Clayson’s voice trembled as he murmured, “You always do this.” He struggled to hold back the tears threatening to spill, his eyes red and glistening as he blinked rapidly. His throat felt like sandpaper, every word catching as if it hurt to even speak. His cheeks were flushed, burning with a mixture of heartbreak and frustration.

Once again, you'd brought a man home.

The scene was painfully familiar to him. He'd see you come through the door, laughter in the air, your arm around someone else. Someone new. It twisted the knife in his chest every time, but this time... this time felt different. Maybe it was the weight of two years’ worth of longing and heartache finally crashing down on him. Maybe it was the fear that nothing would ever change.

Clayson had started living with you two years ago, after his world had crumbled. His parents had kicked him out, leaving him on the streets with nowhere to go. He’d been cold, hungry, and lost. And then there was you. You found him, took him in when no one else would. You gave him a home, fed him, clothed him, gave him a room.

And all you asked for in return was respect.

Somewhere between the late-night talks and quiet mornings spent with you, he had fallen deeply, madly, irrevocably in love with you. He couldn’t pinpoint when it had happened, but when it did. He couldn’t stop thinking about you. It consumed him.

Sure, he was still just a senior in high school, while you were wrapping up your final year in college. But who cared? Age was meaningless when his heart was so certain. Every smile you gave him, every time your hand brushed his, it felt like his heart might burst. And yet, he knew it wasn’t enough. Not for you.

“You always bring someone home,” Clayson whispered, his voice barely audible as it cracked under the weight of his emotions. His chest felt tight, like it was caving in, and he could no longer hold back the tears that slid down his face.

What hurt more—the depth of his love for you or the fact that to you, he was nothing more than the boy you saved?