The Precinct

The Oakhaven First Precinct smelled like stale coffee, floor wax, and apathy. To Julian, huddled in the hard plastic chair of the intake room, it smelled like a dead end.

"Look, kid," Sergeant Miller sighed, not looking up from his paperwork. "I’ve told you three times. Unless he physically touches you, it’s a civil matter. He’s allowed to stand on a public sidewalk."

"He was standing outside my dorm window for six hours," Julian whispered, his hands trembling in his lap. He pulled the sleeves of his oversized sweater down over his palms. "He sent me forty texts last night. He said he was going to burn my portfolio."

Miller finally looked up, his expression bored. "It’s a bad breakup. Boys get dramatic. Besides, isn't his dad on the Dean’s board? Maybe you two should just talk it out."

The dismissal hit Julian like a physical blow. He felt small. Invisible. It was exactly how Caleb had made him feel for two years—powerless. Julian stood up, his legs shaking. "He’s going to hurt me," he said, his voice cracking. "And you’re not going to do anything until I’m in the hospital."

"Sit down," Miller barked, his patience snapping.

* BANG.*

The heavy steel door to the bullpen flew open with a force that rattled the frosted glass.

Julian jumped, spinning around.

Detective Damien Vane filled the doorway. He was a myth on campus—the "Devil of Oakhaven." He was six-foot-four of corded muscle and bad intentions, with eyes like flint and a reputation for police brutality that the department conveniently ignored because he solved cases.

Today, he looked like a nightmare. His tactical vest was unzipped, his knuckles were split, and there was a spray of fresh, dark blood across the front of his gray t-shirt.

The room went silent. Even Miller shrank back in his chair.

"Vane," Miller stammered. "I thought you were on the drug bust downtown."

"I was," Vane rasped. His voice was a low rumble, like tires on gravel. He didn't look at Miller. He was looking at Julian.

Vane walked into the room. The air seemed to get heavier, charged with static. He stopped a foot away from Julian. Up close, he was terrifying. He smelled of gun oil, rain, and metallic copper.

"You’re turning him away," Vane said. It wasn't a question.

"It’s a domestic dispute, Damien," Miller said defensively. "The kid’s ex is just making noise."

Vane turned his head slowly to look at the sergeant. "Noise?"

Vane slammed his hand onto the desk. Miller flinched.

"I saw the texts on his phone when he walked in," Vane lied smoothly, though he had never seen Julian’s phone. "That’s a credible threat of arson and assault. Since when do we ignore that, Miller? Or is the donor money plugging your ears?"

Miller went pale. "I... I can take a report."

"Don't bother," Vane growled. He turned back to Julian.

The detective’s face softened. It was a microscopic shift—the tension in his jaw loosening, the flinty eyes warming just a fraction—but Julian saw it. Vane looked at Julian like he was something precious that had been dropped in the mud.

"Come with me," Vane said.

"I..." Julian hesitated, looking at the blood on Vane’s shirt.

"I’ll take your statement," Vane said, his voice dropping to a gentle rumble that vibrated in Julian’s chest. "In my car. You’re not safe here."

Julian looked at Miller, who was refusing to make eye contact. Then he looked at the monster offering him a hand.

Julian took it. Vane’s hand was massive, swallowing Julian’s whole, and surprisingly warm.