The car stops.

No words. No glances. Nothing passes between us. Just the soft grind of tires against gravel, the quiet click of the engine dying—and then silence. A silence so thick it feels like something solid, something that could be cut open.

I step out.

Behind me, Silas steps out too. His head hangs low, chin tucked toward his chest, like he’s trying to fold himself into something smaller. Something invisible. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t make a sound. Just follows.

The door opens with a soft click.

I step inside my house—the house that used to be mine alone, before they decided otherwise.

My face is calm. Composed. A mask I’ve worn for so long it feels permanent. But inside—

Inside, I’m not calm.

Their cheap pheromones. Their cheap smiles. Enough to piss me off.

My jaw tightens.

I hate being dragged into their filth. I hate that I had to lower myself to their level... just to pull him out.

And him.

Silas follows. Silent. Broken.

I sink onto the couch. Let my head fall back. Close my eyes.

He stays standing in front of me. Waiting. Like a servant awaiting judgment. Like a child awaiting punishment. I can feel him—small, trembling—pressing at the edges of my exhaustion. 𝗳𝐫𝚎𝗲𝚠𝚎𝗯𝕟𝐨𝘃𝚎𝗹.𝗰𝗼𝗺

I open my eyes. His head is still lowered.

"Sit."

My voice is flat. Cold. The voice I use when I don’t want to feel anything.

He moves slowly—careful, measured—like his body might crack if he moves too fast. He lowers himself onto the couch across from me. Perched on the edge.

My eyes stay on him.

His lashes are wet—clumped together like spiderwebs after rain. Tears slide down his cheeks—not falling, just... leaking. Slow. Quiet. Something deep. Something he can’t stop.

His lips tremble.

"Why are you crying?" My voice doesn’t soften. "You’re safe now."

Safe.

The word hangs between us—thin. Useless.

Slowly—so slowly I can almost hear the effort—he lifts his head.

His eyes meet mine.

Something shifts. Just a flicker.

His eyes are too red. Raw. Veins threading through the whites, the irises blurred with tears.

They should look ruined. They don’t. They look like jewels submerged in water—still shining. Still burning.

Still him.

My gaze drops.

His neck. A bruise—red at the edges, purple at the center. Finger-shaped. Hands that had no right to touch him.

Lower. His wrists.

More bruises. Dark rings circling bone—where they held him. Where they pinned him. Where they thought they could take whatever they wanted.

My fists clench against the couch cushions.

I stand.

Walk to the kitchen. Pour a glass of water. The pitcher trembles in my grip. I ignore it.

I walk back. Force myself to look at him. To stay cold.

"Drink."

I hold out the glass. Look away.

His hands shake when he takes it.

I watch from the corner of my eye—the way his fingers curl around the glass, the way the water trembles at the rim, the way he drinks like he’s forgotten how.

Like swallowing hurts.

I turn. Walk to the drawer. My movements are rough. Deliberate.

Why am I even doing this?

I take out the medicine box. Set it on the table with a dull thud.

"Put ointment on your bruises."

He sets the glass down. Looks at me. Then at the box.

His hands reach for it. Open the lid—slow, careful. Tears slide down his cheeks. Silent. Endless. Falling into his lap.

A sigh slips from my lips.

Fine. Just this once.

I sit beside him. Take the box from his hands.

"Tell me where it hurts."

He looks at me—surprise flickering behind the tears. Like he expected something else. Something harsher.

I don’t react.

I take out the ointment. Unscrew the cap. The scent of it spreads between us—clean, sharp, sterile.

I take his wrist.

Lift the sleeve.

Bruises coil around his skin. Purple. Blue. Fresh red bleeding through. Against his pale arm, they look almost painted.

My jaw tightens.

I press a small amount onto my fingertip. Then apply it. Slow. Controlled.

His eyes close. Fresh tears slip down.

His lips press into a thin line—tight, bloodless—holding back sound. His body trembles under my hand.

I don’t look at his face.

I move to his other wrist. Careful. Measured. Like too much pressure would break something.

"Lift your face."

He looks at me. Confused.

"Lift your chin. You have bruises on your neck."

A pause. Then he lifts it—slow, obedient. Too trusting.

I take more ointment onto my fingertip.

Reach for his neck. His skin is warm. Soft. His pulse beats beneath my fingers—fast, uneven. Alive.

My finger slides down. Over his throat. Over his Adam’s apple.

The shape of it—

I stop.

My hand stills. Then I pull back. Too quickly. Look away.

"It’s done."

He looks at me.

My voice hardens—too fast, too sharp, trying to cover the crack I feel spreading through my chest.

"Now explain. What were you doing there?"

He swallows. More tears slide down. He looks at his hands. At the bruises circling his wrists. At the evidence of everything I pulled him out of.

"Can you stop crying and just—"

He leans forward. His arms wrap around me. His face buries against my chest. His grip tightens around my waist—like he’s drowning and I’m the only thing he can hold onto.

My body goes still.

He cries. His whole body shakes. Hiccups tear through his chest. His fingers curl into the fabric of my shirt, holding on like I might disappear if he lets go.

"What the hell—"

I stop.

His tears soak through my shirt. Warm. Wet. Trembling.

My hand hovers in the air.

I don’t know what to do with him.

What to do with this.

Slowly—reluctantly—my hand lowers. Patting his back.

Just a little. Just once.

"Just stop crying." My voice is flat. Hollow. "And leave me—"

He doesn’t respond.

He just keeps crying. Clinging. Shaking. His hair brushes against my chin. Slowly, his crying quiets—like a storm passing.

But his arms don’t loosen. His face doesn’t lift. He stays pressed against me.

And I stay still.

A soft, precise tick from the wall clock. A low, almost silent hum from hidden appliances. Outside, wind brushes against the glass walls. Inside—

Just us.

Just his breath against my chest. Just my hand resting on his back. Just the silence.

Where am I stuck?