I stared at the ceiling and counted breaths. Mine. His. Mine. His. If I moved, I’d fail. If I stayed still, I ached.
Morning came without asking. Gray light slid through the curtains. The quiet shifted. The world exhaled back into existence.
Elliot stirred. Not abruptly—just a small inhale, a faint sound at the back of his throat, like he was surfacing from deep water.
His fingers loosened. Then he tilted his head. Our eyes met. Something in him softened immediately when he saw me. Like relief had a face now.
“Hey,” he whispered.
My chest tightened. “Hey.”
He watched me the way people watched something they were afraid of losing. Not greedy, not demanding, just attentive. Like he was trying to memorize me while he still could.
Then he leaned in. It wasn’t bold. It wasn’t calculated. It was as natural as breathing. Small and hopeful and terrifying.
His mouth brushed mine—barely pressure, barely there—a question more than a kiss.
My whole body responded. Heat, instinct, want. My lips parted and my tongue swept into his mouth. Elliot groaned at the contact. Heat flamed through my body. Need for more surged through me.
My hand curled into his hair anchoring him there. Our mouths locked together in a dance as old as time.
When my actions registered I froze. Then pulled back. Just an inch. Just enough to see the depression on his face change. My grip on his hair loosened as I studied his face.
It wasn’t shattered—not yet. But something flickered. Hurt, yes. But underneath that, hunger.
“You don't know what you’re doing," I said softly.
His bright hazel eyes searched mine. “Yes. I do.”
“No,” I whispered. “You don’t.”
Elliot pushed himself up slightly on one elbow, like he needed to be closer even as I moved away.
“You don’t know how long I’ve wanted you.”
The words hit somewhere below my ribs. I swallowed around the lump in my throat. “You don’t know what this will cost.”
His mouth trembled. His eyes glistened as he blinked hard. When he spoke, it was with a deadly calm. “Then let me pay it. I’ve already lost everything else.”
The room went still around us. Not quiet. Like it held its breath. Like the air itself was waiting to see what I’d do. I reached out to cup his face before I realized what I was doing and stopped myself halfway.
My hand hovered between us. That small, aborted motion felt like a failure in itself.
“Elliot,” I breathed, pain threaded through his name. “Wanting someone when you’re bleeding isn't the same as choosing them.”
“I’m always bleeding.”
His words cut me. The fact his voice didn’t break when he spoke made it so much worse. Like it was a fact, not a reason.
“You’re the only thing that makes it stop.”
Something in me cracked at that. Not enough to fall apart. But enough to feel it in my bones.
“I won’t be your anesthetic,” I said quietly. “And I won't be your punishment.”
His eyes filled, deep pools of pain, but he didn’t cry. He nodded once. Too fast. Too sharp. Lip trembling. Like he was swallowing something he didn’t know how to chew.
“I know,” he croaked.
