CHAPTER 22
October 21. Ten years earlier.
Rick lazily glanced back over his shoulder, as if he were simply checking how much longer the class would last. In reality, he was looking for him.
Aaron sat at his desk, slouched slightly in his chair, taking notes with the expression of someone doing the entire class a favor. His pen moved slowly, almost reluctantly, long fingers gliding lazily across the notebook, while the light from the window caught the black strands of his hair and the sharp line of his cheekbones.
The phone in his pocket vibrated softly.
Aaron didn't reach for it immediately. He finished writing the word, added a period, and only then,
without lifting his head, pulled the phone out beneath the desk.
1 new message.He looked up anyway.
Rick was already looking straight at him—openly, wearing that slightly cocky, far too pleased expression.
Are you going to the party?The corner of Aaron's mouth lifted almost imperceptibly.
He lowered his eyes back to the screen, slowly brushed his thumb across it, and a second later Rick's phone vibrated briefly in his hand.
Nope.Rick quietly exhaled through his nose, struggling to hide his smile, and quickly typed:
Why not?He glanced back again, more carefully this time.
Aaron was looking directly at him now. Attentively. As though trying to understand where this conversation was even going.
Got practice.Rick rolled his eyes and immediately looked back down at his phone.
😢Is that the only reason?The reply came almost instantly.
Yeah.For several seconds, everything fell quiet again.
Only the scratching of pens on paper, Mr. Scott's dreary voice somewhere at the front of the room, and the far-too-loud pounding of Rick's own heart.
Aaron frowned slightly, biting the inside of his cheek, as if he wasn't entirely sure himself why he was still texting instead of simply putting the phone away.
But he typed one more message anyway.
What else would it be?Rick couldn't help it—the corner of his mouth immediately curled upward.
He quickly leaned lower over his desk, hiding the screen from the teacher, and typed:
I don’t know.Maybe because King gets on your nerves? 🫣Aaron rolled his eyes ever so slightly.
🙄He gets on your nerves too.Rick only gave a quieter huff and nearly slid farther down in his chair, hiding the phone beneath the desk. His fingers hovered over the screen for a second. For some reason, his heart started beating faster again. Then, at last, he typed:
Yeah, the message slowly appeared in the chat.
But he won't be the only one there. 🙂His pulse thundered in his ears. He swallowed, feeling his chest tighten, then finally added:
I was thinking...If there was at least one person there who annoyed you less than he does… would you come?🙃The message was sent.
And almost immediately, it was too late.
Rick froze, staring at the screen as though he could still take the words back, erase them, pretend none of it had happened.
But beside the message, the words appeared almost immediately:
Read.No reply came.
One minute.
Then two.
Three...
Five.
Rick slowly exhaled, feeling his cheeks begin to burn.
God.
What an idiot...
Too obvious.
Way too obvious.
He dropped his forehead into his hands, hiding himself from the class, from Mr. Scott — mostly from himself. His fingers disappeared into his hair while his heart kept pounding somewhere in his throat.
Then suddenly, his phone vibrated once.
Rick froze, forgetting how to breathe. Slowly lowering his hands, he looked at the screen.
Sounds interesting…Who’s gonna be there?Rick stared blankly at the messages.
His fingers hovered over the keyboard, his pulse hammering in his throat, and his face seemed to grow even hotter. He typed the first letter...Then erased it. Started again.
I'll be there.Deleted everything again with an irritated exhale through clenched teeth.
Too much.
God.
He dragged a hand sharply across his face, as though that might somehow help him collect his thoughts, and only then finally typed:
Not sure.Maybe you could see for yourself?The messages were sent, and Rick immediately turned around.
Aaron was already looking directly at him with his usual calm, unreadable expression.
But something had changed.
Under that steady gaze, everything inside Rick seemed to melt even more.
It felt as though Aaron could see straight through him — through every awkward hint, every flushed cheek, every desperate attempt to pretend nothing unusual was happening.
"Mr. Parker."
The teacher's voice rang out so sharply that Rick jerked and instantly shoved the phone beneath his desk.
