He was still curled into himself, chin tucked down, shoulders rounded like he was bracing for something that never quite arrived. His fingers traced idle circles on the surface of the bathwater, the movement small and distant—like he’d drifted somewhere I couldn’t see.
I didn’t rush him. I eased myself out first, joints protesting softly, and grabbed a towel from the rack. When I turned back, he was watching me—not anxious, not afraid. Justthere. Present in the way he only ever was when he felt safe enough to let his guard drop.
“Hey,” I murmured, keeping my voice low. “I’ve got you, baby boy.”
Something shifted in his face at that. His eyes lifted fully to mine—glass-bright, exhausted, open in a way that felt almost unbearable. Not asking. Not demanding. Just trusting me to follow through.
I wrapped the towel around his shoulders before he could shiver, the soft fabric swallowing him up. I was careful of his armthat had only recently healed. Careful of his ribs. Careful of the places the world had been too rough with.
When I helped him stand, I did it slowly, one hand firm and steady at his back, the other grounding him at the hip. He leaned into me without apology, his forehead dropping briefly against my chest like his body knew exactly where it belonged.
That trust nearly broke me.
I guided him to the bathmat and dried him like it was sacred work. Hair first, blotting, not rubbing. Then across his shoulders, still tense despite the heat. Down his back, where the scars weren’t visible like they were on his arms but the weight of everything still lived. I didn’t rush. I didn’t pull away. I didn’t pretend it was casual.
There was no burden in it. Just care, given freely. The kind that doesn’t ask to be repaid. The kind that stays.
When I pulled one of my clean shirts over his head, his fingers closed gently around my wrist. Not tight. Not urgent. Just enough to stop me.
“Anthony.”
I stilled instantly.
He looked up at me, lips parted like he’d been holding something in his chest too long. His breath was shallow, uneven. Not from fear, but from standing on the edge of wanting something he didn’t know how to ask for safely anymore.
I swallowed.
“What I feel doesn’t make it right,” I said quietly, because if I didn’t say it now, I never would. My voice shook anyway. “But pretending I don’t feel it doesn’t change anything.”
His grip tightened slightly, thumb pressing into the inside of my wrist like he was anchoring himself to the truth of me.
“I love you,” I went on, forcing the words out even as they scraped my ribs raw. “And I want to be the best version of myself I can be for you. You deserve nothing less than that.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It was alive. Heavy. Charged with everything we weren’t saying and everything we already knew.
Then he surged forward and kissed me. Not hesitant. Not careful.
It wasn’t clumsy or desperate. It washonest. His mouth warm and familiar, the kiss shaped by loss more than hunger. Like he was trying to remind himself—and me—that this was real. Thatwewere.
I kissed him back before I could stop myself, hands coming up to frame his face, grounding and shaking all at once. It felt like coming home and setting the house on fire in the same breath.
And then—before it could tip, before it could take something we couldn’t give back—I pulled away.
His breath hitched immediately. His eyes burned, hurt flashing sharp and fast before he could hide it. I pressed my forehead to his, closing my eyes like it might help me survive this part.
“If we cross this line again,” I said hoarsely, every word costing me, “we won’t be able to come back.”
His hands slid to my chest, palms flat, steady despite the tremor in his body. He didn’t push. Didn’t beg. He just looked at me. “Then let me be worth the risk,” he whispered.
God help me. I wanted to believe him with everything I had.
“I want you, Anthony,” he said softly, like saying it any louder might break the moment. “In every way that matters.” His hands trembled where they rested against my chest, but his eyes were steady. Determined. “If this is the last time I get to be with you like this… I don’t want to hold back. I don’t want to wonder.I want to feel you for days. I want your touch to haunt my dreams. Don't send me away without one last memory burned into my soul.”
My heart stuttered painfully. There it was—not desperation, not hunger.Truth.
I’d never been confused about Elliot the way I had been about Natalie. What I felt for him was terrifying in its clarity. He wasn’t a distraction or a replacement or a mistake.
He wasitfor me. And watching him—watching how hard he’d fought to stay, to heal, to choose life—filled me with a quiet, unfamiliar hope. If he could do the work, maybe I could too. Maybe loving him didn’t have to be something that destroyed us both.
