Christian didn't sleep that night.
Eli's voice still echoed in his head — quiet, broken, but full of things no boy should have had to carry.
"I didn't want to go back," Eli had whispered. "But he made me… said I owed him."
Christian had written the words down in neat, clinical handwriting on his notes, but they felt like claws dragging across his ribs.
He went home, kissed Steve hello like it was nothing, and then sat in the shower until the water ran cold.
His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
Not because Eli's story was unfamiliar — but because it was too familiar. Too close to the things he never said aloud. To the room with no windows. To the man with the leather belt who told him, "It's only love if it hurts."
Steve found him the next morning in the kitchen, hunched over the sink, scrubbing a coffee cup that was already clean.
"Hey," Steve said softly. "You're bleeding."
Christian looked down. The skin on his knuckles was raw where he'd scraped it against the ceramic. He hadn't noticed.
"I'm fine," he murmured.
"Christian—"
"I said I'm fine."
It came out sharper than he meant. Steve didn't flinch. He just stepped closer, gently prying the mug from Christian's hands.
"I know that face," Steve said. "I've worn it."
Christian looked up slowly. "What if I can't do this?"
Steve blinked.
"This job. Eli. All of it. I thought I could handle hearing these stories. Helping. But I—I keep seeing myself in him. I keep remembering things I buried so deep, I didn't think they could hurt anymore."
Steve was quiet for a long time. Then he leaned in and rested his forehead against Christian's.
"Maybe that's why you can help him. Because you remember. Because you didn't stay buried."
Christian didn't reply. His throat ached too much.
But when Steve reached out and wrapped his arms around him, he didn't pull away.
He let himself be held.
Just for a moment.
Just long enough to breathe.