Page 105 of These Tears

I can’t fucking turn away. Such a thorough view of his backside was the last thing I needed.

Surely that was deliberate.

When did I get like this? How?

Maybe it’s this place.

Maybe fear and want have simply been trapped in the same room too long.

Angling my body further at the waist, my gaze flicks again to the camera as though it’s calling my name. My fingers twitch.

Air catches between my teeth when he drags the pyjama bottoms up – without bothering with boxers or—

I wrench my face back towards the fire, as if pretending not to look will erase the image that’s already burned itself into my skull.

He’s not safe. He’s unstable. He took me.

The mantra repeats inside my head like a prayer whispered beneath a blanket to my own demons.

I don’t even feel the mattress dipping behind me until it’s too late.

Warmth spills over my back. The duvet shifts a few times.

‘You’re not asleep. Turn around,’ he commands.

Mortified that he might have noticed me gawking like I’ve never seen skin before, I start turning slowly onto my back, then settle on my other hip. I avoid his gaze, keeping to the other end of the bed as far as I can without toppling over.

When I’m nestled against the pillow, our eyes meet.

My tongue presses hard against my teeth.

I hold my breath. Will my pulse into steadiness.

Because the sight before me belongs to a fantasy from when he was still contained; when wanting him cost me nothing.

He lies on the soft, white pillow, one strong arm bent beneath it to keep his head angled towards me. The ink on his skin brings out the black of his lashes and the dark of his curls still damp at the temples.

In that first blink of an eye, the old version of him overlaps with the real one – Elias behind chains, Elias in the steam, Elias as a beautiful danger I could once leave behind when visiting hours ended.

My mind tries to reach for that illusion, desperate to make him into art again instead of consequence. But the reality of him breathes beside me. His warmth bleeds towards me, carrying the terrifying calm as he watches me with a softness I nearly… nearly believe is real.

His gaze doesn’t drop from mine. The gentleness remains there. Even as he says, quietly, ‘Tell me what you looked at when you thought I couldn’t see you.’

The words knock me straight out of my skin. Heat claws up the back of my neck, but my toes turn cold until I’m forced to wiggle them just to make sure they’re still attached.

He knew I was looking. Of course he did – he notices everything.

I’d wager he even sees the lie forming behind my eyes right now.

I almost turn away. And I hate how guilty that makes me feel.

‘Why are you doing this?’ I ask instead.

‘You saw skin,’ he says as though I hadn’t said anything. ‘Muscle. Shape. Did you forget what’s underneath it because the body pleased you?’

The flush drains from my face. A chill that has nothing to do with the season takes over.

‘Was I a man when you looked? Or was I just something you wanted to take a piece of?’