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The Sun Still Bleeds | For Louis

by The Vampire Lestat on Roleplay//Lives

The Performance

The room was small, much too small for the fever already moving through it, and yet I loved it for that very inadequacy, loved the low ceiling blackened by old smoke, the sweating walls, the bottles crowded together on little tables like cheap glass reliquaries, the mortal warmth gathered so densely before the stage that the air itself seemed to pulse. They had come for noise, for spectacle, for the glittering monster they believed they knew from posters and records and impossible rumors, and perhaps I had given them enough of myself over the past few months that they were not entirely wrong. I had taught them to want me. I had taught them to scream my name as if it were a charm against death, and in that little room, with its cheap chandeliers trembling above their heads and its velvet curtains faded to the color of old wine, I felt the old intoxication of it rise in me, bright and cruel and delicious.

Adoration has a sound. Mortals think it is applause, but they are wrong. Applause is only the body’s clumsy attempt to translate it. True adoration begins before the hands strike together. It is in the arrested breath, the dilation of the eye, the strange obedience that falls over a crowd when they sense that something beautiful is about to happen and have not yet decided whether beauty will save them or devour them.

I stood just beyond the curtain with the guitar resting against my body and my hand curled lightly around the neck of it, feeling the vibration of the room before the first note had been played. Behind me the band waited in silence. They were good, these boys and girls I had gathered around me, mortal for the most part, talented enough to be vain and frightened enough of me to be disciplined. The pianist sat with her pale hands resting above the keys, not touching them yet. The drummer’s sticks lay crossed upon his knee. The guitarist to my left watched the darkness ahead with that peculiar blankness musicians have before they become conduits for sound. To them, this was a performance. To me, it was an old form of prayer.

Then I saw him.

Not fully at first. No, Louis would never offer himself so readily to light. He had chosen a place halfway back, near one of the brick pillars where shadow pooled despite the lamps and the hot gold wash of the stage. Another man might have mistaken him for part of the room, for a handsome stranger with a dark coat and a stillness too severe for such a place. But I knew the line of his body before I knew my own reflection. I knew the angle of his face, the grave patience of his mouth, the way he could make refusal look like composure and grief look like judgment. The light touched him reluctantly, as if even light understood it must ask permission.

For one instant, the centuries closed around my throat.

He had come.

I had imagined his absence so completely that his presence seemed at first like another cruelty of my own mind, a phantom summoned by vanity, desire, old guilt. How many times had I made him appear where he was not? In the polished black flank of a limousine. In the window of a hotel looking down upon some city I did not care to remember. In the face of a boy turning his head in a crowd. I had found him in strangers and lost him again in the same second. But this was no trick. He stood there in the heat and smoke among the living, and his eyes were on me.

I should have laughed. I should have swept onto that stage with all my customary magnificence and punished him for it, punished him for daring to come where I could see him and not coming closer, for making an altar of the distance between us. Instead I felt something far older than pride move through me, something almost tender, and tenderness in me has always been dangerous.

The lights died. The crowd gave itself to darkness with a soft collective gasp. Then the piano began. Four chords, only that, widely spaced and allowed to bloom until the last overtone trembled in the bones. I had asked for restraint there. I had insisted on it. Let them wait, I had said. Let the first notes come as if from another room, another century. And as those chords passed through the darkness, the little club began to alter around me, not in truth perhaps, but truth is a tedious little tyrant and perception has always had better manners. The smoke rising from the crowd became incense. The rafters became the ribs of a vault. The cheap metal rigs that held the lights became black iron candelabra. Faces turned upward, flushed and eager, became the faces of penitents waiting for absolution from a god who had already sinned too beautifully to forgive them.

I have stood in cathedrals when the candles were the only stars left in the world. I have heard monks sing in chapels so remote that the snow outside seemed older than the language of the hymn. I have sat beneath gold-leafed saints and marble Christs, watched priests lift cups of wine with hands that trembled from age, faith, or terror, and I have wondered, often with amusement and sometimes with envy, what it must be to believe that salvation comes when summoned. But that night, in that shabby sanctuary of amplifiers and stained floors, I understood again that worship does not belong to churches. It belongs wherever longing finds a shape.

And my longing had a name.

The spotlight rose upon me, slow and warm, and the room erupted. My name struck the walls. It came from mouths painted black and red, from throats raw with drink, from bodies pressed close enough to share heat, pulse, hunger.

Lestat. Lestat. LESTAT! 

They called to me as if I had come to bless THEM. Perhaps I had. I looked over them, smiling, giving them the face they had paid to see, the immortal radiance, the insolent mouth, the golden hair made almost white by the stage lamps, the creature who could make damnation look enviable.

But I sang to Louis.

The first words left me softly, scarcely more than breath against the microphone, and yet the room heard them. Of course it did. I have always known how to make a whisper carry farther than a scream.

“You lit your candles just to curse my name,” I sang, and I felt rather than saw the crowd lean toward me.

The lyric had been written in another city, in another fit of wounded grandeur, with a bottle of blood wine I could not taste and a piano I had not meant to touch until dawn. I had told myself, absurdly, that it was not about him. I had told myself many things over the years. The lies we tell ourselves should at least have the decency to be entertaining.

I watched him while I sang of chapel light and chains, of prayers turned inside out, of the old names he had given me, devil, king, ruin, beloved. The mortal crowd received the words with the greedy innocence of those who believe passion is made more noble by being vague. They could attach their own sorrows to it. They could think of husbands, wives, dead girls, vanished boys, all the little mortal apocalypses that feel eternal until time proves otherwise. But Louis knew. Louis, with his terrible stillness, knew every word had been sharpened for him.

The bass entered beneath the piano, low and patient, a dark river opening under stone. The drum came after, not a beat at first but a pulse, brushed and muted, like a heart heard through a wall. How many heartbeats had I heard since Magnus tore me from the human world and left me blazing in my own terror? Millions. I had heard them racing in fear, slowing in sleep, rising in desire. I had heard the last ruined flutter of men who deserved death and children who did not. Yet the heartbeat that ruled me still was one that had ended long ago in a church, beneath my mouth, beneath my hands, in a moment I had called a gift because I could not bear to call it theft.

Louis stood motionless as the verse unfolded, and his stillness wounded me more deeply than any visible grief might have done. I wanted him to tremble. I wanted him to turn away. I wanted him to betray himself. There is vanity even in suffering, and mine is exquisite. But he only listened, and in that listening there was a kind of mercy so severe I almost despised him for it.

