That Telling MomentChapter 26

_A note before this one: this chapter includes a character’s disclosure of childhood sexual abuse that they experienced, and a teenage pregnancy that resulted from it. Neither is depicted. Both are told in retrospect, with care. But the telling still hits hard._

Colin Huxley had spent his life calculating the precise amount of worry a parent was allowed before it became counterproductive. The careful rationing of anxiety, distributed between his twin sons. A constant gnawing fear for Lysander’s increasingly concerning career choices. The occasional spike of worry for Stephen’s punishing work schedule and perpetual exhaustion.

But as he sat beside the hospital bed, watching his son sleep beneath the harsh fluorescent lighting, Colin realised he’d found the upper limit. The ceiling of parental fear. The place where it stopped being an emotion and became a physical thing lodged in his throat, heavy and immovable.

Stephen’s face was a watercolour of violence. Purples and blues blooming across his cheekbone. Split lip swollen to twice its normal size. A row of butterfly strips holding together a cut near his temple that had, according to the police report Colin had read with shaking hands, been caused by “the victim’s head being forcibly struck against pavement.”

The victim. His son. His baby.

Colin reached out to adjust the thin hospital blanket, tucking it more securely around Stephen’s sleeping form. His hands were steady, despite his heart hammering inside his chest. Those same hands had changed the twins’ nappies, had bathed them in the kitchen sink when they were small enough to fit, had buckled their school shoes and tied their ties for first-day photos.

He examined Stephen’s knuckles, raw and scraped from fighting back. Good lad. The police report had mentioned defensive wounds, signs of struggle. The witnesses had described Stephen shouting for help, fighting with everything he had.

So different from Colin’s own experience at thirteen. He’d frozen when the alpha cornered him in the council building’s stairwell, gone completely still like a rabbit caught in the jaws of a predator. A survival instinct that had seen him through.

He shook his head, dislodging memories that still clung like cobwebs in dark corners. No use revisiting that now. Stephen needed him present, not lost in his own ancient history.

A nurse bustled in, clipboard in hand, her eyes skimming over Colin with the particular brand of dismissive assessment he’d grown accustomed to over the years. The swift cataloguing of his worn jacket, his calloused hands. The slight double-take when she registered his omega designation, then the careful recalibration of her expression.

“Just checking his vitals,” she said, with the exaggerated cheer people often used when they thought you might be a bit thick. “You’re his… brother?”

“Father,” Colin replied, voice soft but firm. He’d long since perfected the art of correction without confrontation. He knew exactly what she was seeing: an omega barely pushing forty with a twenty-five-year-old son. The mental arithmetic was already happening behind her eyes.

“Oh! Of course,” the nurse said, flashing a smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “He’s doing well, considering. The doctor will be round shortly to discuss discharge.”

She adjusted something on the IV stand, scribbled on the chart, and departed in a cloud of antiseptic and barely disguised condescension.

Colin returned his attention to Stephen, smoothing a wayward strand of hair from his forehead. The gesture transported him back twenty-five years, to nights spent sitting beside two tiny cots in the care home’s nursery, watching his newborn sons sleep. He’d been a child himself, terrified and overwhelmed, tracing their perfect tiny features with a fingertip and promising them a life better than his own.

Some promises, it seemed, were beyond even his most determined efforts to keep.

Stephen stirred, eyelids fluttering. His breathing quickened, and then his eyes snapped open with the sudden panic of someone who doesn’t immediately recognise their surroundings.

“It’s alright, my love,” Colin said, his voice pitched low and steady, the same tone he’d used to soothe childhood nightmares and teenage heartbreaks. “You’re safe. I’m here.”

Stephen’s wild gaze found Colin’s face. Recognition dawning alongside confusion and then, most painfully, remembrance. Colin watched the sequence play across his son’s battered face like a film reel, each frame worse than the last.

“Dad,” Stephen croaked, voice rough from sleep and trauma. “What… how did you…”

“The police called me,” Colin said, reaching for the water cup on the bedside table. He helped Stephen take a sip, supporting his head with gentle hands. “I was already on my way home from my shift when they rang. Good timing, that.”

Stephen nodded slightly, wincing as the movement aggravated his injuries. “What time is it?”

“Just gone seven in the morning. You’ve been asleep a few hours.” Colin set the cup aside. “How’s the pain?”

“Present and accounted for.” Stephen attempted a smile that turned into a grimace. “Feel like I’ve gone ten rounds with a brick wall. And lost spectacularly.”

Before Colin could respond, the door swung open and a doctor strode in, all brisk efficiency and alpha confidence. Stephen flinched, his body tensing beneath the blankets, eyes widening.

Colin moved with the speed of someone who’d spent a lifetime placing himself between his children and threats. One moment he was sitting beside the bed; the next he was standing, positioned squarely between Stephen and the newcomer, his slight frame somehow expanding to fill the available space.

“Morning,” Colin said, voice pleasant but firm. “Mind giving us a bit of warning next time? Knocking works a treat.”

The doctor, to his credit, registered the situation immediately. He took a deliberate step back, lowering his clipboard and softening his posture.

“My apologies,” he said, genuine contrition in his tone. “I’m Dr Park. I should have knocked.”

Colin maintained his position, evaluating the man with the careful assessment of a parent who’d spent twenty-five years learning to identify threats to his children. After a moment, he nodded and moved to the side, though still within easy reach of Stephen.

