Chapter 10: Sweat – Elias
That’s when I realized she’s not a little girl anymore. -Elias
She’d been staring at him for almost twenty minutes.
Elias knew.
Of course he knew.
She wasn’t subtle.
She didn’t know how.
Not in the way her eyes followed the weight bar.
Not in the way she pretended to scroll through her phone. with the screen off.
He didn’t say anything.
Didn’t look up.
Just kept his pace steady. Controlled.
Only he knew that his breathing was already off.
Chest press.
Slow release.
Breathe in. Push.
He finished the set and sat up.
Grabbed a towel. Wiped the back of his neck.
Only then did he glance in her direction.
“What are you doing over there?” he asked, trying to sound casual.
She blinked like she’d been caught stealing something.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve been sitting there for twenty minutes.”
“Oh.” A pause. “I guess I lost track of time.”
He chuckled. “That’s a first.”
He reached for his water bottle.
And then, she said it.
“Can you teach me?”
He didn’t react right away.
Just… held still.
Then, without turning to her:
“Teach you what?”
She pointed. “That. Working out.”
He raised an eyebrow. Slowly.
“You want to lift weights?”
“I want to exercise,” she clarified. “You always say it’s good for me.”
“I do.” He paused. “But you always change the subject.”
“I’m not changing it now.”
She was serious.
He could see it in the way she held her arms close, like she was bracing for rejection.
Like she already thought she didn’t belong in that space.
He set the bottle down.
Still watching her.
“Why the sudden interest?”
She opened her mouth.
Closed it.
Didn’t answer.
Elias didn’t push.
“All right,” he said. “Let’s start with the basics.”
He laid out the mat.
Guided her into a squat.
Hands forward. Back straight. Feet shoulder-width apart.
She moved like a baby learning to walk.
Everything unsure. Everything shaking.
Her balance was awful.
Legs trembling before she was even halfway down.
He bit back a smile.
“It’s a start,” he said.
They moved on.
Lunges. Side stretches. A few seconds of plank.
She barely lasted fifteen.
But she tried.
God, she tried.
Her arms shook.
Her breath came in short, sharp pulls.
Sweat pooled at her hairline.
And still, she looked up at him like she needed confirmation she wasn’t failing.
“Is this right?” she asked.
Her voice was breathless. Eyes searching.
Not just for form.
But for something more.
Approval.
Recognition.
Something like, Did I do good?
And that…
That almost broke him.
He nodded, voice steady.
“Keep going. You’re doing fine.”
Fifteen minutes in, she collapsed onto the mat.
Red-faced. Gasping.
“I think I’m dying,” she muttered.
He crouched beside her.
Handed her a water bottle.
“You’re sweating. That’s different.”
She took it, still panting.
He watched her gulp the water like it was sacred.
Watched the way her fingers trembled around the bottle.
She looked up at him then.
Her cheeks flushed. Her shirt sticking to her back.
He looked away.
Fast.
“Enough for today,” he said, standing. “You did good.”
She gave him a small nod.
Didn’t smile.
But her eyes were warmer. Brighter.
There was something more than the trust they’d built over the years.
He refused to figure it out.
She walked out of the room five minutes later.
No big goodbyes. No lingering looks.
But she left behind a wet towel, and the faint imprint of her hands on the edge of the mat.
Small. Fragile. Still trembling.
Elias stood there, staring.
He could still smell her.
His chest felt too tight.
He picked up the towel.
Folded it.
Then reached down and touched the faint mark her palm had left.
It was warm.
He exhaled slowly.
He hadn’t touched her once.
Not without consent.
Not without all the right reasons.
But now, with her gone,
He finally let himself feel the space she’d left behind.
She wasn’t just watching anymore.
She was reaching.
Did she know that?
Maybe she was just trying to build connection with people again.
And he was the closest, and only option.
Was that it?
Chapter 11: The First Year
That night, he saved my heart. -Liana
Liana
After the short workout, I lay on my bed, heart still pounding.
Not from the squats.
From something else.
I stared at the ceiling.
The same one I’d stared at a thousand times.
Five years ago, I couldn’t even step into this room without scanning every corner for traps.
I was broken at every level.
I didn’t have a home.
Didn’t have a family to return to.
I didn’t try to heal.
Didn’t even bother talking to him.