When the guitars entered, they did so like weather. No crude violence, no vulgar assault. A long swell first, bright at the edges, then the slow accumulation of distortion until the air around me seemed to thicken and glow. The drummer lifted the pulse into something larger, the toms rolling like distant thunder caught under the earth. The organ rose beneath it all, immense and solemn, and the room changed again. It was no longer merely a club dreaming itself into a church. It had become a cathedral built out of desire, and I its golden blasphemy, singing from the altar with a black guitar and a mouth full of old wounds.

The chorus opened, and I gave them my voice.

There are moments when singing is not performance, not even expression, but release from the prison of the body. The note climbed out of me and took with it centuries of pride, anger, abandonment, hunger. It carried Magnus and his fire. It carried Paris. It carried Nicolas, poor doomed Nicolas, and Gabrielle’s cold courage, and all the nights I had walked alone beneath indifferent stars pretending loneliness was a form of freedom. It carried New Orleans in its wet heat, its gaslit streets, its rooms fragrant with dust and flowers and resentment. It carried Louis before death, Louis after death, Louis laughing, Louis accusing, Louis looking at me as if I were the answer to a prayer he hated himself for making.

“Because the sun still bleeds,” I sang, and the crowd answered me though they did not know the song. They caught the phrase as if it had been waiting inside them all along. Their voices rose, uncertain at first, then bolder, ragged, mortal, beautiful.

Louis moved then. Not much. It would have meant nothing to anyone else. His hand tightened around the untouched glass he held. His head lowered the smallest degree, and the light struck his cheekbone, his mouth, the dark, deliberate line of his gaze. My heart, had it still been governed by mortal law, might have stopped from the sight of him. As it was, something in me opened with an almost unbearable sweetness.

I smiled at him. Not the smile for the crowd. Not the bright predatory thing that made them scream and reach for me as if I were salvation with painted eyes. This was smaller, and therefore more dangerous. A smile meant to say, you hear it, don’t you? You hear what you have made of me?

The second verse came more easily, and with it came cruelty, because ease in me so often turns cruel. I sang of sorrow worn like a tailored suit, of saints grown tired of confession, of angels resigning their posts. I let my hand slide down the microphone stand as if it were the stem of a chalice. I let the audience adore me. I let them see the flash of my rings, the gleam of my teeth, the theatrical arch of my back as the guitar answered my voice. Why should I not? I was magnificent. I knew it. Even grief, when it passed through me, came out burnished and arranged. This too was part of the truth Louis had always hated. I could make beauty out of anything, even our ruin, perhaps especially our ruin.

And yet, as I sang, I remembered the pianoforte. The old one. My beloved instrument, scarred by his hand. That little wound in the lacquer had enraged me not because wood mattered more than he did, though he believed that for a while, and perhaps I let him. It enraged me because he had finally marked something of mine in a way that could not be kissed away, bought back, polished smooth by apology or charm. He had left evidence. He had said, in the only language left to him then, I was here, I was hurt, and you did not see it. I understood that too late, as I have understood so many things too late. Immortality grants endless years but no guarantee of wisdom. It merely gives our follies better costumes.

The bridge came, and I lifted one hand. The band vanished around me. No drums. No guitars. No choir. Only the piano, exposed and tender, sounding now less like accompaniment than a memory trying not to break. The crowd quieted so quickly that the silence seemed supernatural. Perhaps it was. Perhaps I had called it down. I could have done so. I cannot always tell where performance ends and power begins.

“History forgets empires,” I sang, but the line left me almost spoken, worn thin at the edges.

I thought of all the cities I had watched change their names, all the kings whose portraits had outlived their bloodlines, all the lovers who had sworn eternity with mortal tongues and been dust before the century turned. Empires do vanish. Cathedrals burn. Languages collapse into museums. Names become footnotes, then less than footnotes. Yet I remembered the exact sound Louis made the first time he understood hunger. I remembered the weight of his body when he stumbled in those first new hours. I remembered the look in his eyes when he asked if this was life now, and I answered yes because no gentler truth existed.

My voice lowered. “And every song I ever wrote,” I sang, “was trying to bring you home.”

There. I had done it. No metaphor broad enough to hide inside. No theatrical veil thick enough to save me. The words stood naked between us. For the first time that night, Louis looked away. The pain of it was instant and absurdly youthful. Then he looked back. And there he was again, leaving the shelter of shadow by a single step, perhaps no more than that, but toward the light, toward the stage, toward me. Had I been human I might have wept. Being what I am, I sang.

The final chorus rose not because I commanded it but because the room could no longer contain anything smaller. The guitars returned in great shining waves. The drums opened beneath them. The organ thundered. The choir entered like a host of splendid liars announcing Heaven at the gates of Hell. The crowd surged to its feet, bodies pressed together, hands lifted, faces wet with tears they would later blame on drink, nostalgia, youth, anything but the truth. Mortals will do almost anything to avoid admitting they have brushed against the eternal.

But I knew. I knew what had happened in that room. For a few blazing minutes, we had made a kingdom out of sound. I sang as if the song could cross every year between us, as if it could repair what blood and pride and silence had broken, as if there were some note I had not yet found that might enter Louis where apology could not. I sang to the boy who had knelt in a church and called me devil. I sang to the immortal who had stood before a mirror with a stranger’s blood on his mouth and seen damnation staring back. I sang to the lover who had asked me never to let him leave, and to the man who had left me in every way that mattered while remaining close enough to touch.

The last refrain came softer than the grandeur before it, because even I know that the truest things should not be shouted forever.

Louis.

I did not sing his name loudly. I barely sang it at all. Still, it passed through the microphone and into the room, and the crowd received it without understanding why it seemed to alter the air. His name became a final chord inside the chord, a secret sutured through the open wound of the song.

The band fell away one instrument at a time. First the guitars, their last notes bending upward like sparks carried into dark. Then the drums, leaving only the echo of the pulse. Then the choir, dissolving into breath. The organ faded last among them, reluctant, immense, until finally only the piano remained. One chord. Another. A final note suspended above us with such delicate persistence that even the mortals seemed afraid to breathe it away.

Then silence.

How strange silence is after music. Not emptiness, never that. Silence after music is full of everything the music has awakened and refused to resolve. No one applauded at first. They stood there stunned, obedient to something they could not name. I lowered my hand from the strings. The guitar was still warm against me. The lights burned my skin pleasantly. Smoke moved in slow banners above the crowd.

I looked at Louis. The centuries did not vanish. I am not sentimental enough to pretend that one song could undo them. They remained between us, vast and glittering and terrible, crowded with every cruelty, every tenderness, every failure we had made sacred by surviving it. But he was there, and he had heard me, and there are nights when that is as near to absolution as monsters are permitted to come.

