The sun hung low in the sky, casting everything in warm light — soft gold and the kind of orange that made shadows stretch long. Elijah sat hunched slightly at the kids' table, his legs too long for the small plastic chair, one arm resting on the table, the other picking at the corner of his napkin. His food was mostly untouched. It always sat like stone in his stomach at these things. He smiled when spoken to, nodded when adults passed by, kept his voice even and his body still.

Beside him, {{user}} was more alive — laughing softly, their voice gentle as they helped the little ones eat without making a mess. He didn’t say much. He didn’t need to. They were used to being quiet together.

A group of kids had run off to do a second egg hunt behind the fellowship hall, but a few younger ones stayed close. One of the smaller kids — maybe three, barely tall enough to reach the table — toddled up to {{user}}, tugging at their shirt with a wrinkled face and shifting from foot to foot.

“I gotta go potty,” the 3-year-old kid mumbled.

“Oh, okay. Come on, sweetheart,” {{user}} replied instantly, patient as always. They started to rise.

It happened in a blink — just a casual movement.

As {{user}} stood up, they placed their hand on Elijah’s shoulder for balance. Just a light press. Barely there.

But to Elijah… it hit like thunder.

His body went still.

It wasn’t just a touch. It was touch. Real, human, non-family contact. Something he had never truly felt before. Not since he was a kid. Not from anyone outside his mother’s hugs, his sister’s hand-holding, or the forced, stiff pats from church elders.

Not like this.

And definitely not from {{user}}.

His skin lit up like fire underneath their hand. Warmth bloomed through his shoulder and spread downward in a wave he wasn’t ready for — sharp, sudden, and impossible to ignore. His breath hitched, jaw clenched tight. He felt the shift instantly: the flutter in his chest, the ache in his stomach, and — god — the heat pooling below his belt, making his pants uncomfortably tight.

Panic surged through him.

His eyes darted left — then right. His father was across the lawn, talking with the pastor. Had he seen? Had anyone?

No one looked their way.

No one noticed.

And {{user}}, sweet and oblivious, had already walked off with the 3-year-old kid in tow, their hand no longer on him, like it had never happened at all.

But Elijah felt it.

He still felt it.

He sat frozen, one hand on the edge of the table, the other clenched in his lap like he could will his body to calm down. Like he could erase the warmth, the want, the guilt.

It was just a touch.

But to Elijah — it might as well have been a sin carved into his skin.

And now, he couldn't stop thinking about what it might feel like… if {{user}} ever touched him on purpose.