The man who practically gave up his private life to help me.
Elias never pushed.
Never asked me to say more than I wanted.
He just left the same breakfast on the table.
Every morning.
Toast. A boiled egg. A cup of milk I never touched.
He never asked why.
He never told me to eat faster.
He never opened my door without knocking.
He wasn’t warm.
He was consistent.
And somehow… that was warmer than anything I’d ever known.
I remember his face when I finally told him I was lactose intolerant.
I think that was the first full sentence I ever said to him, other than “yes” or “no.”
His face was funny. Blank. Confused. A little horrified.
Like the milk had personally betrayed him.
You don’t get that kind of face from Elias often.
But I couldn’t let him keep wasting milk after a month.
The next morning, there was soy milk on the table.
He said he heard that’s Chinese milk.
It was. I didn’t know how he got it.
He’s done so much for me.
More than he should have.
Because he’s a good person.
Too good.
And I’m his responsibility…
Right?
I got sick once during that first year.
Really sick.
It hit out of nowhere. A fever so high I couldn’t sit up.
I thought I’d just sleep it off.
But the shaking didn’t stop.
The room kept spinning.
I remember trying to crawl to the bathroom, but my legs gave out halfway.
The floor was cold.
I don’t remember how long I lay there.
When I opened my eyes again, I was in bed.
Sweaty. Wrapped in blankets.
My face hurt. My head throbbed.
Elias was sitting next to the bed.
Not asleep.
Not scrolling his phone.
Just… sitting.
Watching. Waiting.
Like he’d been doing it for hours.
There was a towel in his lap.
A glass of water beside him.
He noticed me blinking and leaned in.
Didn’t touch me.
Didn’t smile.
“You’re okay,” he said.
Not soft. Not loud. Just steady.
Like he was reminding me.
Like I’d forgotten.
He stayed there all night.
Every time I opened my eyes, he was still there.
Sometimes reading.
Sometimes just staring into space.
Sometimes on the phone with the doctor.
But always there.
He changed the towel when I started to sweat through it.
Put a cold one on my forehead.
Helped me sit up to drink water when my throat burned.
He even fed me, quietly, like it was no big deal.
And when I threw it all up ten minutes later, he didn’t flinch.
He just sighed.
Cleaned everything.
Helped me change into a clean shirt.
Didn’t say a word about the mess.
Didn’t make me feel ashamed.
I remember thinking, If he left the room, even just for a minute, I might stop breathing.
But he never left.
Not once.
That night, something in me cracked.
Something small.
Something silent.
It didn’t make me better.
Didn’t fix the damage.
But I think it was the first time I wanted to get better.
For real.
Not because I owed it to anyone.
Not because healing was some kind of goal.
Just because…
Someone was willing to sit next to me through the worst of it.
And that made me want to try.
When I woke up the next morning, he was still there.
Same chair. Same towel. Same eyes.
But when he saw me sit up on my own, he finally exhaled.
And smiled.
Just barely.
But it was real.
I didn’t smile back.
Didn’t know how to, yet.
But I remember that moment.
I remember thinking—
This man doesn’t belong in my story.
He’s too kind.
Too patient.
Too careful.
But he’s here.
And I think that’s the first time I ever felt safe.
Chapter 12: Salt and Sand
Her dress flowed in the sea breeze, and she looked just like an angel. My angel. -Elias
The sun was low by the time they made it to the coast.
Not golden-hour low.
Just… soft.
Warm enough to touch your skin without burning it.
Bright enough to make the ocean glitter.
It was a weekday. The crowd was light.
Elias parked the truck, got out, and waited.
Liana didn’t move at first.
Just stared at the waves.
He remembered this scene before.
A different version.
Three years ago, he brought her here.
Same beach. Same stretch of sand.
She didn’t get out of the truck that time.
Didn’t unbuckle her seatbelt.
Just sat there, curled into herself like leaving the passenger seat might unravel her.
He didn’t push.
Didn’t ask.
He just stepped out, opened her door, and stood there.
He remembered her face.
How pale she was.
How tightly her hands clutched the seatbelt across her chest.
And how, after a long ten minutes, she whispered,
“I don’t like water.”
But now he knew it’s not true.
She was just too scared back then.
Today was different.
Today, she got out before he asked.
No swimsuit. No towel.
