Chapter Five
He set his bag down carefully, methodically, like any sound above a whisper might cause something to shatter. His slipped his shoes off by the door, lined them up neatly, and walked into the kitchen. The fridge hummed faintly.
He opened it.
Inside were a few things: some fruit past it's prime, half a carton of eggs he hadn't touched in a while and a container he'd pushed around for days without opening. Nothing called to him. Everything felt heavy to look at.
He closed the fridge quietly.
The silence pressed against him. He walked to the table and sat down slowly, resting his head in his hands. His fingers trembled slightly against his scalp, exhaustion dragging at his mind.
He didn't mean to cry. He didn't mean to let anything show.
He should have held himself together better.
He should have hidden the bruise.
He knew that.
He'd been taught that.
Don't show weakness.
Don't flinch.
Don't make noise.
Don't inconvenience anyone.
Don't be a burden.
His mother's voice—sharp, cold, perfectly preserved in memory—echoed through his head, with the clarity of a recording. Salis pressed his palms harder against his eyes.
Logically, he knew she wasn't here.
Emotionally, the fear was still in his bones.
He stood up abruptly, pacing the length of the small apartment. His steps were muffled on the thin carpet, but he still caught himself walking lightly—careful not to make the floor creak.
Habit.
Deep, conditioned habit.
He paused in front of the mirror in the bathroom. His reflection looked like a ghost.
Eyes too tired. Jaw too tight. A bruise barely visible beneath his sleeve. He tugged the fabric down again, heart thudding.
"I'm fine," he whispered to the empty room.
But the room didn't believe him.
And he didn't believe himself.
He rushed out, bee-lining to his bedroom, and he sank onto the edge of the bed. He curled a hand over his stomach—not because it hurt, but because the hollow feeling inside made him feel uneasy. But eating felt impossible. Like a fight he didn't know how to win.
He closed his eyes.
For a moment, Lael's voice surfaced—gently, steady, warm:
"You don't deserve to be hurt. By anyone."
It made his throat tighten all over again.
Because part of him wanted to believe it. And another part of him was terrified to.
He curled up on his side, pulling the blanket around him even though he wasn't cold anymore, and just breathed slowly until the feeling inside him dulled—not gone, just quiet enough to ignore.
Soon enough it was morning. Customers hadn't started trickling in yet, but the smell of fresh pastries and warm milk already filled the air.
Lael was early. He'd come in earlier than usual without admitting to himself why. As he stocked the pastry case, he kept glancing at the door, waiting.
When it finally opened, Salis stepped in. And Lael's heart stopped.
In the brighter lighting, he looked so… fragile. Not by much, but in the small, subtle ways that only someone paying very close attention would notice.
His eyes were rimmed faintly pink, like sleep had been an afterthought. His cheeks were a little hollow, the skin beneath his eyes slightly shadowed. His posture was stiff and tightly controlled.
But the worst part?
He looked dehydrated, faintly pale. His lips slightly dry. His movements slow. It was the kind of carefulness that came from dizziness—the kind that told Lael instantly that Salis probably hadn't eaten since yesterday.
Or drunk enough water.
Or gotten enough sleep.
Maybe all three.
Salis grumbled a soft "morning" as he tied his apron, eyes avoiding Lael's. Lael pretended to be busy with the register but watched him from the corner of his vision. Salis's hands trembled slightly as he adjusted the knot in his apron, and when he reached for a stack of cups, his fingers slipped, just barely.
Lael stepped closer. "Hey," he said tenderly, "did you get any sleep?"
Salis stiffened. "Yes."
Lael raised an eyebrow. "How much?"
"…Enough."
So none at all.
Lael kept his voice low. "Did you drink any water this morning?"
Salis's jaw tightened. "I'm fine."
"Salis," Lael said gingerly, "you look like you're going to pass out."
Salis inhaled sharply. "I already said that I'm fine," he quipped, the words careful and defensive in equal measure.
Lael backed off, not wanting to corner him. "Okay," he murmured. "I hear you. Just—if you start feeling tired, let me know."
Salis didn't answer.
But the way his hand braced subtly on the counter as he walked away didn't go unnoticed.
The cafe buzzed with steady morning energy—customers filtering in and out, machines humming, the smell of roasted coffee drifting like a comforting blanket.
But Salis didn't feel comforted.
He felt… light. Too light. Like his his body was standing on stilts made of air and tension.
Lael noticed more and more signs before anyone else did.
They way his eyes blinked for a second too long in between tasks. The way the color in his face was fading by the hour. The way he was moving slower and slower.
Lael pretended to arrange the napkins on the counter just to stay close.
"Still feeling alright?" he asked him as Salis passed by him with a tray.
"Yes," Salis replied automatically. But his voice was small. Unsteady.
A few minutes later, the line thickened, and Salis stepped behind the pastry case to grab a muffin for a customer. He crouched down, reached in—
—and swayed.
He tried to steady himself on the glass, but his fingers grasped nothing. His vision blurred, tunneling as the colors of the cafe dimmed.
He stood too fast.