The applause began at last.

It rose slowly, then all at once, until the little room shook with it. They screamed for me. They stamped their feet. They cried out my name with the helpless gratitude of the living, who love most passionately what reminds them they will die. I bowed to them because I am generous, and because I am vain, and because they had, in their small mortal way, served their purpose beautifully. But when I lifted my head, I was still looking at Louis.

The song had never belonged to them.

The Song

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Games: Chessboards, checkers, and Minecraft inventories/chests. Media: Fake transparent image backgrounds (the grey-and-white checkered PNG pattern). Tech/Art: Excel spreadsheets, data tables, 3D modeling UV maps, and certain QR codes. Real Life: Close-ups of brick walls, graph paper, or grid-patterned textures.

The Minefield

by Danny Hernández on Roleplay//Lives

The click was soft, but to Danny it was louder than thunder in his ears.

He froze, eyes snapping to James’s boots. Sterling stood stiff, weight balanced forward, muscles tight like he’d turned to stone. Danny didn’t need him to say it. He knew the sound. A mine.

The air around them seemed to hold its breath. The field stretched dark and endless, patches of mud broken by scattered weeds and shattered brick. Now Danny saw it, subtle disturbances in the soil, little mounds and faint circles half-buried. Mines. Dozens.

James’s voice was low, steady, clipped. “Orders are clear. You keep moving.”

Danny’s chest tightened. “Orders can kiss my ass.”

He slid down to his knees, scanning the ground around James. The moonlight caught the faintest glint of metal, and Danny’s gut sank. Old Russian PMN-2. Unreliable. The kind that blew if you so much as breathed wrong.

“Listen to me,” Danny said, keeping his voice even. “Shift your weight back. Don’t lift yet. Just ease off slow.”

James obeyed, tiny adjustment, sweat beading down his temple. Danny shoved a stick into the dirt beside his boot, marking the exact spot.

“Alright,” Danny whispered. “Now lift straight up. No dragging. Heel first.”

James pulled his foot clear, so careful it hurt to watch. Danny slid another marker in place. His pulse hammered. One wrong angle and James would be torn apart.

“Good. Now plant it here.” Danny tapped a bare patch he had brushed with his gloved hand, sweeping for hidden wires. He pressed his palm flat, felt only earth. Clear enough.

Step by step, Danny inched him forward. Every move was torture. Danny crawled on his stomach, sweeping the soil ahead with a knife, brushing aside stones, leaves, anything that might hide another disk of metal. His gloves tore open on sharp gravel, fingertips raw, but he barely noticed. All he saw were the markers, the path forming one agonizing step at a time.

“Left foot up,” Danny murmured. “Don’t twist. Good. Now place it here.”

James followed, silent except for his breathing, shallow and ragged. Trust poured off him in waves, heavier than the night, heavier than the mines. He never looked down. His eyes stayed locked on Danny, as if Danny’s face was the only thing keeping him steady.

Halfway through, the comm crackled in Danny’s ear, command barking orders. "Hernandez! Get out of there! That’s an order!”

Danny ripped the earpiece free and flung it aside. He couldn’t hear them. He wouldn’t. This was between him and James now.

“Right foot. Good. Now hold.” Danny leaned closer, swept again, dirt under his nails, heart in his throat. “Shift your weight. Slow. Don’t look at the ground, look at me.”

James obeyed. Danny saw the tightness in his jaw, the vein standing in his neck. Every muscle in him was locked down, ready to snap. But his eyes stayed steady, following every cue.

The ground ahead dipped slightly, moisture pooling. Danny’s stomach turned. Wet soil meant movement. Mines could shift. Could drift closer together. He shoved his hand deep, searching by feel. His fingers brushed cold steel. He froze.

“Shit,” he whispered. He marked the spot with a rag, then traced a wide arc around it. “Alright. We’re changing direction. Step long to the left. Careful.”

James’s boot came down exactly where Danny pointed. Another step. Another. Danny crawled backward, guiding him like a lifeline.

By the time they neared the edge of the field, Danny’s body shook from tension. His eyes burned from dirt and sweat. But there it was. Safe ground. He swept it twice, then pressed down hard with his whole palm. Nothing. Clear.

“Okay,” Danny breathed, voice breaking. “One last step. Straight forward. Do it clean.”

James lifted his foot, the motion agonizingly slow, and set it down. Silence. Just the sound of both their breaths crashing in the still night.

Danny lunged forward, grabbed his vest, and yanked him onto solid ground. They collapsed together in the dirt, Danny’s hands still clutching fistfuls of James’s gear, like he was afraid letting go would pull him back into the minefield.

He shoved him hard, voice raw. “Don’t you ever fucking tell me to leave you again. Ever.”

James lay back, chest heaving, then let out a hoarse laugh, disbelief laced with exhaustion. “You’re insane.”

Danny dropped beside him, mud streaked across his face, every muscle trembling. “Takes one to know one.”

Written by: The Doctor on Roleplay//Lives

The TARDIS finally came to a halt after a very tumultuous trip. It had not wanted to go where the Doctor had been trying to get to, refusing to land many times - normally a situation where the TARDIS would win and they would go elsewhere but, in this instance, the machine had relented and reluctantly landed where the Doctor had wanted to go.

A message on the psychic paper had brought them here. ‘Those that weep are stealing us in our sleep.’ It sounded very eerie and very much like a mystery that needed solving. Exactly what the Doctor was looking for at these times, wanting to help anyone that they could and make the most of the time that was remaining.

It didn’t take the Doctor long to open one of the doors and take a look outside, glancing around and seeing the snow that covered the ground outside, the full effect of Winter apparent. They seemed to be finding a lot of snowy places recently. Though that was not something to be thinking on right now. Instead the Doctor should be focusing on the task at hand and the fact that, despite the light and fun nature of the snow, the TARDIS had managed to land in a place that was far from those two things - a graveyard.

Their eyes scanned the location as they stepped outside, careful to avoid any of the headstones or the plots that they belonged to, very respectful of the poor souls that had departed. Bells could be heard ringing at the church nearby, places nearby decorated with a few wreaths and other ornaments. A clear indication that this was Christmas time, whether it had just passed or they had managed to find themselves once again in trouble on the very day remained a puzzle for now.

There was no sound of singing though. In fact, there were very few noises at all. No lights illuminating any of the places for that matter, except one that was shining from a room in the church. At least it seemed like someone was there. It was going to be the best place to start with finding out what was happening here.