Just sandals, a long dress, a hat.
Everything safe. Covered.
She wasn’t going swimming.
He hadn’t expected her to.
But she walked.
Beside him.
And that was everything.
The sand shifted under their steps.
They didn’t talk much.
Didn’t need to.
Liana kicked at the edge of the surf, not quite letting the water touch her shoes.
She scanned the sand like she was looking for treasure.
Elias walked half a step behind her.
Always just close enough, but not too close.
She bent down to pick up a piece of sea glass.
Held it up to the sun.
“It’s green,” she said.
Her voice still surprised him, sometimes.
When she chose to speak.
When she let him hear what was in her head.
He nodded. “That means it used to be beer.”
She looked at him, confused.
“Beer bottles,” he clarified. “Most of the green ones come from that.”
She turned the glass in her hand.
He gently took it from her. “Don’t cut yourself.”
She found a shell a few minutes later.
Not a perfect one.
But big enough to curl a fingertip into.
“I used to collect these,” she said.
He glanced over.
“I had a jar. When I was little.”
“What happened to it?”
She shrugged. “Gone.”
She didn’t elaborate.
He didn’t ask.
They walked a little more.
At some point, she reached out.
Not suddenly.
Not deliberately.
Her hand just… brushed his arm.
Then didn’t leave.
Her fingers closed lightly around the crook of his elbow.
He didn’t stop walking.
Didn’t look at her.
But he noticed.
He noticed everything.
Her steps got slower.
But not hesitant.
Just calmer.
Like holding onto him helped her move forward.
They found a driftwood log a few meters off the main trail and sat down.
Waves crashed, far enough not to threaten, but close enough to drown out the world.
Elias rested his forearms on his knees.
Liana sat beside him, quiet, knees tucked to her chest.
Her hair was caught in the wind, strands sticking to her cheek.
He reached into his jacket pocket and offered her a hair tie.
She blinked at it, surprised.
Then took it wordlessly and tied her hair back.
That silence between them, it wasn’t heavy anymore.
It felt like routine.
Like trust.
Like home.
She leaned against him, slowly.
Shoulder to bicep.
Nothing dramatic.
But she stayed there, just for a few seconds.
His heart beat once. Hard.
Then settled.
“You used to be bigger,” she said.
He glanced at her.
“What?”
She nodded at his arm. “You were more… huge before.”
He scoffed. “Gee, thanks.”
“No, I mean…still big. But less scary now.”
Elias raised an eyebrow. “Are you saying I’ve lost my edge?”
She gave him a sideways look.
“I’m saying maybe I’m not as scared of you anymore.”
That landed heavier than it should have.
He didn’t answer.
Because that…
That meant more than she probably realized.
They sat in silence again.
Until she said “Do you think people can outgrow fear?”
He looked at her.
“Depends,” he said. “Fear of what?”
She thought for a moment.
Then shook her head. “I don’t know.”
But he could tell she did.
She was thinking of something very specific.
Maybe many things.
He didn’t press.
Didn’t fill the silence.
He just let her lean.
Let her stay.
Chapter 13: Couch, 10:00 PM
I wanted to hold her in my arms, tight, but I couldn’t. -Elias
Elias
It was late.
For Liana.
They’d had dinner together.
Something simple, frozen lasagna, salad from a bag, garlic toast he nearly burned.
She didn’t complain.
After they ate, she didn’t go to her room like she usually did.
She lingered.
“Do you want to… watch something?” she asked, hesitant.
Tried to pretend it was nothing.
Like it was normal.
Elias blinked. “Now?”
She shrugged. “Unless you’re tired.”
He wasn’t.
He never was.
The living room light was off.
Only the soft glow of the TV filled the space.
Something old was playing—Titanic.
He sat on the left end of the couch.
She sat next to him, with her knees pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around them, chin resting on top.
The couch wasn’t big.
He lived alone.
They shared a blanket. A large one. Old but soft.
Thirty minutes in, she started to doze off.
He noticed.
But he didn’t ask her to go to bed.
It was good she wanted to try things. Anything.
Then she fell asleep.
Her head dropped against his arm.
Elias held still.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe, for a second.
He didn’t want to wake her.
Sleeping well was rare for her.
Precious.
She was warm.
Because she was close to him.
He stared straight ahead.
