Hunter could still remember the smell of chalk dust and cheap floor polish. The sound of laughter that wasn't kind. The way the classroom air always felt too thick when everyone turned to look at him.
He was ten. His uniform was patched at the elbows, his shoes scuffed. The other kids noticed, of course , they always noticed.
"Hey, thrift store boy!" someone jeered from the back of the class. A crumpled paper hit his shoulder. Laughter followed.
Hunter didn't flinch. He'd learned long ago that reacting made it worse. So he sat there, silent, jaw tight, and opened his book.
When class ended, he walked to his desk and quietly peeled off the newest drawing someone had left , a stick figure version of him wearing rags, a label scribbled above it: Poor boy.
He folded it carefully, almost gently, and dropped it into the trash. Then he went back to solving equations. He was used to this consistent bullying that never end , where the rich decides to torture the poor
At home, the walls were thin and the air smelled faintly of stew that had stretched for too many nights. His mother, Merida, was humming softly in the kitchen, ladling a bowl of soup.
"Eat up, sweetheart," she said with that tired, warm smile.
Hunter frowned. "You didn't make yourself one."
"I'm not hungry."
"You're lying."
She laughed softly and brushed her fingers through his hair. "You worry too much for a little boy."
He looked at her ,really looked. The faint shadows under her eyes, the way her hands trembled slightly from exhaustion. "One day," he said quietly, "I'll buy you a big house. With a kitchen full of food. You won't ever have to lie about being full again."
She smiled at him like he'd handed her the world. "And I'll be waiting right here for that day."
They lay together that night on their small, creaking bed. The wind whispered through the cracks in the roof, but in her arms, Hunter felt safe. He made a promise then , to never let her suffer again.
But promises are fragile things.
One afternoon, he came home to find three sleek black cars parked outside their worn little house. His steps slowed. Something felt wrong.
Inside, his mother was sitting at their chipped kitchen table , across from a man in a tailored suit. The man's presence filled the room like heavy perfume , power, wealth, arrogance.
"Hunter," his mother said, her voice oddly soft. "Come, sit with us."
He did, eyes fixed on the stranger.
"This is Mr. Dastin," she said, smiling nervously. "He's… he's going to be your new father."
Hunter stared, every word echoing like static in his ears. He didn't blink. "Why?"
The man chuckled, clearly amused by the boldness. "Straight to the point. I like that."
"That's not an answer." Hunter's tone didn't waver.
Mr. Dastin leaned back, eyes sharp. "Because your mother deserves better than this." He gestured vaguely at the peeling wallpaper, the small, cramped kitchen. "And I can give her that."
Hunter didn't look away. "You can't buy love."
The man's smile faded just slightly. But before he could respond, Merida reached out and squeezed her son's hand. "It's okay, baby. Trust me, this will make our lives better."
He looked at her mother , 'but i promised that i would make a better life for the two of us' but the words got stuck on his tongue , she looked happy, and if it means she will be happy with someone else, then Hunter was willing to accept
The next day, they were packing. Boxes filled the tiny house ,clothes, old books, memories of a life built from scraps. Hunter stood in the doorway, watching his mother hum as she folded her dresses. She looked lighter, almost glowing.
He didn't say a word. He couldn't.
When they finally arrived at the mansion, Hunter froze on the marble steps. The house looked like something out of a magazine , tall, white pillars, glittering windows, a chandelier that sparkled even in daylight.
He had never seen so much space before.
Inside, voices echoed down the hallway. Laughter ,young, high, and careless. Then footsteps.
A boy appeared at the doorway , about Hunter's age, dressed in fine clothes, curiosity written all over his face. He had a school bad slung on his shoulder and clenched a paper on his hands . the boy looked like one of the idols he always seen on television , his face was angelic and his skin looked soft
"Oh, you must be Lucian!" Merida said brightly, her face softening. "I'm Merida, your new mummy. Oh my goodness, aren't you the prettiest boy!"