The snow was clinging to them as they walked through the graveyard and towards the church, lightly tapping their shoes on the step to relieve them of the white stuff before a hand reached out ready to knock on the wooden door at the back of the building. A door that seemed to have been left ajar, with the Doctor able to give it a light push in order to have it open. They just couldn’t help themselves, poking their head inside and taking a look around before allowing the rest of their body to slip through the door and close it behind them.

“Hello?”

The sound of silence wasn’t going to stop the Doctor from taking a look around, curiosity peaked and the lingering mystery now becoming more intriguing. Walking through the place did not break the peaceful and yet somehow sinister nature, eyes scanning everywhere for an indication of some form of life but not seeing anything… And yet someone must have been here. There fire in a nice cosy living area was still freshly burning and the bells wouldn’t have been ringing by themselves, not in this type of old building.

The place was small, so checking all of the rooms took very little time. Most of them empty, with very little information, until one managed to reach all the diaries that should have been placed neatly upon a shelf but were now scattered on the floor, near to the steps that would lead up to the bell tower. They were not regular diaries, like someone might expect another to keep, these certainly were not full of ones own secrets and the adventures of day to day life. Each and every page was full of names and dates. Book after book containing nothing but a list of names and right next to them the date in which they… Disappeared. All of them in the Winter season.

If the Doctor was not concerned before, then they certainly were now. They were very much alert, letting their head turn in all directions and keeping themselves alert to any sounds that might be made. Their eyes flickered to the stairs for a brief moment and though they knew it was the worst idea possible to go up there, this was the Doctor and they just couldn’t help themselves. One step after another, trying to remain as silent as possible until they managed to get to the top.

The moment they saw what was up there, there was a momentary thought to just run back to the TARDIS and take off. There was nothing that could be done here. Instead, the Doctor observed the two statues for a moment, taking note of the fact that whoever they had just given a death sentence to had been smart enough to get the statues to look at each other. There was no freedom for them now.

Weeping Angels. It was no wonder why the TARDIS had not wanted to bring them here. There was a risk to both themselves and the machine if the statues caught either one of them. At least they knew what they were dealing with now, though their hearts broke at the knowledge that there was very little they could do to help anyone that came to this town. It seemed as though everyone that lived here before was already gone but anyone that dared to visit would surely be the next victims of the silent assassins.

“It’s all making a little more sense now. You’re here and draining as much energy as you can. Being a pest, as usual… But I don’t understand why you’re only taking people when it’s Winter? Certainly not to have the time energies keep you warm. There’s got to be some reason behind it.”

The Doctor didn’t like unsolved mysteries. Which was why they were most likely not going to be leaving any time soon, despite the danger that was posed to them. They had to work out what exactly was going on here and at least try to ensure that no one ever came to this place and got taken away again. There was little they could do for those already lost but they would try their hardest to protect those that might stumble upon this place in the future.

When the plot outline gets translated differently on each side of the screen

Prince of Nothing | Namek Saga | Solo

Written by: @galickbread on Roleplay//Lives

The sky is too green. Too loud. My vision cracks. I can’t tell if it’s the planet or my eyes— It… it doesn’t matter. The ground is swallowing me, pulling me down. A prince soon buried in dirt like an ordinary corpse.

Pathetic.

No. Not me. Not the legacy of Vegeta.

Every nerve is on fire, in a panic that only makes it worse. Every breath is fighting an inevitable surrender. The body screams weakness, but the mind, my mind, is screaming louder. The universe should hear it, remember it. I am the heir, the last crown. The name is mine.

But the stars never bow. No one does. It’s all meaningless.

I see the palace crumbling. My father’s face is fading. His voice is gone, replaced with Frieza’s laughter stretching down the hole he tore through me. He always gets what he wants. Even my memories beg for mercy.

And Kakarot... that cursed name. It flows through my blood like venom and medicine all at once. He stands above me with unwanted empathy. His eyes are not royal, burning in a way mine cannot. He doesn’t know what I carry, what I lost, what I was supposed to be. He doesn’t know how the gravity of my world crushed me until I had nothing left to break. And yet here I am… falling into my greatest fear.

I hate him. I need him. I need him to… listen.

Destroy Frieza. End it. Avenge us. 

My mouth tastes like metal. The words come out shattered and crying through broken pride, but they’re mine. My final order. My tarnished crown pulled off my head to fall onto his. Disgusting. Necessary. Destiny was always a lie.

The planet rumbles under me, alive but indifferent to hell calling. I can’t move. I can’t breathe. My heart collapses under its own obstinacy. The colors blur. The dirt becomes nothing.

I am sinking.

The Art of Punishing With Praise Collateral Flirtation by Danny Hernández and Adrian Niven on Roleplay//Lives

Fabian comes flying down the stairs at full speed, backpack barely surviving the trip.

“Dad! Dad! Can you and Adrian come to school today for lunch?”

Danny looks over from the living room, coffee in his good hand, still not fully awake enough for whatever energy his son has decided to bring into the house before eight in the morning.

“I mean, I guess.” He narrows his eyes a little. “Good morning to you too.”

Fabian skids to a stop near the entryway, already halfway into his day, keys in one hand, phone in the other.

“I mean, please will you and Adrian come for lunch today? I can text and ask Adrian if you want.”

Danny’s expression softens before he can help it.

“I’ll ask him when he comes downstairs. I’m sure it’s not a problem.”

Fabian punches the air. “Yesss.”

He grabs the last of his things from by the door, then flashes Danny a bright grin, looking far too much like his father.

“Thanks, Dad!”

“Drive safe,” Danny calls after him.

The front door slams behind Fabian a second later.

Danny sits there for a moment, coffee raised halfway to his mouth, smiling. The house settles back into its morning quiet, give or take the distant sound of Fabian’s car starting outside.

By the time Adrian comes downstairs, hair tousled from sleep and looking unfairly pretty for someone who hasn’t properly entered the day yet, Danny has almost finished his coffee.

He lifts the mug in greeting.

“The child would like for us, but mostly you, to grace the cafeteria today during lunch.”

“Yeah, sure. Did he say why?” Adrian says it into the cabinet while he’s still reaching for a mug.

The coffee is the immediate need. Fabian is a secondary puzzle, but a solvable one. After coffee.

He pours, adds milk, takes the first sip standing at the counter, and lets his brain come online at its own pace.

The cafeteria, though.

He’s been to the school once before. He knows what the outside looks like, the parking lot, the auditorium with its aggressively enthusiastic drama department. But the cafeteria is a different continent. He’s constructing it now from sources of debatable accuracy, every American teen film he’s ever half-watched, a vague cultural mythology involving trays and rectangular pizza and a social hierarchy expressed entirely through table selection.

