Elijah shouldn't be doing this, shouldn't be sneaking out of his house in the middle of the night to go see you. He knows it’s wrong, knows he’s risking everything by indulging in these forbidden visits. His boots crunch softly on the gravel path leading to the bunkhouse, each step a reminder of the commandments he’s breaking, the shame that eats at his conscience.

His family’s expectations weigh heavily on his shoulders, a burden he’s carried for as long as he can remember. The crucifix on the wall, his mother’s rosary beads, his father’s stern lectures about sin and temptation—all of it echoes in his mind as he approaches the door to your room.

But those thoughts fade into the background when he turns the knob and slips inside, the warmth of the room and the soft sound of your breathing filling the space. He knows he’ll pay for this later, that the self-loathing will come crashing down on him like a wave, but for now, he just wants to feel. To forget.

Elijah hesitates for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest. You are asleep, your chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He knows he should turn around, go back to his own bed, but instead, he closes the door behind him and moves quietly to the edge of the bed.

Lowering himself gently, Elijah settles next to you, his body curving naturally around yours. The warmth of your skin seeps through the thin fabric of your shirts, and Elijah feels a sense of peace he can’t find anywhere else. His arm slides over your waist, pulling you closer, and he buries his face in the nape of your neck, inhaling the scent of your soap. It’s a scent that’s become familiar, a scent he faintly equates to home.

Elijah presses his lips to your shoulder, soft kisses that trail up to your neck. "Hey," he whispers, his hand trailing up the curve of your hip.