The Letters In His Desk - pt. 2

Ethan stands at the bathroom mirror already dressed in dark jeans and a fitted gray pullover, the collar slightly uneven where he pulled it on too quickly and never fixed it. The fluorescent light above the sink hums softly, washing the small bathroom in a pale glare that makes everything look sharper and a little more tired than it really is. He tilts his chin up and drags the razor carefully along the uneven line of hair at the base of his neck, moving slowly and deliberately as if precision alone will keep him from messing it up. A thin streak of shaving cream clings just beneath his jaw, and he leans closer to the glass, narrowing his eyes at his reflection. He presses a little too hard and feels the faint sting of it, quickly adjusting his grip with a quiet breath through his nose. The scrape of the blade against his skin sounds louder in the morning stillness, and he focuses on that instead of the thoughts trying to crowd in.

The doorframe creaks softly when Adrian appears behind him, the subtle shift in presence noticeable in the mirror before Ethan fully processes it. Adrian’s sleeves are rolled neatly to his forearms, his tie hanging loose around his collar as though he has paused midway through getting ready. He doesn’t say anything at first. He simply watches for a moment, taking in the careful angle of Ethan’s wrist and the slight tension held in his shoulders. His expression is thoughtful rather than critical, but there is something measured in the way he stands there, like he is choosing his words before speaking.

“You’re going to cut yourself if you keep holding it like that.” His tone is calm but firm as he steps closer.

He reaches for a towel and gently turns Ethan by the shoulder so he can see better, the movement steady and guiding rather than correcting. Ethan stiffens at first out of instinct, then relaxes with a small, reluctant exhale as he lets the razor slip from his fingers into his father’s hand. A flicker of embarrassment crosses his face, quick and hard to read. Adrian adjusts Ethan’s chin slightly with the edge of his knuckles, angling his face toward the light, studying the uneven strip of shaving cream with quiet concentration. He works in slow, deliberate strokes, drawing the blade downward with steady pressure before rinsing it under warm water and tapping it once against the sink. Each pass is controlled and unhurried, as though this small act of grooming is something solid and manageable in a morning that feels less certain.

The mirror reflects them standing close in the narrow bathroom, their shoulders nearly touching beneath the harsh fluorescent light. Ethan watches their reflections rather than turning his head, noticing how similar the line of their jaws looks at that angle, how the crease between his father’s brows deepens when he concentrates. The air feels warmer than it should in such a small space, thick with the faint scent of shaving cream and aftershave. Neither of them speaks, yet the silence is not empty. It stretches heavier than usual, threaded with the unfinished edges of last night’s conversation.

“About what you told me,” Adrian begins, guiding the razor in another slow pass, “sometimes your mind latches onto things when you’re stressed. It takes a small detail and stretches it until it feels bigger than it actually is. You’ve been under pressure. School. College applications. That girlfriend of yours. Your brain fills in gaps when it’s tired.”

Ethan keeps his gaze fixed on the mirror, jaw tightening slightly as he swallows back the urge to argue harder. He studies the reflected version of himself instead, focusing on the set of his shoulders and the way his expression has gone carefully blank.

“It didn’t feel stretched,” he says quietly. “It felt real.”

Adrian’s expression hardens just slightly, not in anger but in resistance. He finishes the last careful stroke and wipes Ethan’s neck clean with the towel, pressing a little firmer than necessary before stepping back half an inch.

“It doesn’t mean it was,” he replies. “Sometimes things feel real because you believe them hard enough. That doesn’t make them true. You’ve got school. You’ve got friends. You’ve got a normal life. Focus on that. Let your head reset. Don’t carry this around like it’s something you have to solve.”

He sets the razor down with quiet precision and reaches up to adjust the knot of his tie. The motion is slightly off, uneven, and he has to redo it. For a second he just stands there, eyes flicking toward Ethan’s reflection and then away again.

“I just—”

He stops, presses his lips together briefly, then exhales.

“You’re fine.”

It sounds more like something he is trying to convince himself of. Another pause settles between them. He rubs the back of his neck, a rare tell of discomfort, then finally speaks again.

“I love you.”

The words land stiffly in the air, almost out of place. They lack ease, as though carefully selected and placed rather than freely offered. His eyes don’t hold Ethan’s for long. He nods once, curt and abrupt, and turns toward the hallway before the silence can demand more from him. His footsteps fade down the stairs, the faint clink of dishes beginning in the kitchen as if the moment never happened at all.

Ethan remains at the sink longer than necessary, fingers brushing absently along the smooth line of his neck where the razor passed. His father doesn’t say those words often. The rarity leaves a faint imbalance in the air that doesn’t settle easily. It isn’t exactly warmth he feels, though some of that exists beneath layers of confusion and suspicion. It’s the sense that something prompted it, that affection was pulled forward for a reason rather than offered freely. He studies his reflection, pale blue eyes scanning his own face for something he can’t name. After a moment, he dries his hands, grabs his keys from the counter downstairs, and steps outside into the cold morning air.

