Page 90 of When the Smoke Clears
The three of us sit in a charged silence. It’s not just grief or shock; it’s something darker. We’re all circling the same suspicion, and none of us wants to say it out loud: Luke’s parents knew the truth. And they chose not to tell him.
“It explains a lot,” Luke says at last, his tone flat, almost clinical. “If my dad knew, it would explain his coldness toward me.”
“Your dad’s a dick to everybody,” Gabe says.
A short, humorless laugh slips out of Luke. “You’re right, but he’s always treated me differently. I thought it was because I was the oldest boy, so he piled the responsibility on me. Heir. Oldest child with a short leash.”
His gaze drifts to a spot on the wall, unfocused, chasing memories I can’t see. “He had expectations for me that were nothing like the ones he had for my siblings. Now I can’t stop wondering if it’s because he’s known I’m not actually his.”
“But you are his,” I say quickly. “He’s the one who raised you.”
Luke’s eyes meet mine, sharp and tired. “You don’t understand how Nathaniel Wild’s mind works. He might have raised me, but if I’m not his biological son, then to him I’m nothing more than an outsider. A bastard.”
The word lands like a slap.
He pushes to his feet and starts pacing the length of the room, like the floor might splinter if he stands in one place too long.
“Do you know what it feels like,” he says, voice low, “to spend your whole life trying to measure up to a man who never once looked at you with pride? To wonder if every failure, every lecture, every cold shoulder was because you weren’t enough?”
His good arm braces against the window frame. His shoulders hunch, the lines of his back curving like he’s holding something too heavy for his body. For a moment, it looks like he might break.
Then it’s like I watch him slam a door inside himself. His shoulders lift, then settle. Face blank. Voice flat.
“Possession and ownership are everything to him,” Luke says. A bitter laugh scrapes out of him. “I never had a chance.”
Anger rises hot from my chest, rattling my ribs. After everything he’s been through in the last week—me almost getting run down, the truth about the fire, my own mess crashing back into his life—this is the last thing he needs.
“What are you going to do?” I ask quietly.
“I don’t know.” He exhales, the sound frayed at the edges. “Nothing I do changes anything. Nathaniel Wild is who he is. If I’m not his son, then I was always destined to lose.”
Gabe studies him, arms folded, brow lined. “What about the man your mother was with? Are you curious about him?”
Luke drags a hand over his jaw, fingers rasping against stubble. He trudges back to the couch and sinks, elbows on his knees.
“Fuck if I know,” he mutters. “It’s too much to worry about right now.”
I kneel in front of him and rest my hands on his knees, feeling the heat of him through denim. His breath stutters, almost imperceptibly, and his eyes flick to my hands before lifting to my face.
“You don’t have to do anything about this now,” I say. “Just focus on healing.”
For a moment, he lets me stay there. Then he gently wraps his fingers around my wrists, lifts my hands away, and sets them back in my lap. The touch is soft, almost apologetic—and still, it stings.
“I think I’m gonna go take a nap,” he says.
“Luke—”
He’s already standing, rubbing the back of his neck like his skin doesn’t fit right. I reach out on instinct, fingertips brushing the hem of his sleeve, searching for some way to tether him.
He takes a half-step out of range. Small. Subtle. But I notice.
“I just need to lie down,” he says, not looking at me.
He walks down the hall. The bedroom door closes—not a slam, not annoyed—just a soft, ordinary click that somehow feels worse. Final. Like a wall sliding into place, brick by quiet brick.
I stay where I am for a long moment, my palms still warm where he moved them. Gabe watches me with a wince that’s equal parts sympathy and helplessness.
“I can’t believe this,” I say finally, pushing to my feet. My voice wobbles. “As if he hasn’t been through enough this week.”
