Something had shifted.
It was small at first. Barely there. A glance that lingered longer than it should. The way Nine's fingers curled toward mine even when we weren't touching. The way he hovered at the edge of every gesture I made, as if waiting for permission that he didn't know how to ask for.
He never used to seek me out.
Now he did.
Every moment of our private sessions, he watched me like I was the sun and he wasn't sure whether to bask in it or burn.
He didn't speak much—he never had—but his body language changed. If I shifted too far from him, he followed. If I reached for something, his eyes tracked my hands, not out of suspicion, but hope. And more and more, when I offered small comforts—a brush of fingers, a pat on the shoulder—he leaned into them.
Today, he was waiting at the edge of the room when I entered.
Not sitting.
Not kneeling.
Standing.
And when I stepped through the door, he moved forward with all the cautious urgency of a child who hadn't yet learned that reaching out could get him slapped.
"Hi," I said gently.
He stopped just in front of me, head ducked slightly, and then—
He extended his arms.
Not a full embrace.
Just an offering.
An invitation.
And gods help me, I didn't even think.
I pulled him into a hug.
His breath hitched as he melted against me. Arms curled tentatively around my waist, head pressing lightly into my shoulder. He held still for a long second before letting out the softest exhale.
Like he was letting go of something he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
Ours, Nyx purred.
"Can I stay here?" he murmured, barely audible.
I tightened my hold. "As long as you want."
He stayed.
Longer than expected. Longer than was reasonable.
And when I finally pulled away, he reached again—not to pull me back but to rest his hand against mine.
"I like this," he said.
I smiled. "Me too."
He tilted his head. "Can I… have more?"
"More?"
He nodded. "More touches. More… warm."
It took everything in me not to collapse at those words.
"You want cuddles," I said softly.
He blinked. "Yes."
That became our rhythm.
Every day, more contact.
Every day, more reaching.
At first, it was headpats. Simple. Safe. I'd brush my hand over his hair, and he'd close his eyes like it was the only comfort he knew. Then came the requests. Soft. Hesitant.
"Can I sit close?"
"Will you pat again?"
"Please?"
Always please.
Always so damn polite.
And always so desperate.
One afternoon, after I'd finished reading one of the emotional scenario prompts, he scooted closer on his knees. Carefully. Quietly. He looked up at me, uncertain—then reached for my hand, took it gently in his own, and placed it on top of his head.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't have to.
The gesture said everything.
So I stroked his hair.
Again. And again.
And when his eyes fluttered closed and his body relaxed against my knee like a cat curling into sunlit sheets, I knew I'd never stop doing this.
Not if I had a choice.
I didn't ask why. I didn't need to. The answer was written in every bruise the instructors didn't document, every flicker of hesitation before he leaned in, every time he startled at a loud sound or a sudden motion.
They hadn't just made him submissive.
They had made him starved.
So I gave what I could.
Even if it broke me.
Even if it made me feel like I was holding together a shattered thing with hands too full of cracks.
And every time he curled into me like I was the only warmth in a frozen world, I swore I'd never let him be cold again.