The Safe House

Vane drove a matte black charger that smelled of leather and spearmint. He didn't take Julian to the dorms. He didn't take him to a safe house. He drove to the warehouse district, pulling into the underground garage of a converted industrial loft.

"My place," Vane grunted, killing the engine. "Security systems are better than the precinct."

Julian followed him up the private elevator. The apartment was stark, masculine, and expensive. Exposed brick, dark leather furniture, and a wall of monitors showing camera feeds of the street and the hallway. It was a fortress.

"You’re freezing," Vane noted.

Julian was shivering. The adrenaline of the precinct confrontation had worn off, leaving him cold and hollow.

"I’m fine," Julian whispered.

Vane ignored him. He walked to the kitchen, turned on an electric kettle, and then started stripping off his gear.

Julian averted his eyes as Vane pulled off the blood-spattered t-shirt. He couldn't help but notice the map of scars across the detective's broad back—knife wounds, bullet grazes. The man was a walking war zone.

Vane returned a moment later wearing a clean black hoodie and sweatpants. He held a mug of tea and a heavy, gray weighted blanket.

"Sit," Vane commanded, pointing to the couch.

Julian sat. Vane draped the blanket over him, tucking the edges in around Julian’s shoulders with a dexterity that belied his size. He placed the tea in Julian’s hands.

"Drink. Chamomile. It helps the shock."

Julian took a sip. The warmth spread through his chest. He looked up at Vane, who was leaning against the kitchen island, watching him with an intensity that made Julian’s skin prickle.

"Why are you helping me?" Julian asked softly. "Everyone says you’re... that you don't care about the rules."

"I don't," Vane said. He walked over and sat on the coffee table, directly in front of Julian. Their knees bumped.

Vane reached out. Julian flinched, expecting a blow.

Vane froze. A dark look passed over his face—not directed at Julian, but at the reflex itself. He moved his hand slowly, telegraphing the motion, until his rough fingertips brushed the fading yellow bruise on Julian’s cheekbone.

"He did this?" Vane asked.

"I fell," Julian lied automatically.

"Don't lie to me, Julian," Vane murmured. "I’ve watched you walk across the quad every Tuesday and Thursday for a semester. You don't fall. You glide."

Julian’s breath hitched. "You’ve watched me?"

"Hard not to," Vane admitted. His thumb stroked the bruise, feather-light. "I saw him grab your arm last week outside the library. I almost stepped in then. I should have."

"He’s powerful," Julian whispered. "His dad..."

"I don't care about his dad," Vane cut him off. His eyes darkened, shifting from gray to black. "I care about the fact that you’re shaking in my living room because he thinks he owns you."

Vane leaned in. "I’m going to handle it, Julian."

"You can't arrest him," Julian said miserably. "He hasn't technically broken the restraining order because the judge hasn't signed it yet."

"I didn't say I was going to arrest him," Vane said.

The tone was lethal. It was the voice of the "Devil of Oakhaven." Julian looked at the man—the size of him, the violence inherent in his posture. He should be terrified. This was a bad cop. A dangerous man.

But sitting under the weighted blanket, with Vane’s warm hand cupping his face, Julian didn't feel fear. He felt safe.