Page 107 of Top Shelf

I want to slap the smug as fuck look off his stupid face.

A couple of people chuckle. Not cruelly. Worse. Casually, like what he said is some harmless observation.

My vision sharpens at the edges, because this—this—is how it happens. We start by talking about false accusations, and it somehow turns into a debate over who is allowed to be a victim. As if strength cancels trauma. As if size equals consent.

I think of how many men never say anything because they already know how this conversation ends. With jokes or disbelief. Or worse, high fives and claps on the back, like they won something.

Every lie chips away at the rest of us. Every headline about some girl crying wolf makes it harder for actual victims to speak up.

Allvictims.

Beside me, Lucian has gone utterly still.

Locked-still. As though he is fighting against every muscle in his body to not react.

His shoulders are drawn back like steel cables pulled too tight. His jaw clenches so hard I can hear his teeth grind. The muscle in his cheek jumps once. Twice. He’s vibrating. Actuallyvibrating, like his rage has nowhere to go and is eating him alive from the inside out.

A quick glance at his hands confirms they’re curled into fists, his knuckles white and nails biting so fiercely into his palms that I can already see blood welling.

The ignorant student laughs again, oblivious to the impact of every idiotic word that comes out of his mouth. “I’m just saying, if a guy’s built like a tank?—”

Lucian’s chair scrapes against the floor, the noise sharp enough to cut the guy off. My heart slams into my throat as every head in the lecture hall turns our way. Lucian stands slowly, his hands braced against the desk, gaze zeroed in on the guy talking.

“Connor,” he states, voice low and deceptively calm. It’s somehow more terrifying than if he’d shouted. “You passed out at the Gamma Sig party last month, right?”

The guy—Connor—blinks, caught off guard. “Uh…yeah. Why?”

Lucian’s lip curls into something vicious, and I know he's about to cut this dipshit down with only his words. A rarity for Lucian, since he’s prone to solving problems with his fists, but some kinds of pain don’t bleed out through bruises. They demand words be wielded like weapons.

“So what you’re saying is…if someone had wanted to, they could’ve unzipped your fly, grabbed your little pocket prick, had a nice fondle, and you wouldn’t have even woken up for it?”

Connor recoils. “What the f?—”

“Or maybe slipped a hand down the back of your pants, stuck a finger up your ass while you were out cold.” Connor gapes at Lucian in shocked horror, like he can’t believe Lucian is suggesting such a thing. It truly drives home just how fucking dumb this idiot is.

“Still think it’s funny?” Lucian’s voice is louder now, threatening.There’s a dangerous edge to his words. “Still think it’s impossible for a man, anathlete, to be assaulted?”

The room is deathly still, everyone watching the stand-off with wide eyes. Good to see they are all paying attention. Perhaps what Lucian is saying will actually penetrate their roid-infused brains.

Connor stares at him, mouth open, eyes wide with disbelief, like he can’t comprehend the reality Lucian has just laid out for him. But isn’t that the point? No one can imagine that happening to them until it does. We all think,Oh, I’m not that person, but no one is that person until they are.

Smacking his hand against the table in utter fury, Lucian’s breath comes hard and fast through his nose, chest rising and falling like he’s holding back a scream. “You don’t get to decide what counts as assault just because it hasn’t happened to you, or because you think you’d be man enough to fight back. Until you experience it, you don’t get to have a fucking say.”

Silence.

There is absolute fucking silence as Lucian drops back into his chair. Heat radiates off him, and I can tell, despite his outburst, he’s still boiling with rage inside.

No one dares look toward where we are sitting. One guy rubs the back of his neck like he’s embarrassed to exist. A girl near the front blinks hard, as if she’s seeing the conversation through new eyes.

I shift sideways, pressing my thigh against Lucian’s, my hand sliding onto his forearm beneath the desk and gripping hard in a bid to anchor him. His body is coiled like a spring under my touch. I can feel the violence of what he’s holding back, the words still clawing at his throat.

He doesn’t look at me. He’s staring straight ahead, eyes dark and feral, breath coming shallow and fast, like if he opens hismouth again, it’ll all come spilling out—everything he’s trying so hard to lock down.

The professor clears his throat, floundering. “Right…okay, I think—we’re going to end the discussion there for today. Pick this up fresh tomorrow.”

As the rest of the class packs up their belongings and hurries to leave, sending the occasional loaded glance our way, Lucian remains motionless in his chair. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. He’s no longer here with me. His mind has gone somewhere else entirely.

Unable to follow, I do the only thing I can; I sit with him, my hand on his arm, and I don’t let go.