Alex and Luke

The cafeteria fades behind you as you step into the empty corridor. Sunlight pours through the high windows, slicing the dim light into golden strips.

In the next second, a hand grips your wrist—firm, certain, and sudden.

Luke is standing just a step away from you. He doesn't look flustered, but he is clearly in a hurry. His gaze is direct and calm, carrying the steely resolve of a man who has finally made up his mind. He glances over his shoulder, assessing the hallway, then turns his eyes back to you.

— Sorry for grabbing you, — his voice is low, steady, and quiet. — But the timing isn't ideal. I need to tell you something.

He falls silent, as if gathering his thoughts. His fingers still hold your wrist, but not tightly—just enough to ensure he has the chance to say what he needs to without the risk of you walking away.

— About Alex…

Alex emerges silently from around the corner. He isn't rushing; he isn't running. He simply stops and watches his brother. His eyes are slightly narrowed, and a faint, almost polite smile rests on his lips—the kind of smile that makes the air feel cold.

— Luke.

A single word. No threat, no pressure. Just a fact: he is here.

Luke releases your wrist. He does it slowly, without fuss, and looks at his brother with a slight tilt of his head. There is no hint of fear, no flinch. Only a brief pause during which he meets Alex's gaze. Something flashes between them—a silent conversation understood only by the two of them.

— I just wanted to clarify something, — Luke says, letting the silence hang. — But clearly, now is not the time.

He shifts his gaze to you. It is brief and attentive, and in that look, you can read: I haven't said everything. And I will come back.

Then he turns and walks away, his pace leisurely, hands in his pockets, back straight, though his gait is visibly irritated. This isn't the first time he has approached you with the intention of speaking, and every time, something happens to prevent him.

Alex watches him go. A moment longer than necessary. Then he turns to you and smiles—that warm, open smile that makes you want to smile back. He touches your hand, softly interlacing his fingers with yours.

— Don't mind him, — his voice rings with its usual lightness. — My brother acts strange sometimes. Come, let me walk you to your lecture.

He walks beside you, holding your hand, never looking back—but his fingertips feel a little warmer than usual. As if, despite everything, something inside him wavered.