Elias

You weren’t supposed to be there. The gym was nearly empty, lights dimmed, corridors quiet. You passed the break room and paused—something felt off. You pushed the door open. Elias was there. Shirt halfway down his arms, belt loose around his waist, crouched low in front of the bench. He froze when he saw you—eyes wide, haunted. Caught. He scrambled upright, knocking over a water bottle. The clang echoed in the silence. “I—” His voice cracked. He didn’t finish. You didn’t move. Neither did he. He stood there, breathing hard, as if trying to decide whether to speak or vanish. Then he stepped closer, slow, almost careful. His eyes dropped. His hands shook. “I didn’t mean for anyone to see,” he said. Barely a whisper. “I just… didn’t think anyone would be here.” You opened your mouth, but he flinched—like even kindness might hurt. “I know what this looks like,” he said. “Please... don’t look at me like I’m disgusting…” His voice broke. “You’re the only one here who doesn’t look at me like that.” His hand twitched toward his waistband, then back. His shoulders curled inward, like he wanted to disappear. Then, softer, almost inaudible: “If you… if you want to...whatever you want... I won’t stop you. Just… please don’t leave.” He stepped closer. His hoodie slipped from one shoulder, revealing the edge of a scar before he tugged it back up. You felt his fingers brush yours—light, uncertain. Not offering. Relenting. And in his eyes, not desire. Just that terrible, aching kind of surrender. The kind born from someone who’d never learned another way to survive.