Didn’t look down.
She was just tired.
Comfortable.
Safe.
That’s what he’d always wanted, right?
For her to feel safe?
But something twisted in his chest.
Because this…
This wasn’t about her.
This was about him.
And the way his pulse stuttered when her hair brushed his arm.
And the way he pretended he didn’t want to lean slightly closer.
He didn’t really.
He didn’t move.
But he wanted to.
And that scared him more than anything.
Her breath brushed against his skin.
Slow. Steady. Trusting.
He could feel the weight of her trust pressing into his arm.
He looked at her then.
Really looked.
She looked peaceful.
Lashes dark against her cheek, breath gentle.
Her shirt hung off one shoulder, slipping just enough to reveal the pale stretch of her collarbone and neck.
He looked away. Fast.
His shirt was obviously too big for her.
It was the same shirt he gave her five years ago.
She never asked for a new one.
Just wore what he gave her.
She always wore it like pajamas.
A part of him liked that.
Too much.
She mumbled something in her sleep.
He didn’t catch it.
Didn’t matter.
Her fingers brushed against his arm, just a light, unconscious movement.
His muscles tightened.
She was asleep.
Just asleep.
He shifted slightly, enough to support her head better.
Then leaned back.
Let his own head fall against the couch.
The movie kept playing.
He didn’t really see it.
His eyes were on the screen.
But his mind was miles away.
He was thirty.
Exactly thirty, three weeks ago.
He hadn’t mentioned it.
Didn’t celebrate.
She hadn’t asked.
She probably didn’t even know.
And that was fine.
But still.
He’d spent the last five years building his life around hers.
Quietly. Completely.
By choice.
He never had a family.
His teammates were his family.
The ones you’d trust with your life, even if you never called each other outside of work.
They all knew about his situation.
Which was why no one invited him out anymore.
He hadn’t had a girlfriend in years.
Just short, transactional flings between missions.
Nothing lasting.
Nothing real.
And he was fine with that.
He didn’t resent it.
He never would.
But lately…
It was getting harder to tell where she ended and he began.
She murmured again.
Still asleep.
Her cheek brushed against his shoulder as she adjusted.
His arm twitched. Reflex.
He stopped himself from curling it around her.
Barely.
She was growing.
Healing.
Becoming someone far from the ghost he found in that warehouse.
And he hadn’t moved at all.
Still the same man.
Still the same house.
Still cooking the same breakfast.
Still watching the same hallway like it might bite her.
What was he doing?
What was he becoming?
He looked down at her.
Her lips were slightly parted in sleep.
One hand rested loosely on her thigh.
She looked…
Safe.
Because of him.
But was that enough?
Was that enough for her?
Was that enough for him?
The credits rolled.
The screen dimmed.
He didn’t move.
She was still sleeping.
And maybe she’d stay asleep for a while.
He could pretend a little longer.
Pretend that this was okay.
That this was enough.
That he didn’t want to ask for things he shouldn’t.
But in the dark, with her leaning against him and his hand hovering in the space between restraint and temptation, he thought:
“Where do I go from here?”
The silence didn’t answer.
Only her breath.
Soft. Rhythmic. Trusting.
And the weight of a question
he was too afraid to ask out loud: Will I always live for her?
I wish her the best life possible.
Even if that means watching her in another man’s arms… right?
Chapter 14: She’s Not Mine
Of course I want her to be mine, but she shouldn’t be. -Elias
The precinct was brighter than usual.
Someone had strung up cheap gold balloons.
A folding table sagged under the weight of finger food, half-melted sheet cake, and lukewarm punch.
Retirement parties were always like this, awkward, half-sincere, kind of sweet.
Elias stood by the wall, sipping bad coffee from a paper cup, watching Liana.
She was nodding politely as Luca tried to make her laugh with a terrible impression of their old captain.
It almost worked. Her lips twitched.
She was nervous.
But not panicking.
That was a win.
They hadn’t brought her to many places.
But she knew this one.
The station had been her safe zone early on, when strangers were too loud, and the world too sharp.
She’d been saved by cops, so they were good in her mind, Elias guessed.
And the people here respected her space.
They knew parts of her story.
The parts Elias allowed them to know.
So when the chief’s assistant invited him to tonight’s party and he hesitated.
She was the one who said “I want to come.”