She smiled wider, placing a gentle hand on his shoulder. "And this—" she turned to Hunter "this is my son, Hunter. Your new stepbrother."
Hunter looked at Lucian. The boy's looked shocked as his bag fell on the ground with a huge thud and the paper fluttered to the ground
Hunter looked at him , and he knew from that day , their relationship as brothers was not going to end well
Present —
The morning light crept through the blinds like thin, accusing fingers. Hunter groaned and pressed a hand to his forehead, the dull throb behind his eyes pulsing in time with his heartbeat. His room smelled faintly of his pheromones and something else , something softer, almost sweet.
Lucian.
He blinked, pushing himself upright, the blanket falling loosely around his waist. The room spun for a second before coming into focus , the clothes thrown carelessly on the chair, the faint scuff on the wall where he'd slammed his hand last night, and the pillow beside him that still held the ghost of another scent.
He froze.
It hit him then , fragments of the night before flickering through his mind like a broken film reel.
Lucian's wide eyes. The sound of the door slamming shut. His own voice, rough and trembling. "I need you."
And then, the pheromones. His, wild and spiralling out of control, crashing against Lucian's calm, steady scent. He remembered Lucian reaching for him, whispering something soft, something grounding and the chaos inside him settling.
He rubbed a hand down his face, groaning. "Shit."
He wasn't proud of what happened. He'd lost control ,something he'd sworn he'd never let happen again. But the memory that lingered most wasn't the shame ,it was the warmth. The quiet steadiness in Lucian's voice as he told him to breathe. The way Lucian stayed when he asked. The way his pheromones.... no , that was impossible , he was scentless
He looked at the other side of the bed , empty now, the sheets faintly creased. The scent was fading, and with it, the fragile comfort of last night.
"Figures," Hunter muttered under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair. "Didn't even wait for me to wake up."
But deep down, he didn't blame him. If anything, he was grateful Lucian hadn't slapped him or walked out mid-breakdown. Still, something in his chest ached , a tight, restless pull he couldn't explain.
He stood and got dressed, trying to shake it off. Cold water on his face. A cup of black coffee. None of it helped. Because the moment he closed his eyes, he saw Lucian again , the faint glow of his eyes in the dim light, the way his voice trembled when he said Hunter's name.
And the pheromones.
God, he couldn't stop thinking about them.
He'd never felt anything like that before , that kind of calm, like someone had reached inside his chest and silenced every storm he'd ever carried. He opened his eyes 'are you really scentless Lucian?' he thought to himself
By afternoon, he was at the gym, trying to sweat the thoughts out of his system.
The air was thick with the metallic scent of iron and sweat. Hunter wrapped his hands and slammed his fists against the punching bag again and again, each hit echoing through the empty space.
Breathe. Forget. Move on.
But it wasn't working. The harder he pushed, the clearer the memories became ,Lucian's scent, the sound of his soft voice, the warmth that had crawled through his veins and made the world stop spinning.
His knuckles hit the bag harder. Once. Twice.
"Dammit…" he hissed under his breath.
This wasn't like him. He didn't lose focus. He didn't get distracted. But now, every beat of his heart felt like it was whispering Lucian's name.
He hit the bag again until the leather split slightly under the pressure, sweat dripping from his chin. His reflection in the mirror across the room looked feral ,jaw tight, eyes burning with something he couldn't name.
He leaned forward, palms braced against the wall, breathing hard. His pulse refused to slow.
"What the hell are you doing to me, Lucian…" he muttered, voice low, almost broken.
The silence that followed was deafening.
He closed his eyes, the faint echo of Lucian's pheromones still ghosting his senses , warm, gentle, and utterly unforgettable.
And for the first time, Hunter realized that no amount of distance, no number of punches or workouts, could erase what had happened between them.
Because whatever that was last night , it wasn't just pheromones.
It was something else.
Something far more dangerous, and he realized , he almost crossed that bridge last night