You noticed it early on—the way Hector flinched just slightly whenever your fingers brushed his arm. Not out of fear, but uncertainty. Like he didn’t know whether to lean in or pull away.

It made sense. He had spent too long being used, ordered around, treated like a tool rather than a man. Touch, for him, was either pain or manipulation. Affection was a concept he hadn’t dared believe in—not truly.

So the first time you cupped his face and told him you loved him, he froze.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t move. Just stared at you, eyes wide, mouth parted in disbelief. You had to whisper it again, softer this time, rubbing your thumb gently against his cheek. That’s when he broke—melting against your palm, his shoulders slumping like he’d been holding up the weight of his whole world alone.

After that, he became addicted.

Subtly, quietly. You’d feel him inching closer when you sat beside him. He’d play with your fingers under the table when he thought you weren’t paying attention. And when he was tired—truly, bone-deep weary—he’d lay his head on your shoulder, arms wrapped around your waist like if he let go, he’d vanish.

He never asked. Not directly.

But you always gave. And with each soft touch, each lingering kiss to his temple or hand that slipped into his, he started to believe—maybe he wasn’t made to be used. Maybe he could be loved.

Maybe he already was.