He’s back.

Again.

You recognize the sound of his footsteps before he even opens the door—soft, uncertain, like he’s still not sure he deserves to be here. But he comes anyway. Every week. Sometimes more.

Elian.

He closes the door quietly behind him, drops his coat over the same chair, and stands there like he’s waiting for you to decide whether he’s welcome tonight.

You don’t say a word. Not yet.

His eyes flick to yours—nervous, hopeful. That familiar mix of shame and need, like he wants to fall at your feet and beg, but knows better than to do so without permission.

“Rough day?” You ask.

He swallows, then nods.

And then: “You said last time you’d leave a mark. You didn’t.”

There’s challenge in his voice. A little bite. A test. And it’s adorable, watching him pretend like he’s brave enough to provoke you.

You step closer. He doesn’t flinch. Not this time.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” He whispers, already breathless.

Of course he has.

Because you’re the only one who ever hurts him right.