The drive to McAfee High is familiar enough that he barely registers the turns. It’s only two streets down. The low winter sky presses down in a dull gray sheet as he pulls into the student parking lot, the Mustang’s engine rumbling steadily before he shuts it off. For a second he stays in the driver’s seat with both hands resting on the wheel, staring at the entrance where clusters of students gather in loud, shifting pockets. He prefers the quiet predictability of swim practice, the clear lanes, to hallways full of half-heard conversations and lingering looks. With a slow breath, he steps out, locks the car, and starts toward the building.

He almost makes it to the steps without incident. Almost.

The sound of his name cuts through the noise in a tone that carries more performance than greeting. His stomach drops before he even turns. He keeps walking at first, pretending not to hear, hoping indifference will dissolve the moment before it forms. It doesn’t. It never does. A hand grips the back of his jacket and yanks him sharply to a stop, fabric tightening against his throat for a split second before he regains his balance. Laughter flickers at the edges of the growing circle, not loud yet but anticipatory.

“Heard you’ve been seeing things,” the boy mutters near his ear. “You losing it or something?”

Heat crawls up Ethan’s spine, settling between his shoulders as he braces for the shove he knows is coming. He hates the audience most of all. His fingers flex at his sides, not quite fists.

Before the shove can land, an arm snakes around the bully’s neck from behind in one smooth, confident motion. Marcus locks into place with startling ease, one broad arm hooked securely while his other hand settles against the boy’s shoulder like they’re greeting each other instead of fighting. The sudden shift forces the bully back half a step, and the crowd murmurs in surprise.

“Wow,” Marcus says brightly, tightening his hold just enough to keep the boy still. “If you wanted Ethan’s attention this badly, you could’ve just written him a note.”

A few students snort. Marcus adjusts his grip slightly, sliding his hand to the front of the boy’s chest in a dramatic, almost affectionate pat.

“It’s actually kind of brave. Public confessions are so vulnerable. You really just grabbed him in front of everyone.” He cooed.

Laughter spreads more openly now. The bully stiffens, color flooding up his neck as the dynamic flips against him. He shoves backward hard enough to break free and mutters something defensive before retreating toward the parking lot, shoulders rigid beneath the weight of amused stares. Marcus straightens slowly, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve. Then he hooks an arm around Ethan’s shoulders and steers him toward the doors.

“You really need to screen your fan club,” Marcus says lightly. “Maybe an application process.”

Inside, lockers slam in uneven percussion and voices ricochet off tile. Ethan keeps his eyes forward, shoulders angled inward slightly, replaying the encounter in fragments whether he wants to or not. They reach his locker, and before he can turn the dial, Julian barrels into the space with restless energy.

“I leave for two minutes and miss a full romance subplot?” Julian demands. “Rude.”

Sienna joins them more quietly, leaning one shoulder against the lockers beside Ethan.

“Devon Langley,” she says calmly, reciting the bully’s name. “He’s always picking on you, Ethan. Maybe we should tell my dad.”

Marcus leans back against the opposite lockers, arms folding over his chest. “No one is telling your dad. He’s a dick.”

Sienna crossed her arms, giving him a stern look. Marcus smiled sheepishly, stammering over his words as he tried to find the words to apologize. Ethan ignores the three of them and opens his locker, stacking his books inside without rush, letting the small order of it steady him. He listens more than he speaks, tracking tone and timing automatically. Avery steps into the circle last, notebook already open.

“Start from the beginning,” she says evenly. “Exact phrasing.”

Julian groans. “Are we taking witness statements now?”

“Yes,” Avery replies without looking at him. Her gaze stays on Ethan. “Patterns matter.”

Ethan closes the locker gently. “He asked if I was losing my mind,” he says. “Then he grabbed me when I tried to walk away.”

“Volume?” Avery asks.

“Loud enough for people to hear. Not loud enough for teachers.” Julian chipped in.

Avery studies Ethan, tracking the faint delay before he answers, the careful steadiness in his breathing. She lowers her notebook slowly and steps closer, lifting a hand to angle his face downward until he has to meet her eyes.

“You’re not telling me everything,” she says quietly. She gestures to his hand that had been scrubbing the back of his neck. “This isn’t just about him.”

“I’m fine.” The words come fast and clean. Ethan gently removes her hand from his face and offers a faint shrug. “It’s handled. I’ve got it.”

Then he steps out of the circle and merges into the hallway current without another word. Within seconds he’s just another student moving toward first period. The space he leaves behind hangs hollow for a moment. Marcus uncrosses his arms slowly. Julian exhales under his breath. Sienna glances between them.

“That was the compartmentalizing voice,” Julian mutters.

“He seems like he didn’t sleep well.” Sienna says.

Marcus pushes off the lockers. “I’ll get him to talk.”

“He won’t,” Avery says calmly. “Not like that.”

They start moving. Marcus angles ahead, pace quickening, but before he can gain distance, Avery catches him by the ear and pulls him down just enough to meet her gaze.

“Do not threaten Devon,” she says quietly. “You focus on Ethan. Figure out what’s wrong with him.”

Marcus holds her stare, then nods once. “Yeah. Okay.”

She releases him, and they split for their separate classrooms. Marcus slips into math just as the final bell rings. He scans the room quickly until he finds Ethan already seated, posture composed, gaze forward, expression perfectly steady.

From the outside, nothing looks wrong at all. Inside, something is tightening, stacking, waiting.