, breaking the spell.

"Next stop, Elm and 4th!" the driver yelled out, his voice cracking over the intercom.

Chloe, in the seat in front of them, snorted awake. She sat up, rubbing her face, her curly hair a disaster halo around her head. "Are we there? God, I feel like I’ve been on this bus for three years."

Michael jerked back, putting distance between himself and Daniel. He felt flushed, exposed. He fumbled with the earbud, yanking it out of his ear. "Yeah. Yeah, we’re here."

Daniel didn't move away. He watched Michael scramble to gather his backpack, his expression unreadable. He slowly coiled the headphones back into his pocket.

"Let’s go," Daniel said, standing up. He loomed in the aisle, forcing Michael to squeeze past him. As Michael brushed by, Daniel’s hand shot out, steadying him by the elbow as the bus lurched.

"Watch the leg," Daniel warned.

"I’m fine," Michael lied again.

They stepped off the bus into the drizzle. The street was empty. The streetlights reflected in the puddles, creating oily swirls of orange and white. The bus pulled away, roaring into the night, leaving them in the sudden, ringing silence of the suburbs.

Chloe waved a tired hand. "My dad’s parked over there. Do you guys need a ride?"

"I’m walking," Daniel said immediately. "I need to stretch."

"Mikey?" Chloe asked.

Michael hesitated. His leg was throbbing. A ride sounded like heaven. But then he looked at Daniel. Daniel, who was standing under the streetlight, head tilted back, sniffing the air. He looked agitated. His shoulders were tense, the muscles in his neck corded tight.

"I’ll walk with Dan," Michael said. "It’s only a few blocks. I need to walk off the cramp."

"Suit yourself. Weirdos." Chloe rolled her eyes and jogged toward her dad’s idling SUV.

They watched her leave. As the taillights faded around the corner, the street felt darker. Heavier.

Daniel turned to Michael. The playfulness was completely gone. His posture had shifted—knees slightly bent, weight forward. Alert.

"You should have gone with her," Daniel said. His voice was rougher now. Gritty.

"Why? My house is right there."

"Michael," Daniel said. He took a step closer. The heat coming off him was stronger now, battling the cold rain. He smelled overwhelmed by the scent of ozone and wet asphalt—no, not ozone. That was a cliché. He smelled like iron. Like blood and copper and electricity.

"What is it?" Michael asked, stepping back. A primal fear pricked at the base of his skull. "You’re freaking me out."

Daniel didn't answer. He looked past Michael, toward the shadows of the alleyway between the bakery and the old gym. His nostrils flared. A low sound rumbled in his chest—too deep to be a groan, too sustained to be a sigh. It sounded like a growl.

"Give me your bag," Daniel ordered. He didn't wait for permission. He snatched Michael’s duffel bag from his shoulder, slinging it effortlessly over his own back.

"Hey!"

"Walk on my right side," Daniel commanded, grabbing Michael’s wrist. His grip was bruising. "Do not stop. Do not look at the alley. Just walk."

"Daniel, what the hell—"

"Move."

They walked. fast. Michael had to limp-jog to keep up with Daniel’s long, prowling strides. The silence of the street felt wrong. No crickets. No distant cars. Just the slap of their sneakers on the wet pavement.

As they passed the alley, Michael felt a wave of cold air hit him, smelling of rot and stagnant water. He felt eyes on him. Not human eyes. Something older. Something hungry.

He started to turn his head.

"Don't," Daniel hissed. He pulled Michael closer, practically tucking him under his arm. The heat was scorching now. Daniel’s body was vibrating, a taut wire ready to snap.

They cleared the block. The feeling of being watched faded slightly, but Daniel didn't relax. He didn't let go of Michael’s wrist until they were standing on Michael’s front porch.

Daniel stood between Michael and the street, his back to the door, facing the dark. He was scanning the tree line.

"Go inside," Daniel said, not looking at him.

"Dan, tell me what’s going on. You’re acting like... like you’re on drugs or something."

Daniel finally looked at him. His eyes were wide, pupils blown so large the gold was just a thin ring. He looked terrified. And he looked hungry.

"I’m not on drugs, Michael. I’m..." He clenched his jaw, the muscles popping. "I’m just looking out for you. Okay?"

"That wasn't 'looking out'," Michael whispered. "That was... you growled at the alleyway, Daniel. I heard you."

Daniel flinched. He looked like he wanted to reach out, to touch Michael’s face again, but he held his hands rigidly at his sides. Clenched into fists.

"Lock the window tonight," Daniel said, his voice straining. "The one above the garage. You always leave it cracked open for the breeze. Don't."

"How do you know I leave it open?"

"Just lock it!" Daniel barked. The sound cracked through the quiet neighborhood like a gunshot.

Michael recoiled, hitting his back against the front door.

Daniel’s face crumbled. Regret washed over him, instant and painful. "Please," he whispered, the anger draining away to reveal a desperate, naked fear. "Just lock the window, Mikey. For me."

Michael nodded, mute.

"I’ll see you at practice," Daniel said. He turned and walked away. He didn't walk toward his own house. He walked back toward the dark end of the street, back toward the alleyway, shedding his human gait with every step, his movements becoming loping, fluid, and terrifyingly efficient.