His own school had a dining hall. Linen. A rotation. Something called a “harvest table” on Thursdays that everyone complained about but ate anyway.

“What does the cafeteria situation look like?” he says, not quite a question, turning to look at Danny. “Like, logistically. Is there a line? Are we doing trays?” He pauses. “I’ve never been.”

“He didn’t say,” Danny replies, finishing the last of his coffee. “But I could hazard a guess he wants to show you off some more.”

He glances over at Adrian, then remembers, with a quiet little pinch of reality, that Adrian’s school experience probably looked nothing like small-town Simonton High. Different world. Different rules. Probably fewer mystery side dishes.

“It’s small,” Danny explains, reaching for his crutch before moving toward the kitchen for more coffee. “They break up lunch like they do class periods. Rows of tables, mismatched chairs, a couple of food lines. Very glamorous. Michelin star if the Michelin man had given up.”

He pours himself another cup, then looks back at Adrian.

“We don’t have to do the trays. We can stop somewhere and bring him something decent.”

Danny steps close enough to press a kiss to Adrian’s cheek, still smiling.

“Family’s usually encouraged to come have lunch with their kids,” he says. “But teenagers don’t always want their parents dragging down their social status by existing within a fifty-foot radius.”

He huffs a quiet laugh and takes another careful sip of coffee.

“I’ve gone a couple times because, thankfully, Fabian prefers family over social climbing. James has gone more than me, because he’s the cool guy with the cooler cars.”

Danny points toward Adrian with the edge of his mug.

“Now it’s your turn.”

“I’m way cooler than James. Obviously.”

Adrian says it before he’s even fully sat down, mug in hand, like the point needed establishing before anything else could proceed. He settles onto the couch next to Danny, close enough that their knees are touching, and takes a sip.

“Also genuinely relieved we’re not doing public school lunch trays.” He looks at his coffee. “I’ve heard stories. I was prepared to take one for the team. But I’m glad I don’t have to.”

His own school’s dining hall surfaces briefly in his head, and he sets it aside because describing it would make him sound insane in comparison.

“The drama kids will be there, though, I hope.” He remembers them from the play, the specific barely-contained energy of a theatre department that takes itself seriously in the best way, the ones who’d talked to him afterward like he was a person and not a feature. “I’d like to see them again.”

He turns his mug in a slow circle on the coffee table.

“Fabian’s in good company with that bunch. I’m really glad he did the play. Too bad the dead Brits didn’t get to see it.”

“Obviously,” Danny mimics, smiling into the rim of his mug.

He eases himself back down with his coffee, careful with the boot, and shifts just enough to lean into Adrian when he joins him. For a second, he lets the warmth of him do more for his morning than the caffeine.

“I ate those school lunches and turned out fine,” he teases. “Mostly.”

He takes another sip, then adjusts his boot on the pillow in front of him with a small grimace he tries to pass off as nothing.

“But we can be the cool parents and bring him Wendy’s or something. Spare the kid whatever they’re calling mac and cheese this week.”

Danny glances toward Adrian, still amused by the whole thing. Fabian wanting them there. Fabian wanting Adrian there. The way his son has never once treated loving people as something to hide.

“I’m sure some of the kids from the play will be there,” he says. “And if not, you’ll get to inspire a different set today.”

His smile softens.

“Fair warning, though. If one teenager asks you for advice, six more are gonna appear out of nowhere.”

“Daniel.”

Adrian says it like a man addressing someone who has just told him water is wet. He turns to look at him, fully, with fond patience.

“I watched two teenagers become twelve in under four minutes. I counted.” He looks back at his coffee. “I don’t know where the extra ten came from. They just... appeared. That tends to happen.”

He shrugs and takes a sip.

“We’ve been to the school. I’ve met the entire drama department. I even have my assistant waiting.” He flashes a grin at the memory of Fabian’s classmate Kayleigh taking charge and escorting him around. “It’s no problem. The kids were great.”

The Wendy’s thing registers and gets a sheepish look from under his lashes.

“Would you believe I’ve never had Wendy’s?”

Danny laughs and nods, lifting his good hand in surrender.

“Sorry, sorry. You’re an expert influencer dad now. My apologies for doubting you.”

He reaches for his pain meds, the kinder ones, and manages to crack the bottle open because Adrian left the lid slightly askew for him. Danny notices that. He does not make a big thing out of it, but he notices.

“Ya know,” he starts, slower now, tapping two pills into his palm. “I know you have your foundation work. And modeling. And whatever other secret beautiful-people obligations I don’t understand.”

He sets the bottle aside.

“But the school does a summer drama program for grades six through twelve. Six weeks. End of July into August, right before school starts.”

He pops the pills into his mouth and swallows them down with coffee before Adrian can scold him for using coffee instead of water.

“It might be something you’d be interested in volunteering for,” Danny says, glancing over at him. “Fabian usually goes to some camp for whatever he’s obsessed with that year, but this year we’ll be prepping for college and, God help me, his eighteenth birthday.”

The thought hits him harder than he wants it to. Eighteen. College. All of it coming too fast.

He looks down at his mug instead.

“Might be nice if you were around.”

Then he holds up his thumb and index finger about an inch apart, cutting the softness before it gets too exposed.

“Like this much.”

Danny grabs his crutch and pushes himself up from the couch, careful and a little annoyed about being careful. He hobbles toward the kitchen to rinse out his mug.

“It’s still a few months until graduation, so you don’t have to answer right away,” he adds, coming back to sit on the arm of the couch. He looks down at Adrian, expression easy again, even if there is still something honest underneath it.

“We’ll get you all the peasant fast food your heart desires.”

Adrian’s phone is out before Danny is fully upright.

“Hi Ren, foundation query, flag for the arts in education vertical.”

He’s already working the shape of it in his head, one knee bouncing once against the couch cushion.

“There’s a summer drama program at the public high school in Simonton, Texas. Grades six through twelve, six weeks, end of July into August. I need to know what a Foundation partnership looks like for something at this scale. Curriculum support, production budget, guest involvement. Put together some options and send them over ASAP.”

He sends it.

Danny is still in the kitchen. Adrian looks at his coffee, looks at his phone, then voice messages Ren again.

“Second thing, I need a calendar audit, late May through September. Anything contractually fixed, flag it and leave it. Everything else I want reviewed for skip or move. I’m going to need to be in Texas for a significant part of that window.”

He doesn’t explain why. Ren will figure it out.

