He kept it in.
Even when they made him choke, even when the hits came, again and again, even when his knees buckled, he held on to what little control they couldn’t take from him.
And it kills me.
I shove my hands under the water, scrubbing hard.
Harder.
Hard enough, I feel I could scrape the skin right off.
But it’s still there.
The way he looked so empty, so gone, like he was trying to vanish from his own body.
They hit him. Laughed at him. Took turns like he wasn’t human. Like he was something to ruin.
“Fuck,” I breathe. “Fuck, fuck, fuck—”
Now I know why he froze and looked so out of it the first time I grabbed him at the exhibition, why he didn’t want to do most things during intimacy.
And thank fuck I never pushed.
I never asked. Never demanded. Never made him feel like he had to give me something that was taken from him like that.
This is what they took.
I feel sick.
All I want now is to find them, every single one of those monsters.
I want to ruin them.
I want to make them feel what he felt—no, worse. So much worse.
I dry my hands, slowly, mechanically. My skin’s raw, but I barely notice it.
I walk back into my office, grab the camera and the memory card, and lock them in the drawer. I never want to look at them again. I don’t even want them to exist.
All I want now is to be by his side.
To hold him.
To remind him that I’m here.
That he’s not alone.
That no one—no one—will ever touch him again.
I leave the office and step into the bedroom.
The moment I see him, my chest tightens.
He’s curled up under the blanket, small and still, brows drawn together like he’s fighting something in his sleep. But he’s not crying out tonight, not whimpering or gasping like he sometimes does.
I cross to the other side of the bed and shrug off my shirt, quietly slipping beneath the covers. The mattress shifts as I move closer, wrapping my arm gently around his waist.
He’s warm. Bare skin soft and solid against mine, his back flush with my chest.
