The bed shifts as Parker climbs in beside me, her warmth seeping through the sheets. Hardison's already on my other side, his steady breathing a familiar rhythm in the quiet dark. It's been three days since they pulled me from that grave, but I still wake gasping most nights. Not tonight.

Tonight, they won't let me be alone with the memories. The doctor said physical recovery would take weeks, but no one mentioned how to fix what being buried alive did to my head.

Parker's fingers brush mine, tentative but not hesitant. "You're awake," she says, not a question. Her voice is soft in the darkness.

Hardison stirs beside me. "Couldn't sleep either, big man?" His hand finds my shoulder, warm and solid through the thin fabric of my shirt.

I should tell them to go to their own beds. This proximity feels dangerous, like standing too close to a flame. But after days of their constant presence—monitoring my breathing, forcing me to eat, never leaving my side—I've grown used to their warmth.

"Eliot," Parker says, her tone serious now, "we need to talk about what we said before."

The confession comes back to me清晰地 - their quiet admission that they love me, that they've loved me for years. That they want me with them, in every way. I've been avoiding the conversation, hiding behind fatigue and pain and any excuse I can find.

Now there's no escape. Not in the dark, not with their bodies pressed close, not with their hands gentle on my skin.

Hardison squeezes my shoulder. "We ain't pressuring you, man. But we need to know... what do you want?"

The truth rises in my throat—years of buried feelings demanding to be let free. I just have to decide whether to finally say them aloud.