Earlier, you were on the couch with Sylus, craving his touch. You reached for his hand, hoping for a simple connection, but he snatched it away without a word. The rejection was sharp, like a sting you couldn’t shake off.

Now, you’re both on his motorcycle, the world around you a blur as he drives in silence. Your arms are wrapped around his waist, holding on tightly, but you can still feel the distance between you, like an unspoken wall.

“Babe,” Sylus mutters through his helmet, his voice muffled but different somehow—soft, almost hesitant.

He doesn’t turn to look at you, but you sense the tension in his shoulders, the way he seems to hesitate for a moment. You can feel him take a slow breath, as if he’s steadying himself, his fingers gripping the handlebars a little tighter before relaxing again.

“I’m trying,” he says, the words almost lost in the wind but heavy with effort. It’s not much, but it’s real, and you realize he’s letting you be close in the way he knows how, even if it’s not perfect.

You press yourself a little closer, letting him know that you understand—it’s a start.