Stand up straight, boy. You look weak.
The memory shatters over me, sharp and merciless. The sting of a slap across my cheek. The snap of a belt cutting through the air. The weight of his disgust, heavier than the blows.
I’m back in that house, small, trapped, my body not my own. No escape but endurance.
My hands tighten on the couch cushion until my knuckles go white. I focus on the present—the rough fabric beneath my palms, the low hum of the refrigerator, the muted city noise beyond the window. But it takes too long to come back. Too longto remind myself that I’m here, in my own apartment, not there. Not his.
My stomach knots with a bitter, familiar truth: I don’t know the difference anymore. I don’t know where the line is between being wanted and being controlled. Between intimacy and danger. Even Phoenix’s touch—gentle, teasing, deliberate—feels like both at once. And that terrifies me.
I lean back against the couch, staring at the ceiling, chest heaving. The room feels small, too close. Phoenix’s face flashes through my mind again—his smirk, his eyes, the heat radiating off him when he leaned too close. My body remembers before my mind can argue.
I hate that I want it.
I hate that I’m afraid of it.
The two truths grind against each other until I feel raw. On one hand, Phoenix’s touch sparks something alive in me, something I’ve buried so deep I almost forgot it was there.
On the other, the shadow of my father looms every time I let myself imagine giving in. Every time I let myself picture Phoenix’s hand sliding higher on my thigh, his lips brushing my ear.
I want to believe I’m not broken. That I can want someone, want a man, and not drown in the past. But the moment I start to, I hear that voice again.Weak.Wrong.Disgusting.
My fists clench. My throat burns. I feel fourteen again, standing in that room, humiliated, stripped down by words and violence until I thought maybe he was right.
I swallow hard, forcing myself upright. My apartment feels suffocating, but it’s mine. No one can walk in here. No one can touch me unless I let them. I repeat it like a mantra, trying to make it stick.
I close my eyes, forcing my breath slow, but Phoenix is there behind my lids—his mouth curling, his eyes locked on mine, hishand daring me to respond. I should push him away, should lock this down before it gets worse. Before I get reckless.
And yet, under the shame, under the fear, I feel it. That small, dangerous ember that wants more.
I get up, slightly stumbling to the fridge to grab a beer, hoping it’ll drown out the memory of Phoenix’s touch. I down it, wishing I had something harder than this.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I pick it up expecting a text from Silas or Jeremy but it’s a message from an unknown number.
I open it and almost drop my phone on the tile. It’s a picture of a guy’s torso, shredded hard abs covered in cum. A cybersygilism tattoo peeps from the bottom of the picture on his hip. The caption reads,See what you do to me?
My body freezes. My fingers clench the beer bottle trying to let the cold sink into my feverishly hot skin.
I know that fucking tattoo. I’ve seen a flash of it every day for the past month. Phoenix.
How am I supposed to respond to something like this?Seems like you need a shower?
But my eyes catch every etch of muscle under his skin. The way his hip bones slope out of the frame makes my mouth water.
I should just ignore it. Just say wrong number and call it a night.
My phone buzzes in my hand. Another message comes in.
Your read reciepts are on, Leander.
...
Taking a moment for yourself? Do you want more?
Heat flushes my cheeks as I stalk over to the couch and angrily reply.
Fuck off.
He replies almost immediately.