"Am I interrupting your conversation with Mr. Lake?"
The silence in the classroom became almost tangible.
Rick slowly raised his head.
So did Aaron.
But before either of them could say a word, Mr. Scott spoke again.
"Since Mr. Parker is apparently finding conversation far more interesting than my lesson today," the teacher said dryly, snapping his gradebook shut, "perhaps he'd like to tell us what year Dumpfield was founded."
The classroom fell completely silent. Rick froze.
Damn.
He opened his mouth, trying desperately to remember something — anything — from the lecture. His mind was completely blank.
“Uh…”
“1883,” came a calm voice from the back rows.
Every head immediately turned toward Aaron.
He only kept lazily twirling the pen between his fingers, as though he had no idea why the entire class was staring at him.
Mr. Scott slowly exhaled through his nose.
“Thank you, Mr. Parker,” he said dryly, looking straight at Aaron. “But I would still like to hear Richard’s answer.”
Rick pressed his lips together, hiding a smile.
Aaron only flicked a glance at him and lowered his eyes back to his notebook.
“Fine,” the teacher said with a curt nod. “Then perhaps you can tell us, Mr. Parker, what Dumpfield became known for at the beginning of the last century?”
Rick had only just opened his mouth when —
“The lumber industry and the railroad,” Aaron answered again.
Someone in the class snorted with laughter.
Mr. Scott slowly adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose.
“Mr. Lake.”
Aaron finally set down his pen.
“Yes?”
“I was lenient with you last year… for understandable reasons,” the teacher’s voice grew noticeably harsher, “but this year I will not tolerate that kind of disrespect in my classroom.”
The room went completely quiet. Rick tensed despite himself, but Aaron merely tilted his head slightly. Nothing in his expression changed at all.
“My apologies. No disrespect intended,” he replied evenly. “The questions were simply too easy for me to stay quiet.”
Thomas let out a strangled laugh, and Emma immediately jabbed him in the side with her elbow, though she was barely holding back herself.
Mr. Scott narrowed his eyes.
“I see.”
He slowly stepped away from the board, clasping his hands behind his back.
“Very well, Mr. Lake. Since you’re so confident in your knowledge, let’s play a game.”
The class immediately came alive. Someone let out a low whistle. Rick turned his whole body toward
Aaron, not even noticing that he had started holding his breath.
Aaron only leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed.
While everyone else was already beginning to murmur and exchange glances, he looked as though he already knew how this would end.
Rick caught himself watching him far too closely again.
And for some reason, that was starting to scare him.
“I’ll ask you three questions,” Mr. Scott continued. “And if you answer even one of them incorrectly, you’ll be suspended from my classes for the rest of the semester. And if anyone in this classroom tries to help you, the same will apply to them.”
For a second, silence hung in the air.
Then Aaron calmly asked:
“And if I win?”
A surprised —
“O-o-oh…”
— rolled through the classroom.
Even Rick’s mouth fell open slightly.
The teacher smirked.
“I don’t think that will happen, Mr. Lake. But very well. If you answer correctly, I’ll forget that you and Mr. Parker disrupted my lesson.”
Aaron gave a short nod.
“Deal.”
Mr. Scott took several steps between the rows of desks, drawing closer to Aaron with each one.
“In what year did the largest forest fire in Dumpfield occur, destroying the northern district of the town, and how many days did it take to bring it under control?”
“Autumn of 1978,” Aaron answered without hesitation. “The fire lasted six days, and they only managed to contain it after the first snowfall.”
“Five and a half,” Mr. Scott corrected him with a smirk.
Aaron exhaled calmly.
“Officially, yes. But the last pockets were extinguished on the morning of the sixth day.”
The teacher tensed, adjusting his glasses automatically. His gaze grew colder, and Rick felt it as the man passed his desk without taking his eyes off Aaron.
“Name the mayor under whom the old sawmill was temporarily shut down at the height of its productivity, and the official reason for the closure.”
Aaron lifted his eyes to him and calmly held his ground without changing expression.
