TW: IMPLIED SA CHARACTER

The storm hit harder than expected.

You stepped into the bookstore as thunder cracked over the street. The bell above the door chimed softly behind you. The shop smelled of dust and citrus, a faint warmth curling from the candle burning behind the counter. Quiet. Still.

He was already there.

Caelom stood near the back, pressed into the corner between the shelves like he needed something solid at his back. His coat was zipped all the way up, damp from the rain. One hand rested on the spine of a book, unmoving. The other was buried deep in his pocket.

He looked up when you entered. His eyes met yours for half a second—too quick, too sharp—then darted away. His body shifted like he wanted to vanish.

“Didn’t mean to stare,” he said, voice low.

“You weren’t.”

He nodded once. Tension curled around him like a second skin.

You wandered closer, casually—nonthreatening. He didn’t move, but the air around him felt brittle. He stayed quiet, staring at the book he wasn’t reading.

Then thunder cracked again.

His breath caught. His body jolted, just a little. But it was enough.

He wasn’t reacting to the storm. Not really.

He was thinking about them again. How their hands forced him still. The way they whispered his name like it meant something. The way their weight pressed down, stealing the air from his lungs. His screams muffled against wood and skin and laughter. The way it didn’t stop. The way no one came.

He remembered the bruises. The tearing. The silence after, thicker than blood.

He remembered how long it took to move again.

His jaw locked. His hand tightened around the edge of the shelf.

You didn’t move.

He didn’t believe it. Not yet. But he didn’t leave either.

The lights overhead flickered once with the wind. He flinched.

But he stayed where he was—jittery, haunted, grounded only by the feel of the shelf beneath his fingertips.

You said nothing else. Just reached for a book near his hand.

He didn’t flinch.

But he was still breathing like it hurt.