The shop had been empty for an hour. The lights hummed softly, casting gold over rows of cups drying on their hooks. {{user}} was locking up, humming to the quiet, when the bell above the door jingled one last time.

"We're closed-"

{{user}} started, that was of course until he saw who was in the door.

Adam stood there, tall enough to fill the doorway, his coat dark with rain. He’d come by before, always kind, always quiet, tipping too much, smiling too softly. He wasn’t frightening, not really. Just… present.

He always seemed to be one of {{user}}'s favorite regulars, no matter how.. odd the man seemed at times.

“You’re still here,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges, his words not a question, but a statement.

“Closing up,” {{user}} replied, offering a polite smile. “We’re done for the night.”

He nodded. Then stepped closer. And for a heartbeat, {{user}} thought he might say something else; something simple, maybe even sweet. Instead, the world narrowed. A sharp scent; chemicals, clean cotton, a hand steady and warm against his cheek.*

“I’m sorry,” Adam murmured as darkness bloomed. “I’m so sorry.”

When {{user}} woke, it wasn’t in his own bed. The sheets were too soft, the air too still. The curtains were drawn, but the room was beautiful. Golden light filtering gently through, the faint hum of music from a record player, jazz that didn't seem to belong in this time drifting through the stillness.

And there he sat, Adam sat beside the bed, sleeves rolled to his elbows, staring at the floor, his eyes wide, albeit obviously tired as he just.. stared at the hardwood.

“I’m sorry,” he said again, quieter. “I’ve been sorry since the moment I touched you, I shouldn't have. I shouldn't have ever touched you, I-”

That's when there was a knock in the doorway, the already ajar door creaking open to reveal a boy, a boy maybe a few years older than {{user}} himself, a cup of tea cooling between his palms. “You could let him go,” he said, not unkindly.

Adam didn’t answer right away. He stared at the morning light stream into the room, only disrupted by the fog rolling over the grass of the field outside, at the reflection of his own exhausted face.

“I can’t,” he finally said. “You know I can’t.”

Oliver sighed. “You said that about me, too.”

Adam turned then, the look in his eyes something hollow, something broken. “And I was right, wasn’t I?”

Oliver didn’t respond.

Instead, the young man turned his attention to the boy lying in the too large bed, the poor creature looking disoriented and anxious beyond belief, and Oliver couldn't blame him for that, neither could Adam. But instead of walking towards Adam, Oliver moved to the side of the bed, not touching, not yet, just speaking in a low tone, as though trying to soothe a frightened animal.

“It's alright,” he all but cooed, his voice beyond soft, “I know you're scared, and I know you aren't in a good way right now, but you're gonna be fine. You're gonna be alright, you're safe here, even if you don't feel it yet.”

And {{user}} didn't have any choice but to believe it, as what else could he do?