“Tuck, come on, come on. Tuck, I swear to Christ. I swear, I swear to Christ, there’s nobody. It’s a job. It’s my job. It’s my fucking job, and I’m not fucking around, I’m not screwing—”

Pop. And following the leather, Tucker threw a lazy punch that caught North in the face and snapped his head back like it was on a trick hinge.

Years, Shaw thought. Years of black eyes. Shaw couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t feel anything except those same black combers rolling in to swallow him, the way they had in the alley with Carl, the way they had when Hanson shoved him down a flight of stairs, the way they had in Brueckmann’s office. Years that North had come to work and said he’d just been sparring. He liked boxing. He’d been taking boxing classes, and sometimes the classes got rough. Years.

“I know. I know, I know, I know.” Tucker was spitting the words, his arms waving wildly, the leather strap flicking the air like a cobra’s tongue. “Ever since freshman year you’ve been letting that fucking twink breed you. He’s in your fucking head somehow. He’s got you wrapped around his finger. You think I don’t know? You think I can’t smell him on you when you come home? You think I haven’t stopped by the office and known what you two were doing, fucking known, and you just keep doing it. You keep doing it to make me angry. You keep doing it because you want to make a fool out of me.” Tucker pressed forward with each word, driving North deeper into the kitchen until the two men were parallel with Shaw, and the only thing separating them were a few feet of air and glass and light. Tucker dropped the coiled leather and grabbed a chef’s knife from the block on the counter. “I’m done. I’m done being a fucking laughing stock.”

The first swipe came faster than Shaw expected, but Tucker was a total amateur, and every inch of his body screamed what he was going to do next. North dodged easily, and he danced back as Tucker took another slash.

“I fucking love you,” Tucker screamed, bringing the blade down in another vicious arc. “And this is how you fucking repay me.”

North took two more quick steps back, dragged open the pantry door—Shaw remembered the pantry, had seen the pantry, had been inside once when North sent him to look for table crackers—and slammed the door shut.

Tucker leaned into the door, trying to force it open. He screamed. He gouged the wood with the knife, driving the blade into the door over and over again.

Shaking, Shaw took a step toward their back door. It was glass; Shaw could kick it in if it was locked. Whatever paralyzed him a moment before had passed, and now the only thought in his mind was getting to North.

Only—

The rational part of Shaw’s mind dragged him to a stop.