A rush of dizziness hit him like a wave as the room tilted. He grabbed at the case again, this time fully leaning into it, breaths coming sharp and shallow. A ringing filled his ears—a high pitched drone that drowned out everything else.
His knees buckled—and suddenly Lael was there. He caught Salis by the elbow, gentle but firm, steadying him, without making a scene.
"Whoa," Lael voiced, calmly. "Easy. I've got you."
Salis blinked, disoriented, breath trembling. "I—I'm fine. Just… stood too fast—"
"No," Lael said, his gaze hardening. "You're not fine."
Salis flinched at the words, shame flashing across his features. He tried again to stand straight, but Lael felt the slight collapse in his posture—the was Salis leaned for half a second before catching himself.
"Salis," Lael insisted, his voice still quiet but unshakable. "You're going to sit down. Right now."
"There's a line—"
"Lael?" Mara called from the counter, eyes widening as she took in Salis's pallor. "Is he—?"
"I've got him," Lael replied, already guiding Salis away from the front.
Salis let himself be led, his steps were uneasy and his breathing ragged. He hated the weakness in his chest, the way his legs trembled, the fact that his body was betraying him in front of someone who cared too much.
Lael helped him into the break room, lowering his voice even more once they were alone.
"Hey, look at me."
Salis lifted his gaze slowly.
"You almost collapsed," Lael said. Not angry. Not accusing. Just worried in the way that made Salis's throat raw.
"I didn't," Salis whispered weakly.
"You almost did," Lael repeated. "And that means something's wrong."
Salis swallowed, eyes darting away. "I'm sorry. I'm—I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize," Lael said quickly. "Please don't."
Salis shook his head, pressing a trembling hand to his forehead as another wave of dizziness washed through him.
Lael reached for a water bottle on the side table, holding it out. "Please drink a little. Just a sip."
Salis stared at it—fear, shame, and exhaustion battled silently behind his eyes.
But he was too weak to argue.
He took it and Lael let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding in.
Salis sat in the break room chair, the water bottle shaking in his hands. Lael knelt beside him, gently placing a hand on his knee, just enough for Salis to feel the steadiness radiating off him like warmth from a lantern.
"Are you feeling any better?" Lael asked quietly.
Salis nodded, not bothering to say anything. He didn't know what he could say. His eyes unfocused—staring somewhere past the floor, past the moment, past the present. Lael saw the distant look and froze, realizing something deeper was unraveling.
"What's going on?" he asked softly. But Salis couldn't hear him.
Because suddenly—he wasn't in the cafe anymore.
He was eight years old.
The smell of coffee was gone. It was replaced by the harsh smell of bleach on tile.
The break room light flickered—then became the hallway bulb in the house he grew up in.
It was cold. Too bright. Buzzing loudly enough to make his skull throb.
Little Salis stood in the hallway, hands empty, stomach twisting painfully with hunger. He'd forgotten to finish a chore—or maybe he'd done it wrong?
He couldn't remember which. It wasn't like it mattered.
His mother's voice cut sharp, slicing through the silence:
"If you're going to faint, do it somewhere I can't see you. You embarrass yourself when you act weak."
Salis swallowed hard, forcing himself to stand straighter despite the dizziness. He tried to say sorry, but the word was stuck in his throat.
"Don't cry," she snapped. "Only babies cry."
He blinked, tears burning his eyes anyway.
"Stop that," she continued. "Stop it or I'll give you something to cry about."
His legs shook as his vision blurred.
And still—
"Salis."
The present snapped back with a soft, steady voice.
Lael's.
"Salis, hey," Lael repeated, grounding him. "Come back to me."
Salis blinked hard, sucking in a sharp breath. The break room returned all at once—the white noise of the fridge, the mild smell of vanilla syrup, Lael's warm expression.
"I—" Salis's voice cracked, finally able to speak again. He pressed a trembling hand to his mouth. "I'm sorry."
Lael shook his head. "You don't need to be sorry. You didn't do anything wrong."
But Salis's whole body curled inward, as if protecting something delicate and painful inside him.
"I'm not supposed to—" Salis choked out, barely intelligible. "I shouldn't—I can't—"
"Everything okay?" Mara called from outside.
Lael didn't look away from Salis. "Yeah. We're okay. I'll be out in a second."
He lowered his voice back. "You're human," he told Salis. "You're allowed to need rest. You're allowed to be scared. None of that makes you a bad person."
A tear slipped down Salis's cheek before he could stop it. He wiped it away instantly, almost violently. Lael's heart clenched.
"Salis. It's okay to cry."
Salis squeezed his eyes shut, another tremor running through him—not from dizziness this time, but from the enormous effort of holding himself together.
"…I can't," he whispered. "I'm not supposed to."
Lael softly grabbed Salis's hand, brushing his thumb over the back of it.
"Who told you that?"
Salis's lips parted.
Silence stretched and then— "My mother." The words broke out of him like a wound reopening.
Lael's eyes widened just slightly before he fixed his face. He didn't prod him further. Didn't question. He just stayed there hoping to give Salis something no one had given him in years:
A safe moment to feel what he'd been taught to fear.