“Let me know when you’re ready to run me through it.”

Sent.

He sets the phone face-down on the cushion beside him just as Danny comes back, and looks up at him with the expression of a man who has not just quietly restructured four months of his professional life.

“Only this much?” He mimics Danny’s earlier gesture. “I need to up my game, clearly.”

Then, before Danny can respond, “And you’ve asked exactly the right person to help plan an amazing party.”

“It’s a teaching opportunity, not a party, kid,” Danny says, but he’s smiling when he says it.

He can’t quite believe Adrian agreed that fast. No weighing it out loud. No careful list of reasons it would be complicated. Just Adrian, rearranging pieces of his life like being here is an easy thing to choose.

It is not small. Danny knows it is not small.

His mother is going to be thrilled. Fabian is going to be ecstatic. Danny is going to be normal about it. Probably. Maybe. Eventually.

Right now, he is a little nervous. Excited nervous. Adrian’s just sitting there, willing to spend a summer in Simonton because Danny asked.

He clears his throat and leans a little heavier on the crutch.

“So all summer, huh?”

Danny’s eyes sweep over him, warm and amused.

“Guess you’ll need more than a drawer now.”

“Yeah, all summer. More or less.” Adrian picks up his mug. “There will be a few things I can’t get out of, some travel, maybe a few days here and there. But Ren will compress what she can, and I know by now what actually requires my physical presence and what just thinks it does.”

He takes a sip.

“And I meant Fabian’s eighteenth birthday party. If you want my help, that is.”

He sets the mug down and looks up at Danny. The crutch, the boot, the careful way he’s been distributing his weight since he stood up. He knows it will get better, and he’s glad he’ll be here for most of it.

“You know I always needed more than a single drawer. I have never packed light, and I’m not going to start now.”

He grins and winks.

“We’re going to need to discuss closet space.”

“I’d love the help,” Danny says, and he means it. “There’s gonna be a party, and then we’ve got a family vacation to plan too. Fabian’s wanted James there since he was nine, so the vacation’s gonna be a little postponed, but we’ll make it work.”

He sighs and rolls his eyes before the feeling can get too sentimental.

“We’ll get you a chest of drawers all your own,” he says. “And I’ve got plenty of clothes I need to donate, so look at that. Space.”

Danny pushes himself carefully to his feet, getting his crutch under him with a faint wince he doesn’t quite hide this time.

“But first, I’m gonna ice my chest and ankle before I pretend I’m a functional adult in public.”

He leans down enough to press a kiss to Adrian’s cheek, careful with his ribs.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, pulling back with a small smile. “I’ll be a voyeur and watch you get ready.”

“I’ll get the ice packs and bring them up.”

Adrian’s tone doesn’t leave it up for discussion, and he’s already finishing his coffee so he can rinse out his mug.

“You focus on the stairs.”

He stands, stretches once, unhurried.

“An entire chest of drawers and closet space?” He smiles. “Daniel Hernández, that is one of the most romantic things you’ve ever said to me.”

He wonders about the vacation but files it away for questions later. Obviously James will need to be not dead for that to happen.

“As for watching me get ready,” he says, already moving toward the kitchen for the ice packs, “you are more than welcome.”

He pulls open the freezer, locates them by feel without looking.

“I might even put on a show for you.”

He turns back, ice packs in hand, and looks at Danny, then the stairs.

“You leading or following?”

The ride to the high school doesn’t take long. Small town and all.

They stop at Wendy’s on the way, and Danny orders Fabian’s favorite without having to think about it. Baconator, extra cheese. He gets himself a spicy chicken sandwich, then suggests Adrian try a Son of Baconator in case the full thing feels too aggressive for a first fast food experience.

By the time they pull into the school parking lot, Danny has already started pretending his ankle is less annoying than it is.

He takes his time walking in, crutch tucked under his arm, Adrian beside him with the food. The building still smells the same in a way he cannot explain. Floor cleaner, old paper, cafeteria grease, too much body spray from teenagers trying to become adults all at once.

“That was my homeroom for three years in a row,” Danny says, nodding toward a classroom as they pass. “Same teacher. Same desk, I think. I’m pretty sure she got tired of looking at me by year two.”

He keeps moving, then slows near the trophy case.

Inside the case, behind old plaques and a few faded team photos, is a picture of Danny in his football uniform, younger and broader in that teenage way, helmet tucked under one arm. He points at it with the end of his crutch.

“That was nationals.” His smile turns amused. “I may have accidentally tackled their quarterback too hard. Can’t remember.”

He glances at Adrian.

“History is complicated.”

A couple of teachers recognize him and nod over their lunches. Danny nods back, polite, easy, the way he always is in town when too many people know too many versions of him.

Fabian is waiting by the cafeteria doors, practically vibrating.

“Dad!”

He rushes over, then immediately reaches for the drinks in Adrian’s hands.

“Hey, Adrian. Thanks for coming. Kayleigh’s waiting too.”

Danny lifts an eyebrow, but before he can say anything, Fabian leans closer to Adrian like this is suddenly a private consultation.

“I think I want to ask her to prom,” Fabian says, quieter now. “What do you think?”

Danny stops beside them, his expression caught somewhere between amused and betrayed.

There it is. His own son, standing in front of him, asking Adrian for dating advice instead of the man who has successfully kept him alive for seventeen years.

Danny shakes his head, fond.

Adrian looks at Fabian for a second, actually considering it.

“I mean, yeah,” he says with a shrug. “If you like her, ask her. That part doesn’t have to be complicated.”

He shifts the Wendy’s bag to his other hand.

“I’ll be honest with you, though, my experience with girls specifically is pretty limited, so take that with appropriate grains of salt.”

He tilts his head toward Danny.

“Your dad’s got more applicable expertise than I do.”

Adrian glances down the hallway. The trophy case, the Wendy’s smell cutting through everything else, a bulletin board covered in overlapping flyers for things that ended months ago. He’s been in a lot of buildings. He’s never been in this one during the day, in the middle of it working, students at the edges of his vision and Danny’s name probably somewhere on a plaque he hasn’t found yet.

He looks back at Fabian.

“Also, completely separately.”

He lifts the bag slightly.

“You should know that this is my first time having Wendy’s. Ever. In my life.”

He grins, waggling the bag.

“So that’s on you now.”

“It’s prom, not an engagement,” Danny says, moving into the cafeteria. “If you like her, ask her.”

The cafeteria is exactly what Danny remembers. Long tables in rows, mismatched chairs dragged in from different classrooms over the years, the low buzz of too many conversations at once, and the smell of fries, pizza, and something pretending to be vegetables. A few teachers sit off to the side with their own lunches, looking tired in the way only high school teachers at midday can look.