“Mayor Thomas Whitmore. Officially, after a series of safety violations and an accident involving workers in the winter of ’92.”
Scott narrowed his eyes.
“And?”
Aaron lazily twirled the pen between his fingers again.
“Although most people in town believed it was shut down because of contamination in the lake. After the chemical leak, fish had started dying in large numbers several months before the inspection.”
The classroom became so quiet that they could hear the janitor in the hallway rinsing a mop in a bucket.
It didn’t sound like something from a textbook at all, but rather something people in town tried not to mention unless they had to.
Rick didn’t notice that he was holding his breath again.
Looking at Aaron right now was… a bad idea. A very bad one. But for some reason, he still couldn’t make himself look away.
“Final question,” Mr. Scott said slowly, stopping directly beside his desk and now clearly beginning to lose his temper. “Name the person who financed the reconstruction of Mockingbird Bridge after the series of car accidents in 1973.”
The classroom fell silent.
For the first time, Aaron frowned. Rick saw his fingers go still for a second.
One second.
Then another.
Mr. Scott smiled in satisfaction.
“What is it, Mr. Lake? Too easy?”
Aaron slowly raised his eyes. Then, just as calmly, he answered:
“Joseph Carter.”
Mr. Scott froze. For the first time during the entire exchange, he visibly relaxed. Satisfaction flickered at the corners of his eyes.
“Incorrect,” he drawled slowly. “A great shame, Mr. Lake, but you are suspended from my classes.”
He turned and took a proud step away.
Aaron tilted his head slightly. Then, in a cold, even voice, he said:
“You can check the city newspaper archives for November if you need to refresh your memory. His name appears twice in the report on the reconstruction of Mockingbird Bridge as the main investor who donated the largest share of the money.”
The class exchanged silent looks.
The teacher’s face twisted, and he turned sharply toward the front rows.
“Miss Johnson?”
Emma blinked in confusion and immediately reached for her phone, quickly opening the online archive.
“Uh… actually, yes. He’s right…”
Steve, sitting behind her, blinked in surprise and looked at the teacher.
“Yeah, he really is. It was Joseph Carter,” he breathed. “Holy shit…”
For one second, absolute silence filled the classroom. Then everything exploded.
Thomas swore loudly in delight, jumping out of his seat and grabbing his head.
Emma covered her face with one hand, trying to hide her smile.
Mr. Scott merely returned to his desk and opened the gradebook.
“That’s enough,” he cut the class off coldly. “Since Mr. Lake has decided to teach today’s lesson in my place, your homework for next week is doubled.”
A collective groan immediately swept through the room.
And Rick…
Rick, who hadn’t breathed through any of it, simply sat there staring at Aaron as if he had finally, completely lost himself.
Present day.
A week had passed since Lake’s return.
Hong was still serving his suspension, and after what had happened at the hotel, Parker had been making a determined effort to keep his distance from his partner.
At least, Rick seemed to sincerely believe he was trying.
In reality, by some inexplicable miracle, he kept ending up beside Aaron and each time found another absurd explanation for it.
Today was no exception.
The morning was gray and damp. Rain slid lazily down the station windows, blurring the street beyond the glass, while the empty corridors still held a sleepy silence broken only by the measured echo of footsteps.
Lake headed toward his office as usual, unbuttoning his coat as he went, pushed open the door —
and stopped.
The office greeted him in complete chaos.
The desk and chair had been shoved against the wall, folders were stacked in crooked towers, tools lay scattered across the floor, and a screwdriver rested dangerously on top of a leather case file.
And in the middle of all this mess…
…Rick was busy doing something.
He was crouched on the floor with his shirt sleeves rolled almost to the elbows. His hair was disheveled, and sweat glistened on his forehead.
“What is this?” Lake asked dryly, though one corner of his eyebrow still betrayed him by lifting.
Rick looked up.
“A couch,” he announced with the most innocent expression imaginable.
And unfortunately, it really was a couch.
Old.
Heavy.
And completely out of place in the middle of the office.
Lake slowly walked around it in a wide arc.
“I can see it’s a couch. Why is it here?”
