Page 106 of These Tears

I open my mouth. But I keep the guilty, ugly truth behind the walls of my teeth. Because there’s that missing piece of the puzzle aching with absence again.

‘I’m curious,’ he clarifies.

What I know about intimacy is… corrupted, his words by the fire.

They slip between us like an edge laid flat against the sheets.

I search his face for the usual – cruelty, hunger, that gleam that usually comes before he turns things around.

But there is no dark satisfaction at having cornered me. His eyes are on mine, unblinking; then they dip to my mouth when I swallow. No smirk. Just micromovements as though he’s filing away every reaction I fail to hide.

And now I’m certain: this is a study.

‘Do you want me to look at the body, Elias, or the man trapped inside it?’ I ask warily. Because, more often than not, a question from him is intent hidden in layers to distract me.

He breathes slowly, utterly still. But one corner of his mouth pulls taut before it smooths out again.

‘I want your demon to feed mine.’

I blink.

‘The one that lets you look without touching,’ he whispers.

I close my mouth slowly as I turn it over in my head. My mind takes all the wrong ideas and mashes them into a single bundle of decadence. Just as my cheeks begin to heat—

‘The camera,’ he says.

I stare at him for too long and try to dissect the moment with the remnants of my composure because nothing about Elias Crane is what it first appears to be.

He doesn’t want to be touched.

He doesn’t know what to do with desire.

But he doesn’t mind being seen.

No—

I hold my breath.

He wants to control how he is seen.

Realisation seeps in slowly, then floods through me: this is what gets him close to intimacy. Or, at least, what he thinks intimacy is.

Shifting back, he leaves me room to climb out of bed.

As I walk towards my camera, my own truth begins to unsettle me more than his intent. When I aim the lens, I can turn fear into angles, longing into light. My own demons take over.

But now Elias is watching me.

One wrong frame, and I might show him exactly what he expects to see.

My fingers feel too clumsy before they even reach the settings. When I’m ready, I check the shutter speed, then the rest, and lift it.

He’s seated at the edge, looking at the lens as if it were the barrel of a gun.

‘Tell me what you need,’ he whispers.

What I need?