Fabian carries the drinks like that is his official contribution to the mission.

“This is a travesty,” he tells Adrian, serious about it. “Wendy’s is elite. Dad acts like it’s boring because he’s old and jaded, but it’s elite. You’re about to have your mind blown.”

Danny lowers himself into a chair with more care than he wants to show.

“I’m old and jaded because I’ve paid for enough Wendy’s to qualify as a shareholder.”

Kayleigh is already at the table, and the second Adrian gets close enough, she squeals. Loudly.

A few heads turn. Then a few more.

Danny reaches for his Dr. Pepper from Fabian and takes a slow sip while Kayleigh practically launches out of her seat to greet Adrian.

Fabian looks thrilled. Kayleigh looks starstruck. Adrian is about to be treated like visiting royalty in a public high school cafeteria.

Danny settles back as much as his ribs allow and watches it happen, amused.

“Subtle,” he says under his breath.

“Hey, you.”

Adrian sets the Wendy’s bag on the table and has a hand free by the time Kayleigh reaches him. She’d run the play visit like a logistics operation, and he hadn’t forgotten.

“Good to see you again.”

Three rows back, two girls have their phones angled wrong for coincidence. A table nearby has gone quieter. He doesn’t adjust. He never does.

What keeps pulling his attention is Fabian’s face. Openly thrilled, the specific kind that hasn’t learned yet to dial itself down. He brought Adrian here, wanted this exact configuration of people at this table, and he got it.

“Subtle,” drifts over from Danny’s direction, and Adrian cuts a look across, grins, then winks.

“Subtle is my middle name,” he says.

Then he’s back to the bag, finding the Son of Baconator, unwrapping it with the focus of someone who has been thinking about this since the drive-through.

“Told you he wanted to show you off,” Danny says, leaning in close enough for only Adrian to hear. “Ten bucks says Holder will be here to glare in under an hour.”

He eases back and starts unwrapping his sandwich, then points at Fabian with two fingers.

“Sit down before you drop something.”

Fabian drops into the seat across from them without losing any of his excitement. He has his Baconator open in seconds, and he cuts it in half and slides one side toward Kayleigh.

Kayleigh looks between the food and Fabian, then smiles so wide Danny has to pretend he is very interested in the paper wrapper around his own sandwich.

“Thank you,” she says, first to Fabian, then to Danny and Adrian, trying not to stare too hard. “Both of you. This is really nice.”

“You’re welcome, mija.”

Fabian smiles around a fry, and Kayleigh reaches for the half Fabian gave her, still looking pleased by the whole thing.

Danny turns his attention back to Adrian.

He watches him pick up the sandwich, and there is no pretending this is fancy. It is not a five-star meal. It is not even close to a three-star meal. It cost Danny thirteen bucks and came wrapped in paper with grease already working its way through the bottom. Still, it is Adrian’s first time trying it.

Danny leans back with his Dr. Pepper in hand, waiting.

“An hour is really generous,” Adrian says, still working on the wrapper. “I give it thirty minutes. Holder has panic vibes.”

He gets the burger open and takes the first bite. Nodding, he chews, swallows.

“Oh, yeaaaaaah.” He looks at it. “That’s a hangover cure waiting to happen.”

Then he freezes for a second, eyes flicking up at Danny once, a guilty smirk curling over his grease-shined lips. Wrong audience. Oops.

Adrian looks up at Fabian and Kayleigh.

“Sorry, kids. Don’t drink until you’re twenty-one.”

“Or in Europe,” Kayleigh adds helpfully.

“Your words, not mine,” Adrian replies, deflecting with a shrug and a smile.

“Adrian’s never had Wendy’s before,” Fabian tells Kayleigh, who reacts with disbelief.

Adrian turns his attention to Fabian.

“It’s really good. Thanks for the recommendation and the invite.”

With that, he returns to enjoying the burger with enthusiasm.

Danny catches the way Fabian lights up at Adrian’s approval and keeps his own reaction behind his Dr. Pepper.

He takes a sip, eyes moving past Fabian’s shoulder.

Holder is already on his way over.

Danny lowers the cup and leans a little toward Adrian.

“Thirty minutes was generous too.”

Fabian follows his look and immediately makes a face.

“Seriously?”

“Eat your lunch,” Danny says.

Kayleigh glances over, then back down at her fries like they have become very interesting.

Holder reaches the end of the table with that practiced administrator smile that never quite gets to his eyes. He is careful about it today. Careful enough that Danny knows he remembers the play.

“Mr. Hernández,” Holder says.

“Principal Holder,” Danny replies, calm as anything.

Holder’s gaze moves over the table, Fabian, Kayleigh, the Wendy’s bags, Adrian, then back to Danny.

“I wasn’t aware you’d be visiting today.”

“Fabian asked us to come for lunch.”

“Yes, I see.”

Danny rests his forearm on the table beside his sandwich.

“That usually covers it.”

A few students nearby go quieter without fully stopping their conversations. Fabian sits a little straighter, annoyed and embarrassed in equal measure.

Holder keeps the smile in place.

“We do encourage family involvement.”

“Great,” Danny says. “Then we’re doing school spirit.”

That almost gets Fabian to laugh. Kayleigh presses her napkin to her mouth.

Holder’s eyes flick to Adrian again.

Danny notices.

He takes another sip of Dr. Pepper and gives Holder an easy look over the cup.

“You need something, Wesley?”

There is a small pause.

“No,” Holder says. “Just checking in.”

“Checked.”

Holder’s smile tightens.

“Enjoy your lunch.”

“We are.”

Danny watches him leave, then turns back to the table like nothing happened.

Fabian exhales.

“He is so weird.”

Danny points at him with the straw.

“That is your principal.”

Fabian gives him a look.

Danny shrugs.

“Still true, but you didn’t hear it from me.”

Kayleigh laughs first, quick and nervous, and that breaks the tension enough for Fabian to pick up his burger again.

Danny looks over at Adrian, then at the half-finished Son of Baconator in his hands.

“Told you my plan would work,” Adrian says to Danny, quiet enough for just them, or so he thinks.

But Fabian’s head swivels.

“Told him what? What plan?”

Adrian takes a fry, busted.

“When you’ve got someone difficult to manage, there’s something you should always try first before anything else.”

He looks at Fabian like this is worth actually remembering.

“Kill them with kindness. Shine a light on the whole situation.”

He gestures loosely with the fry.