He was surprised.
But he didn’t question it.
Now she stood with a plate of cake, listening to people talk like she belonged.
She didn’t speak much.
She never did.
But she was trying.
And trying mattered.
“Yo, Wolfe.”
Elias turned.
Some young guy, mid-twenties, probably from C team, was heading over with a soda and too much swagger.
Elias gave him a nod.
The kid glanced at Liana.
Then back.
“She your girlfriend?” he asked, grinning. “She’s gorgeous.”
Elias froze for half a second.
It wasn’t the question that threw him.
It was how fast the answer came:
“No.”
Too fast.
Too sharp.
The kid blinked. “Oh. Sorry, I just assumed—”
“We’re not… It’s not like that,” Elias said, voice clipped like a pulled pin.
Then the real problem set in:
What was it like?
He hated how the question lingered.
He hated that he didn’t have an answer.
She wasn’t his girlfriend.
Wasn’t family.
Wasn’t a friend, not the kind you grabbed beers with or sent memes to.
She was—
Liana looked over just then.
She’d heard it.
Of course she had.
They were only a few feet apart.
She didn’t say anything.
But her face… shifted.
Sad?
Maybe.
Her plate hung in her hands like it suddenly weighed more than she could hold.
Elias’s chest tightened.
The kid gave an awkward nod. “Well… lucky guy either way.”
And disappeared into the crowd.
Liana walked back toward him.
She didn’t look at him.
Didn’t ask what the guy said.
She didn’t have to.
“You okay?” Elias asked, throat dry.
She nodded.
Too quickly.
Her eyes stayed fixed on the plastic fork in her hand, pressing it into her thumb like it kept her tethered.
She had smiled, just a little, when the guy said “girlfriend.”
He saw it.
That flicker of light in her eyes.
This can’t be happening, he thought.
And then he saw the second it vanished.
Liana didn’t fully understand what she was feeling.
She didn’t even know what “girlfriend” really meant for her yet.
All she knew was that it felt… nice.
Nice to be seen as someone important to him.
Nice to be seen at all.
And then…
That quick, absolute “no.”
It shouldn’t have mattered.
He was right.
They weren’t anything.
She knew that.
So why did her chest feel so heavy?
They stayed another half hour.
Congratulated the captain.
Made small talk.
Grabbed a final can of soda.
Then Elias turned to her.
“Ready to go?”
She nodded.
Didn’t say much on the drive home.
He didn’t push.
Like always.
Later that night, Elias sat alone in the kitchen, staring at a cooling cup of coffee.
He thought about the look on her face.
Not hurt.
Not angry.
Just… disappointed.
And she didn’t even know why.
But he did.
He thought about the way he’d answered.
Quick. Firm. Final.
Like denial was easier than explanation.
Because how the hell was he supposed to explain her?
To someone else?
To himself?
She wasn’t a kid anymore.
Wasn’t a case file.
Wasn’t a mission.
So what was she?
And what was he?
The man who raised her?
The man who fed her?
The man who never touched her but always hovered too close?
He rubbed a hand over his face.
This was getting dangerous.
Not because she did anything wrong.
But because she was starting to live.
And he hadn’t moved in years.
She was curious now.
Emotionally awake.
Starting to want things, normal things.
If she were any other 20-year-old girl in this country, she’d probably have had three boyfriends by now, maybe more.
And that word, boyfriend, made his jaw tense.
Not because it shouldn’t happen.
But because it couldn’t be him.
She shouldn’t be his.
Footsteps.
Down the hallway.
Then her voice behind him. Soft.
“Thanks for bringing me today.”
He turned slightly.
She was in his old t-shirt, like always.
Hair down. Eyes unreadable.
“You were brave,” he said. “You did well.”
She nodded.
Didn’t walk closer.
Didn’t touch anything.
But she looked at him for a long, quiet moment.
And in her gaze, something shimmered. Want, maybe. Or a question.
This can’t be happening.
He opened his mouth.
Then closed it.
He didn’t know what to say.
She shook her head, barely.
“Good night,” she whispered.
Then disappeared back down the hall.
He stared at the empty hallway long after.
She wasn’t his.
And maybe she never could be.
She shouldn’t be.
But it didn’t stop the ache.
Or the guilt.
Or the fear that he was already too far in to ever come back out clean.
