THE PROFESSOR'S DIRTY CLAIM
We held hands as we stepped off the elevator—comfortable, easy, the way two people who’d walked through hell together do.
Jax waited near the bar—still limping slightly, but standing taller than ever. Mateo beside him—arm around Jax’s waist, both of them smiling like men who’d found their place. Jax hugged me first—tight, brotherly—then Elliott—quick clasp, back slap, the old rivalry long dissolved into something warmer.
“You made it,” Jax said, voice rough with emotion.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I replied.
The shelter had grown—five locations now, across two countries. Art therapy rooms, dance studios, counseling spaces. Kids who’d once slept on streets now performed spoken word on the small stag