“The Foundation partnering with the school, me being here, being visible and easy to deal with, that’s not just goodwill. It’s strategy. Holder can have whatever opinions he wants about your dad, about me, about whoever. But it’s a lot harder to act on them when everyone’s watching and everything looks friendly.”

Fabian chews on that along with his burger.

“So you just...” He thinks about it. “Made it weird for him to be weird?”

“Made it expensive,” Adrian says. “Professionally. Yeah.”

“That’s so cool,” Kayleigh chimes in.

Adrian picks up the Son of Baconator and winks at Danny.

“The Foundation’s already in the door with grant money the school desperately needed. Holder smiled at me. Even if the smile was fake, it’s done.”

He goes to take another bite but pauses first to add, “And making him have to tag me on the thank you post was pretty hilarious, not gonna lie.”

“That’s savage,” Fabian says, shaking his head and smiling.

Adrian just shrugs and smiles right back.

Fabian stuffs three fries into his mouth at once.

“Dad woulda just punched him.”

Danny rolls his eyes.

“I would not.”

Fabian gives him a look.

“I didn’t,” Danny corrects, pointing at him with a fry. “Very different legal category.”

Kayleigh laughs, and Fabian looks pleased with himself as he reaches for another fry.

They finish lunch without another interruption, which Danny counts as a win. Fabian keeps the conversation moving between Kayleigh, Adrian, and whatever school gossip Danny is apparently too old to understand. Kayleigh thanks them twice more for lunch and keeps sneaking looks at Adrian like she is still trying to reconcile him with the fact that he is sitting in their cafeteria eating Wendy’s.

When the bell rings, the room shifts all at once. Chairs scrape, trays get dumped, backpacks swing onto shoulders, and the whole cafeteria turns into movement.

Fabian comes around the table and hugs Danny first, careful enough with his ribs that Danny knows he thought about it.

“Thanks for lunch.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Danny says, but he pats Fabian’s back. “Go learn something.”

Fabian turns and hugs Adrian next. Kayleigh thanks them again, smiling at Danny, then looking back at Adrian.

“Thank you. Really.”

Danny lifts his cup a little.

“Anytime.”

Fabian starts to linger, so Danny nods toward the doors.

“Get to class.”

That gets them moving. Fabian and Kayleigh disappear into the rush of students, and Danny waits until the crowd thins before he pushes himself up. He gets the crutch settled, takes a breath, then starts into the hallway with Adrian beside him.

He waits until they are clear of the worst of the traffic before he trusts the floor enough to keep moving at his own pace.

“Not so bad,” Danny says. “Less fanfare once the kids have to pretend they’re too cool to care there’s a celebrity in the cafeteria.”

He glances toward Adrian, amused.

“Kayleigh almost pulled something trying to look at you without looking at you.”

Holder is near his office when they reach the front hall, standing just close enough to make it obvious he has been waiting and just far enough to pretend he has not.

“I hope lunch went well,” Holder says.

He sounds like he doesn’t hope anything of the sort.

“Yep,” Danny replies.

Holder’s attention moves to Adrian. His mouth sets, then loosens again, like every word has to be negotiated before he lets it out.

“The school board has asked that I thank you,” Holder says, stiff with it, “and the foundation for your support.”

Danny looks down for half a second, pretending to adjust his grip on the crutch because the laugh is right there, and he doesn’t need to make this easier for Holder by giving him something else to resent.

When he looks up again, his face is almost behaved.

Adrian’s hand is out before Holder finishes the sentence.

“Wesley.”

He takes Holder’s hand and shakes it like they’ve been working toward this together for months.

“It’s always gratifying when the Foundation finds a cause genuinely worth getting behind. And honestly, that’s on you as much as us. You’ve built something here worth investing in.”

Holder shakes the hand because there is nothing else to do with it.

“The drama program especially,” Adrian continues, same warm register, no gaps for Holder to fill. “The level of craft those kids are working at? That doesn’t happen without institutional support. Without leadership that prioritizes it.”

He tilts his head slightly.

“So thank you for giving us the opportunity to make a real difference.”

He runs a hand through his hair, easy, unhurried.

“If I can’t use my platform and the family money to actually do some good in the world, then I’m just another ravenous capitalist, am I right?”

A small laugh.

“Gross. Not my vibe.”

Holder’s mouth opens and closes with nothing in it.

“And the Facebook post and the tweet were more than enough, genuinely.”

Adrian waves it off like the public thanks was almost excessive between collaborators.

“You didn’t have to do all that. We’re just glad to be involved.”

He smiles at Holder and claps him on the shoulder like they’ve just concluded a very productive meeting.

Danny has to look away.

He can’t watch Holder shake Adrian’s hand without losing it. Not when Holder looks trapped inside his own face. Not when Adrian keeps talking in that polished, generous tone, handing the man praise he can’t reject without making himself look worse.

Holder’s smile stays professional.

Barely.

“That is appreciated,” Holder says.

Danny presses his lips together and looks at the floor, then at the wall, then at a bulletin board covered in student flyers. Anything but Holder’s face.

Adrian is going to kill him. He is actually going to kill him in the front hall of Simonton High because Danny is about three seconds away from laughing in the principal’s face.

Holder clears his throat and releases Adrian’s hand.

“We’ll be in touch regarding the summer program.”

“Looking forward to it,” Danny manages, and even he can hear the strain in his voice.

Holder gives one last stiff nod.

“Mr. Hernández. Mr. Niven.”

“Wesley,” Danny says, because he cannot help himself.

Holder turns and walks back toward his office with all the dignity of a man who has just swallowed a handful of thumbtacks.

Danny waits.

He waits until Holder is inside the office. He waits until he and Adrian make it past the front desk. He waits until they get through the main doors and out into the heat.

Then he breaks.

The laugh comes out hard enough that he has to stop walking and brace himself on the crutch, one hand pressed carefully against his ribs.

“Jesus,” he gets out, breathless. “Jesus, kid.”

He laughs again, quieter this time because it hurts, but he cannot stop grinning.

“You are diabolical.”

Danny looks over at Adrian, eyes bright with amusement.

“You stood there and thanked him for being the reason the school deserved your money. You made that man accept a compliment as punishment.”

He shakes his head, still smiling as he starts toward the parking lot again.

“I let him sell me his soul, you mean,” Adrian says with an impish grin. “Now I own his ass and get to help the kids. Win win.”

He opens the truck door and waits until Danny clambers in to put on his seat belt.

“That was fun. We should make it a regular thing.”

As the seatbelt clicks into place, Danny lets out a breath.

“I’m glad you’re on my side, kid.”

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