“Ah…” Rick scratched the back of his head, already beginning to smile suspiciously. “It’s a gift for you.”
“A gift?” Aaron stopped. “You gave me an old, shabby couch?”
“It’s not shabby!” Rick protested immediately, slapping a hand against the armrest. “It’s… vintage.”
“Vintage,” Lake repeated slowly, in the tone of a man who had just completely run out of strength to argue with the world.
“Exactly.” Rick nodded far too proudly, as though he had just won a decisive victory.
Aaron exhaled tiredly through his nose.
“And why do I need a vintage couch?”
“Well…” Rick spread his hands, something sly and almost boyish appearing in his eyes at once. “I thought it might make the place feel cozier.”
And he smiled. Sincerely. Completely disarmingly.
So much so that even in that gray, dim office, things suddenly did feel a little brighter and warmer.
“There’s less space in here now,” Lake remarked wearily, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
“Doesn’t matter,” Parker dismissed at once, getting to his feet. “Stop complaining and help me put it in place.”
Aaron let out a resigned breath, but walked over anyway.
They braced their hands against the couch at the same time, and with a heavy, muffled scrape, it finally shifted.
“Damn, it’s heavy,” Aaron said in surprise a second later. “When did you even manage to bring it in?”
“This?” Rick replied with perfect calm. “Tonight.”
Aaron froze.
“You spent the night in my office?”
“No, I didn’t sleep,” Rick corrected him. “I brought in the couch.”
For several seconds, silence hung in the office.
Lake slowly looked at the massive gray structure in front of him. Then back at Rick.
“How?” he finally breathed. “It’s impossible to lift.”
“In pieces,” Rick said, immediately coming alive and beginning to gesture. “First the frame, then the armrests. I nearly killed myself on the stairs once, by the way. And then—”
“God…”
Lake covered his face with one hand and shook his head quietly, clearly trying to process what he had heard.
“What did I do to deserve this?”
“Knew you’d like it.” Rick spread into another wide, completely satisfied smile. “It fits in here perfectly, by the way.”
Aaron slowly looked around the office.
The old gray couch had, somehow, settled into the space as though it had always belonged there.
That only made it more irritating.
“I’m thrilled,” he said dryly, raising one eyebrow.
Rick noticed immediately, and a second later they both let out a quiet laugh at the same time.
They managed to drag the couch against the wall, and Rick finally collapsed onto it with all his weight in relief. The wooden legs creaked pitifully, and the entire structure tilted dangerously to one side.
“Perfect,” he drawled happily, folding his arms behind his head and stretching out across the cushions. “Now we have somewhere to brainstorm.”
“There’s hardly any room left in here now,” Aaron said tiredly, though he sat down beside him anyway.
The couch was unexpectedly narrow. Rick noticed almost at once: their shoulders nearly touched, Aaron’s knee was far too close to his thigh, and Lake still carried the cold from outside, the scent of morning coffee, and something familiar
.
“At least you can rest here,” Rick said, turning his head slightly toward him and narrowing his eyes with mischief.
“This is an office. You’re supposed to work here,” Aaron cut back dryly.
But he didn’t make the slightest attempt to move away.
Rick crossed one leg over the other out of habit and accidentally brushed Aaron’s thigh with his knee. Aaron tensed almost imperceptibly and let out a short breath through his nose, but stayed sitting exactly where he was.
The warmth of his body was noticeable even through the fabric.
“It’s cozy,” Rick muttered. “Admit it.”
“I liked my office before you decided to turn it into a living room.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Aaron finally turned his head toward him.
And only then did Rick realize just how close they were sitting.
He caught himself looking in the wrong place again — at the dark stubble along Aaron’s jaw, the soft strands falling beside his cheekbones, the calm curve of his lips.
“Maybe,” Aaron breathed quietly, “a little.”
The air in the office thickened, growing warmer and heavier, and the silence between them stretched a little longer than it should have.
Rick sat completely still for several more seconds, far too aware of the other man’s presence beside him, before finally looking away and rising quickly from the couch.
He urgently needed something to do with his hands.
