I forced myself to keep it together, rounding the hood and getting into the driver’s seat.
Elior sat curled slightly inward, donut bag clutched in his lap.
I didn’t start the engine right away. Instead, I reached across the center console and rested my hand over his knee.
“Jace, what are they saying on the news?” Elior’s voice was whisper-soft.
My hand tightened. “You don’t need to worry about that, baby.”
He shook his head, a small jerky motion. “I need to know. Aarev—Patel mentioned something about it, too.”
I turned in my seat, fully facing him now. “It’ll only upset you. They don’t even know what they’re talking about.”
I hated that the world kept reaching for Elior when he was already fraying, like they were entitled to his pain just because it made a good headline.
“Elior,” I said quietly, “look at me.” He did, his eyes sad and surprisingly determined. “Hardly anything they’re reporting is true. There’s no point in you seeing it.”
His brows knit together. “But whatif—”
“No,” I interrupted. “This isn’t a discussion.”
“I can handle it,” he murmured, even his voice sounding unsure.
“Elior.”
His shoulders sagged a little. “I don’t like not knowing.”
“I know,” I said. “But right now, knowing would hurt you more than it would help.”
“So… I’m not allowed?” he asked softly.
“You’re not allowed.”
“…Okay,” he said, barely audible.
I hated the way that sounded—like giving up instead of agreeing.
I started the engine then, pulling away from the curb and into traffic. For a few blocks, neither of us spoke.
After a minute, Elior shifted. He opened the bag and carefully pulled out the strawberry donut, the one with the ridiculous amount of sprinkles.
He took a small bite.
Then another.
I watched him from the corner of my eye, relief threading through the anger like a thin wire.
He just needed to listen to me, and he’d be okay.
* * *
Okay, so apparently he hadn’t wanted to listen.
By the time dinner was finished, the apartment smelled like garlic and butter. I’d moved quietly in the kitchen, keeping one ear tuned toward the living room. Elior had curled up on the couch not long after we got home, knees tucked in, head pillowed against the armrest. He’d looked boneless withexhaustion.
I’d assumed he’d fallen asleep.
I plated the food, wiped my hands on a towel, and grabbed two forks before heading back into the living room. My phone wasn’t where I’d left it earlier on the side table, but I barely clocked that—my focus was already on Elior, on waking him gently so he’d eat something while it was still hot.
