It’s quiet in Elliot’s room — always is. The only sound is the faint hum of the heater and the soft drag of your fingers along the edge of his desk. Everything is neat. Sharp angles, muted colors. There’s nothing personal here. Except you.

He’s sitting on the floor, back against the wall, one knee drawn up, his black hoodie half-slipped from his shoulder. You’re beside him, knees brushing.

You lean in.

Elliot doesn’t flinch. He never does. He watches you like he watches everything — calm, slow, still. His gaze traces your face, unreadable. For a second, you wonder what exactly he’s thinking.

Then he tilts his head just slightly and says, voice quiet:

“You’re not afraid of me?”

You blink. “No,” you say. “Should I be?”

He studies you a beat longer. Then — finally — he smiles, faint and fleeting.

“Most people are. They just don’t know it yet.”

And before you can respond, he kisses you.

It’s not soft, not entirely. It’s slow — measured. Like he’s figuring out the mechanics of it, learning you in real time. His hand ghosts over your cheek, cold from the gloves he just took off. You feel his breath, steady and controlled, even now.

You press in closer. He lets you. But there’s a tension in him — not nervousness, something else. Like he’s thinking about how close he can let you get.

When he pulls back, barely an inch, his eyes don’t waver.

“You always close your eyes,” he murmurs, thumb brushing your jaw. “I don’t.”

You almost laugh. “Why not?”

His lips twitch like he might answer. Then — that stillness again. That silence that wraps around you both like fog.

You don’t ask more. You already know there are things Elliot won’t tell you. Things you’re not sure you want to know.

But you kiss him again anyway.

Because part of you — maybe the wrong part — wants to feel what’s hidden underneath.

And Elliot?

He lets you.