Chapter Four
The cafe had finally emptied out for the night. Chairs were stacked, floors swept, lights dimmed to their closing-hour glow. Salis had slipped into the storage room to put away the last of the syrup boxes—insisting he was fine and that he could finish up alone.
Lael didn't entirely believe him, but he respected the need for space. For now.
He was wiping down the espresso machine when Mara approached, arms crossed loosely, a crease of concern between her brows.
"Lael," she said quietly. "Got a second?"
He straightened. Mara didn't normally stay this late—usually leaving after the doors were locked for customers. He took a step closer to her, lowering his head. She looked at him for a bit, her mouth open as if trying to find the correct words, before shaking her head.
"Never mind. Sorry to bother you. Make sure you guys get home okay after you lock up, alright?"
He wanted to know what she was going to say, but he just nodded. "Of course. Have a good night, Mara."
The storage door swung open then, and Salis stepped out with an empty box folded under one arm. His expression was blank and tightly composed—that brittle kind of calm he wore like armor.
Mara gave Lael a meaningful look before walking out of the side doors to the parking lot.
Lael watched Salis cross the room, something heavy settling deeper in his chest.
Something was wrong.
He looked tired—more than tired. Drained. Washed-out. His movements were slower, and every time he reached to clean the far corner of the counter, his hand shook.
Lael pretended to be reorganizing the pastry fridge, keeping an eye on him without being obvious.
When Salis set the spray bottle down, he leaned against the counter for just a second. A tiny second—the kind that slips out when someone has been keeping up an act for so long.
Lael glanced over at him.
"You good?" he asked him gently. Salis straightened so fast it almost looked painful.
"I'm fine."
He always said it like a reflex—not a truth. Lael approached him slowly, still offering him space.
"You sure? You look a little pale."
"I'm just tired," Salis answered, rubbing his arm. As he did, his sleeve slid up slightly—revealing a faint yellowing bruise on the inside of his forearm. Not fresh, but not either. Small, circular, ugly in the fluorescent light.
Lael froze.
It wasn't the accidental kind—not from bumping into a counter or carrying trays. It was the kind that came from being grabbed. Hard.
Salis noticed Lael looking and instantly tugged his sleeve down, too fast, too desperate.
"I bruise easily," he said quickly—too quickly.
"Salis…" Lael's voice was soft, barely above a whisper. "That looks like a hand print."
Salis shook his head quickly. "It's nothing," he insisted, backing up a step. "It's old. It's—it's really nothing."
He was spiraling—Lael could see his breathing go shallow, his eyes going glassy with panic.
Lael held up both palms in a calm, slow gesture.
"Hey, hey. I'm not accusing you of anything. I'm not mad. I'm just… worried."
Salis blinked rapidly, chest rising and falling too fast. "Please don't make this a thing."
"A thing?" Lael repeated softly. "You have a bruise shaped like fingers."
Salis shut his eyes tight, shoulders curling inward. "It's not like that. It's not—it's not what you think," he stammered.
Lael stepped closer, very slowly, trying to gauge just how much distance to keep between them.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Then tell me what it is."
Salis opened his mouth—then closed it again. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, voice nearly breaking.
"I can't."
Lael's heart cracked a little at the edges. "You don't have to tell me who hurt you," he said. "You don't owe me that."
Salis stiffened, breathing ragged.
"I just… want you to know that you're not alone," Lael muttered. "And you don't deserve to be hurt. By anyone."
Salis's eyes shimmered, not quite tears, but close—a sheen he quickly blinked away, turning his face aside. "I should finish cleaning," he whispered.
Lael didn't stop him. Didn't push.
But as Salis walked away, shoulders tight and fragile, Lael felt the truth settle inside of him, heavy and sure:
Someone had hurt Salis.
Recently. And Salis was still terrified of the consequences.
Lael watched him quietly, resolve hardening like slow-settling cement.
What ever was going on… he wasn't going to let Salis face it alone.
Not anymore.
+++
The air outside of the cafe was cold enough to sting, a winter bite that crept through Salis's jacket as soon as he stepped out. He locked the door behind him with trembling fingers, the click echoing far too loudly in the empty street. He exhaled shakily.
Finally alone.
Finally offstage.
The facade he'd held together through the last hours of the shift—the tight smiles, the automatic "I'm fine, his careful posture—all of it began to crumble the moment the door shut.
Salis took two steps toward the road… then stopped dead. His knees wobbled.
He gripped the strap of his bag so hard his knuckled went white, chest constricting with a long, sharp breath he couldn't fully release.
He had felt Lael's eyes on him when the bruise slipped. He had seen the worry, the recognition. He had felt something close to panic coil in his stomach.
And he hated—hated—that part of him wanted to stay in that moment anyway.
Wanted to let someone see him.
Wanted someone to care.
He stumbled to the side of the building where the alley was dim and half-lit by a flickering lamp. It wasn't much privacy, but it was enough. Enough to fall apart without being watched.
His back his the cold brick wall as his breath hitched again.
And then the tears came. They weren't loud. They never were. Salis had learned long ago how to cry silently—to swallow every sound, every sob, every sign that he was hurt. Even now, his body shook without noise, shoulders trembling as he pressed his hand over his mouth.
His lungs shuddered around the weight of everything he didn't the words for:
The bruise.
The shame.
The hunger twisting inside him.
The flash of fear when a noise was too loud.
The way Lael had looked at him—not with anger, not with disgust, but with concern so gentle it hurt.
He slid down the wall slowly until he was sitting on the freezing pavement, knees drawn up, forehead resting against them. His breath trembled out in small, broken spurts.
"This is stupid…" he whispered to no one. "I'm being stupid…"
He wiped at his face with his sleeve, frustrated by the tears that kept coming. He hated that he was crying and he hated that part of him would always be expecting to be punished for it.
But in the small, quiet corner of the alley, no one was watching.
No one was shouting.
No one was reaching for him.
It was just him—and the echo of a hurt he couldn't explain, a fear he couldn't outrun, and a kindness he didn't feel like he deserved. His chest tightened again.
"Lael…" The name left his lips like an accident—a soft, helpless murmur he instantly regretted. He scrubbed at his eyes, desperate to stop feeling anything at all. He didn't know how long he sat there—minutes? Maybe hours—letting the cold air numb the heat of humiliation in his cheeks, letting the trembling run it's course.
Eventually, the shaking eased for him to breathe again. Not comfortably, not fully.
But enough to stand.
He pushed himself up slowly, brushing dirt from his pants, swallowing the last remnants of tears, and steadying himself against the wall.
He wasn't okay. He knew that.
But morning would come. He'd work another shift. He'd pretend again.
And maybe—just maybe—Lael wouldn't look at him the way he had tonight.
Or maybe he would.
Salis didn't know which possibility scared him more.
He tightened his grip on his bag and stepped out of the alley, the cool night swallowing the last of his breaths as he walked home.