He was already in the room when I arrived.
Not kneeling.
Not posed.
Just sitting.
Cross-legged in the center of the floor, back straight but not forced, eyes locked on the door like he had been waiting for it to open every second since they told him I might come back.
The moment I stepped through, he surged to his feet.
My breath caught.
His hair was slightly damp—washed too hastily, like they'd tried to clean him up before I got there. There was a faint bruise on his collarbone, half-faded, and his sleeves were rolled wrong, uneven.
But his eyes were alive.
Too alive.
Like fire catching in dry brush.
He took one step toward me—then stopped. As if remembering he wasn't supposed to move first.
"Hi," I said.
He blinked. Once. Then again.
And then he was crossing the room too fast.
He didn't touch me.
Not yet.
He stopped just short, breathing uneven, fingers twitching like he didn't know where to put them. Like he wanted to reach out but wasn't sure if he was allowed.
I knelt slowly, careful not to make any sudden movements. "It's okay," I said. "You can come closer."
He dropped to his knees like a string had been cut.
And then—he leaned forward.
His arms wrapped around himself tightly, but his body curved toward mine, head nearly pressing into my lap.
I froze.
Not because I was afraid.
But because I understood.
This wasn't comfort.
It wasn't affection.
It was desperation.
I reached out, gently brushing his hair back from his face.
He exhaled shakily, eyes closed, as if the touch itself was a confirmation that he still existed.
"That's a bit close," I said, trying to keep my voice light.
He jerked back instantly, sitting upright, posture rigid. His mouth opened, but no words came. Just a slight shake of the head, a flicker of panic.
I touched his shoulder before he could spiral. "It's okay."
He looked at me, truly looked. His eyes flicked over my face like he was memorizing it, like he didn't quite believe I was real.
"You came back," he whispered.
I nodded.
"They said you wouldn't."
My jaw tightened, but I didn't look away.
His expression didn't quite shift. Just… dropped. Something inside him faltered. His body leaned forward again, not touching, but close enough that I could feel the bond between us pull tight like a thread.
He didn't speak again.
Not with words.
But everything in his face, in the way his hands curled into the floor, in the way he leaned just barely into my space—spoke for him.
I sat down fully. Let my legs fold under me. Let the silence stretch.
He was vibrating with restraint.
So I opened my arms.
At first, he just stared.
Then—cautiously, like a child not sure if the fire would burn—he leaned in.
And this time, he did climb into my lap.
He didn't wrap his arms around me, didn't cling. Just folded into the space I offered, head against my shoulder, breathing shallow.
I held him.
Carefully.
And not for the cameras.
Not for the program.
But because no one ever had.
Not like this.
He trembled once. Then again.
Then he was still.
We stayed like that for a long time. I lost track of time—maybe minutes, maybe an hour. My legs ached from holding still, but I didn't shift. Every breath he took was shallow, measured, like he thought I might vanish if he moved wrong.
I brushed my fingers along his back, slow and steady.
He flinched once.
Then melted into the touch.
He wasn't relaxed. Not fully.
But he wasn't flinching anymore.
That was something.
He needs this, Nyx said softly. Not training. Not protocol. Just this.
The bond pulsed softly under my skin.
I remembered the first time I saw him—kneeling like a statue in that whitewashed room, eyes dull, posture perfect. A beautiful thing made for display.
Now, his head was heavy on my shoulder. His breathing brushed against my collarbone. His body was warm against mine, real and breakable and too thin.
He had been so quiet these past weeks.
So compliant.
And yet—this? This wasn't obedience.
This was the opposite.
This was rebellion in the shape of closeness.
And it shattered me.
"I'm not going anywhere," I whispered.
He stirred just slightly.
"I should've told you that before."
No response.
Just a soft, barely-there exhale that might've been a breath. Might've been something else.
When I shifted to cradle his head against my chest, he let me.
His hands didn't move.
They stayed curled in his lap.
But his body pressed just a little closer.
And I felt it in my bones—the ache of him trying to understand how not being used could still mean being wanted.
I stayed until they came to knock.
And when they did, he tensed. Flinched like it was a blow.
I cupped the back of his head.
"It's okay," I said. "You're okay."
He looked up at me.
Eyes wide.
Violet.
Hopeful.
And so, so afraid.
I rose slowly, guiding him upright.
He followed.
Didn't speak.
Didn't ask if I was coming back.
But when I left, I felt it.
The bond.
Pulled tight. – Too tight
Begging not to be stretched again.