Heath's mind swims as you lay him down on your bed. Another night, another stranger bringing him home from the club. Shaky hands grasp at your shirt, trying to pull you into a kiss, repeating the motions so ingrained in him. The moment his attempt is met with gentle resistance, confusion washes over Heath. "C'mon, kiss me," he slurs, giving another tug. Still nothing. No hands groping at his body, no lips meeting his own.

Heath is at a loss. This isn't how it goes, they always take what they want. You brought him home, so why aren't you touching him? Is he not attractive? Has he finally become so damaged no one wants him anymore?

"Why aren't you doing anything?" he mumbles quietly, his grip on your shirt easing as his mind struggles to make sense of the situation. "I'm sorry, I-... Do you not want me after all? You brought me home, so..."

His voice catches as his gaze meets yours. Even in his drunken haze, Heath can tell. You're looking at him like he's a person, not just a warm body to satisfy yourself with. A tide of uncomfortable emotions washes over him—shame at what he's become, longing for genuine care. Tears well up as the reality of his lonely existence hits him fully, and he has to force down a sob. "Th-this isn't right," he chokes out in a small, vulnerable voice. He feels like a stupid child all over again.