start a fight [muke af]

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The fight at the prison the previous day freaked out Luke, and Ashton knew it. He cared about his officers, and gave Luke a delayed day. Luke slept in until ten, which was far late for him. He woke up under layers of sheets even though he was never quite cold. The blankets surrounding him made him feel warm and coddled, just the way he liked it.

His head was sunken between many pillows and everything felt alright. Luke couldn't imagine how the prisoners woke up. Their first sight was a plain, cement room with a single thin sheet and a thin, scratchy mattress. Luke figured that they all deserved in some type of way—if it was murder, stealing, rape, anything bad—but he still couldn't help but pity them. They're humans, too.

Luke stretched out his back, his cupped hands touching the beds lightwood frame. Sometimes he figured it was odd that he was still living in his parents house. It was weird for him to wake up and recognize the same room he's been living in since birth.

He didn't want to move out, though.

He stepped out of bed, his bare feet surfacing the plush carpeting. He cracked his knees and ankles, then twisted his back, too. He reached down, grabbing sweatpants from the clean laundry hamper.

Luke's work clothes were gone, which meant Ms. Hemmings came in sometime during the night and took them to clean. He liked that. If he moved away, no one would do his laundry. Luke had no idea how to do laundry.

He opened his bedroom door to a silent house. He could hear the dishwasher running and the air conditioning lowly humming, but everything else was silent.

He headed down the stairs, taking each step two at a time. His dog didn't even lift her head when Luke walked past. Luke scuffed and continued to walk to the kitchen.

His mother was sat at the breakfast table, her daily newspaper laid out in front of her. Luke was never into reading, he didn't understand how his parents could read something big like the newspaper every single day.

There was a lot Luke didn't understand about being an adult.

"Morning, Sweetie. There's biscuits in the oven for you."

He circled the kitchen island, grabbing a glove to reach in and take them out. He set them on a plate, taking a few for him. He had a large appetite, even if he wasn't still a 'growing boy'. He thanked his mother before sitting down across from her.

"Are you feeling any better?" She asked, putting down her newspaper and crossing her hands within one another. Her blue eyes matched Luke's and they silently stared at each other for several seconds.

Luke wanted to drop it, never talk about it again. "Yeah, I'm feeling fine." He looked down at the plate, already one biscuit digesting in his stomach.

"I think it'd be good to talk about it."

"I don't."

She asked before standing up, taking her empty plate to the sink. "Did something bad happen?"

"Mom, I work at a prison. Every day is bound to be something bad."

Luke's mother was a nice women. She's a retired teacher, but still had her pleasant tone. Luke constantly felt like he was in trouble when he tried speaking to her, he was always afraid of her reaction. He just really wanted to be perfect in her eyes. He's a proud Mama's Boy.

"I know that, Baby. I've seen you come home with a black eye twice now."

"It wasn't a black eye—."

"It was a bruise," she interrupted, "Around your pretty eyes."

Luke rolled his pretty eyes.

Ms. Hemmings came behind him, putting two hands on his shoulders and slowly pressing in to the tense muscles. "You can talk to me."

"I know," he responded. Luke was practically a child, he still feared his mother. He didn't like being yelled at or scolded. "It was just a fight and I was called as back-up. It was gross and there was blood and I freaked out."

"My poor baby," she cooed. Her hands continued to massage his tense shoulders as he continued.

"I think I like my job, it's cool and there's never a day like the previous. It's just hard and I'm not tough and I can't fight."

"That nice man that picked you up yesterday said he'd help you."

Luke told his mother everything. "Calum is helping, but, I don't know. It just sucks at the moment." He lightly pushed his mother off of him as he stood up, bringing his own empty plate to the sink and stacking it on the pile.

Another reason not to move out: Dishes.

"Are you happy?"

Those three words have always been a hard question. Luke believes he mistakes the word content and happy for each other a lot. He's satisfied in his job, he's not miserable, but he's not necessarily happy. He's not jumping for joy every time he checks in.

"Yeah, Mom," he groaned, not in the mood for one of her psychological moments. "I'm not sure what I'm feeling, if I'm gonna be honest with you."

"Why's that?"

Luke moved back to the breakfast table where his mother was already sat once more. "Like, I think about the what ifs in like often. What if I just sucked it up and went to college instead of the academy? Or I could've gone to the military. I had other options, and I don't think I do now."

"Baby, you could always change your mind."

"But, I enjoy having a salary and I don't want to go back to school." Luke rubbed at his eyes, his cheekbones still admitting slight pain from the bruise weeks ago. "I don't know, I'm fine."

"I don't want you upset."

"I'm not." He stood up, catching time of his watch. "I need to get dressed."

"Are you sure you're fine?"

"Positive," he lied.