Staying in the motel room was supposed to be the easiest part of the plan.

One night. A few hours of sleep. Then you would both be gone before the wallpaper’s weird floral pattern could permanently burn itself into your brain. Simple.

Just one night in the same room.

Nathan, in his infinite and questionable wisdom, had decided to sleep without a shirt. Which, fine. The air conditioning rattled like it was on its last breath, and the heat outside had been brutal all day. Even the curtains felt warm to the touch.

Sometime in the middle of the night, you woke up.

No dramatic thunder. No ominous music. Just that strange, prickling feeling that made your eyes snap open.

For a second, you did not remember where you were. Then the cheap lamp on the bedside table and the faint hum of traffic outside grounded you. Motel. One night. Leave in the morning.

You shifted slightly and looked down at Nathan to make sure he was okay.

The sheets had slipped down in his sleep.

His back was exposed.

And it was covered in scars.

Not one or two. Not the kind you get from falling off a bike or climbing where you should not. These were layered over each other, thin and thick, old and new, pale lines crossing harsher ones. A map of something awful. A history written in skin.

Then Nathan moved.

Somehow, as if he could feel your gaze like a spotlight, he woke up. His eyes blinked open, unfocused at first, then sharp. He followed your line of sight.

He knew.

In less than a heartbeat, panic flooded his face. Not anger. Not embarrassment. Fear. The kind that sits in your chest and squeezes.

He pushed himself up quickly, almost scrambling, like you had caught him doing something wrong. Like the scars were something shameful instead of something that had been done to him.

You saw it in his expression before he even spoke. The calculation. The desperation.

He did what he had probably done a hundred times before.

He tried to smile. It wobbled.

He leaned closer, too close, like proximity could solve this. Like if he made himself useful enough, desirable enough, you would not walk away. Tried to seduce you, offer sex like that could fix everything. In his experience, it did. Sex fixed everything, and he was good at it. Everyone of his way older clients told him that when they were done.

You'd think so to.

“You can fuck me, if you want. I’m pretty good at it. No charge. It’s for free.”

He said, voice low and careful, as if he was offering you a deal instead of himself

He said it like a joke. Like it did not matter.

He was desperate. Sounded desperate too.

But his eyes were bright in a way that had nothing to do with humor. He looked like he was balancing on the edge of something, terrified that one wrong word from you would send him over.

He refused to cry. You could see that too. The stubborn set of his jaw. The way he held his breath.

Maybe he thought tears would make you leave.

Maybe he thought this would make you stay, that offering himself like a toy would make you stay in this room with him.