“How are you feeling this morning, Mr Huxley?” Dr Park asked, addressing Stephen directly while maintaining a respectful distance.

“Like I’ve been hit by a lorry,” Stephen replied, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as Colin remained close.

Dr Park nodded, making a note on his clipboard. “Not surprising. You’ve got a mild concussion, extensive bruising, a few lacerations, and what looks like the beginnings of a rather impressive black eye. Nothing broken, thankfully, though your ribs will be tender for a while.”

He proceeded to explain the concussion protocol, warning signs to watch for, and when Stephen could expect to be discharged. Colin listened with careful attention, mentally cataloguing each instruction, each medication name and dosage.

“Any questions?” Dr Park asked, looking between them.

“When can I go back to work?” Stephen asked. So predictably Stephen that Colin nearly smiled despite everything.

“I’d recommend at least three days off,” Dr Park replied. “The concussion needs monitoring, and rest is essential for recovery. Both physical and,” he paused, “psychological.”

Stephen’s jaw tightened, but he nodded.

After the doctor left, silence settled over the room. Colin returned to his chair, close enough to touch Stephen but not crowding him. Waiting. He’d learned long ago that silence was often more effective than questions.

“The attack wasn’t random,” Stephen said finally, staring at his bandaged hands. “He knew me. Or thought he did. He thought I was Lysander.”

Colin’s stomach dropped, though he kept his expression neutral. “One of your brother’s… fans?”

“He called me Theo,” Stephen continued, a bitter edge creeping into his voice. “Kept going on about videos he’d watched, how we had a ‘connection.’ He’s been following me, Dad. For weeks, probably. Left… things at my office.”

Colin took a slow, careful breath. “Have you told the police about that?”

“They took my statement last night. I told them everything.” Stephen’s voice tightened. “It’s all Lysander’s fault. If he wasn’t selling himself online, putting his face, our face, out there for any sick bastard to obsess over, this wouldn’t have happened to me.”

The rage in Stephen’s voice was a living thing, hot and bitter. Colin couldn’t deny the logic of it. But he couldn’t stand for there to be a rift between his sons.

“Perhaps,” Colin said carefully, “but the fault lies with the man who attacked you, love. Not with your brother.”

“Bullshit.” Stephen winced as the word split his lip open again. Colin passed him a tissue. “If Lysander wasn’t TheoTheO, if he wasn’t making a living spreading his legs on camera, I wouldn’t be in this hospital bed.”

Colin considered his next words, treading the line between validating Stephen’s feelings and defending Lysander. Both his sons needed him, in different ways, for different reasons. The constant balancing act of equally loving two people who were increasingly at odds with each other kept him feeling wrong footed.

“Your anger is justified,” Colin said. “What happened to you is horrific, and you have every right to be furious. I’m furious.” He paused. “But we can’t control other people’s actions, only our own. Your brother’s choices are his to make, even when we disagree with them. The only person truly responsible for hurting you is the man who chose to do so.”

Stephen’s eyes filled with tears. “But if Lysander had made different choices…”

“We could play that game forever, love,” Colin said gently. “If I’d made different choices when I was young. If we’d lived somewhere else. If you’d taken a different route home. It’s a maze with no exit.”

Stephen turned his face away, jaw tight. Colin gave him the moment, understanding the need to rage against a world that had once again proved itself unsafe. He’d had that same rage once. Still carried pieces of it, buried deep.

“When I was a teenager,” Colin said quietly, breaking his own usual reticence, “an alpha cornered me in the stairwell of the council flat where I was staying. Foster care placement. Not a good one.”

Stephen turned back to him, surprise momentarily overriding anger. Colin rarely spoke about his past. Had shared only the barest outlines with his sons, protecting them from truths he’d deemed too harsh for young ears.

“He was bigger than me. Stronger. I didn’t stand a chance, really.” Colin’s voice remained steady, matter-of-fact. “Afterwards, I blamed everyone. The care system for putting me there. The foster family for not watching closer. Myself, most of all, for not fighting harder.”

Stephen’s hand found his, gripping with surprising strength.

“It took me years to understand that the only person to blame was him. The one who chose violence.” Colin squeezed his son’s hand. “Your anger at Lysander is valid, Stephen. What you’re feeling is valid. But in time, I hope you’ll direct that anger where it truly belongs. At the man who hurt you, not at your brother.”

“It’s not the same,” Stephen whispered, but some of the rigid fury had left his shoulders.

“No,” Colin agreed. “It’s not. But the fear is. The violation. The loss of control.” He brushed a gentle thumb over Stephen’s knuckles. “I’m so sorry this happened to you, my love. So very sorry.”

Stephen’s composure broke, tears spilling over. Colin gathered his son carefully into his arms, mindful of his injuries, holding him as he shook with silent sobs. The same way he had when Stephen was five and fell off the swing at the park. When he was twelve and got cut from the football team. When he was sixteen and came home with a bloody nose from standing up to alphas who’d made comments about Lysander.

Different wounds, same comfort.

“I’ve got you,” Colin murmured against his son’s hair. “I’ve always got you. Both of you.”

He felt Stephen nod against his shoulder, a small movement of acknowledgement. A tiny bridge across a chasm still too wide to fully cross. But it was a start. The beginning of healing, even if the scars would remain. And that, Colin thought as he held his injured child, would have to be enough for now.