The instructor didn't linger.
But he didn't leave quietly either.
As he reached the doorway, he paused. Glanced over his shoulder.
Nine was still curled in my lap, clinging to the ointment tube like it was the only thing keeping him from drifting away.
"Better get used to that," the man said. "You're pretty when you're begging. Bet the boss is going to love you."
Then he left, the door hissing closed behind him.
The silence that followed was heavy.
Almost thick.
Nine didn't speak.
Didn't move.
I stayed still too—just long enough to be sure we were alone.
Then I exhaled slowly and shifted my weight, easing him back just enough to get a look at the angry red lines striping his thighs.
"Let me help," I said softly.
He blinked up at me. Didn't nod. Didn't flinch. Just handed me the ointment like it was the most natural thing in the world.
I squeezed a small amount onto my fingers and hesitated. My hand hovered for a beat too long.
Then I began to rub it in.
Slow. Gentle.
The skin was hot. Swollen. Raised where the cane had struck.
He hissed at the contact, but didn't pull away.
Didn't even tense.
Instead, he watched me with a strange kind of wonder.
Like this was something beautiful.
Like the pain had been expected, but the care that followed had not.
"You don't have to do this," I murmured, still working the ointment in soft circles.
"I want you to," he said.
His voice was quiet. Honest.
Too honest.
"You're kind," he added, eyes half-lidded now. "When you touch me, it doesn't hurt."
I swallowed the ache in my throat.
He smiled.
And gods, that smile—it was too soft. Too grateful. Too… trusting.
It made something twist in my chest.
Because he didn't know.
Didn't realize that this wasn't what kindness looked like. That this—me rubbing ointment into wounds carved by the same system I worked for—wasn't care.
It was damage control.
But to him?
It was mercy.
And that made it worse.
I worked slowly, giving each welt its own attention. Some were beginning to bruise already, purpling around the edges. Others still glowed a violent red. I touched them all the same—with the kind of reverence I wished someone had shown him sooner.
Nine breathed evenly. His eyes stayed half-lidded, lashes brushing his cheeks. His body, for once, didn't tremble beneath my fingers.
The silence stretched. Not uncomfortable. Not cold. Just full.
He shifted slightly as I moved lower, adjusting so I could access the backs of his thighs.
"You don't have to be gentle," he whispered. "I can take more now."
My hands stilled.
"That's not the point," I said.
He looked confused. "But I was made to take more."
I pressed my hand over the thickest welt, not to hurt but to anchor him.
"No one should have to get used to pain."
"But they said—"
"They lied."
Silence.
I rubbed another thin layer over the rawest part of his upper thigh.
He flinched.
But not from pain.
From something else.
Something closer to embarrassment.
I let my hand fall away, just a little, to give him space.
"I'm sorry," he said.
"For what?"
"I don't know. Just… sorry."
I wanted to scream.
Not at him. Never at him.
But at the people who had taught him that existence itself was something to apologize for.
"You don't owe anyone sorry," I said. "Not for this. Not for needing comfort. Not for being hurt."
He looked down.
Then slowly reached for my hand.
Fingers light. Careful. Like he was afraid I'd pull away.
I let him hold it.
He stared at the connection for a long time.
"I didn't know this was allowed," he said.
"What?"
"This. Being touched after. Softly."
I closed my eyes.
"It should've always been allowed."
He leaned his head against my shoulder.
"I like it."
"I know."
And gods help me—I liked it too.
I liked the way he melted against me. The way he trusted me with his broken pieces and expected nothing but quiet in return. I liked how he didn't flinch when I reached for him anymore.
But most of all, I liked that for once, he wasn't pretending to be okay.
He just was.
Held.
Acknowledged.
And even if it was temporary—even if the world outside that door had other plans—this moment was ours.