Chapter 20 What are we?
Elias POV
I don’t ask the question lightly. Not tonight. Not after everything.
But the weight of it presses into my chest, dragging at my ribs with the subtlety of a storm that’s been building for weeks. I know exactly what I want, what I need. The problem is, I also know exactly what he can’t give me—or refuses to.
\---
It starts with the walk.
I leave my dorm with the same hesitance I’ve been carrying for days, dragging one foot after the other, like I’m wading through water instead of asphalt. My phone vibrates constantly in my pocket, silent pleas from friends I can’t bring myself to answer. I’m not ignoring them—they just don’t matter. Not tonight. Not while this ache is pulsing at the center of me.
And then I see him.
He’s there before I expect it. His posture, so impossibly perfect, even in the dim light of the quad, screams Captain. Commanding. Untouchable. The golden-boy façade everyone believes in. Yet the way he shifts, the slight crease at his brow, the way his shoulders are just a fraction slumped—it’s the other him, the one I can’t resist.
I pause, somewhere between courage and foolishness, and he notices.
“Elias,” he says, voice clipped, sharp enough to warn me back but soft enough to make me want to step closer.
I do anyway.
\---
We walk together in silence at first, our shadows stretching long in the streetlights. There’s an invisible line between us, a space filled with all the words we haven’t said, the nights we’ve shared, the nights we’ve denied each other.
And I don’t want to pretend anymore.
I stop mid-step, turning fully toward him.
“Tell me something,” I say quietly, careful, deliberate. “Tell me why you let me come here tonight.”
His eyes flicker, brief, like a candle in the dark, but he doesn’t answer. That’s the thing about him. He never answers the questions I need the most. Not fully. Not honestly. Not when it matters.
“You know why,” he says finally, but it’s more a statement than a confession. A shield, not a truth.
I laugh, humorless, and it tastes bitter. “No. I don’t. That’s the problem. I don’t know. And you don’t tell me. You never tell me.”
He swallows, jaw tightening. His hands curl into fists at his sides, the way he does when he’s trying to anchor himself to something solid. Anything solid. Not me.
“You can’t ask that,” he mutters.
I take a step closer, and he doesn’t move. He can’t. Or he won’t.
“Yes, I can,” I say. “Because I have to. I can’t keep being the person who waits for scraps, Captain. I’m not—”
I stop myself. I want to say more. I want to scream everything I’ve felt for weeks, months even, but the words catch in my throat. The truth is dangerous, and he’s dangerous in return.
\---
He finally speaks, slower this time, deliberate. His voice shakes slightly, betraying the control he works so hard to maintain.
“Because…because you’re here. And I can’t stop it. I can’t stop…us.”
I let that hang. I let it fill the air. It’s the closest he’s come to admitting anything. My chest aches with relief, even as my mind screams in protest. Relief shouldn’t feel like this.
“Is that all it is?” I ask, my voice soft, almost a whisper. “Because we can’t stop it?”
“Yes,” he says immediately. Then, after a pause, almost quietly, “…No. I don’t know.”
The words are like a knife in the gut. Half-denial, half-admission, and all the pain of months of dancing around a truth neither of us can name.
\---
I want to tell him he’s cowardly. I want to tell him he’s selfish. I want to tell him that I’ve given him everything he hasn’t even noticed I was offering.
But instead, I step closer.
And I put my hand against his chest.
It’s just a touch.
But it carries everything. Every unsaid word. Every night, every fight, every stolen moment. Every second I’ve tried to convince myself I could walk away.
He freezes, and I feel it—the pulse of his heart beneath his ribs, rapid, taut, nervous. I can’t help the small, ironic smile that touches my lips. Even the Captain has a weakness.
\---
“You’re not answering me,” I whisper.
His eyes meet mine, dark and stormy, conflicted and desperate. “I can’t.”
I laugh again, softer this time. Tired. Frustrated. Hurting. “You can’t? Or you won’t?”
The silence after that is almost unbearable. It’s thick, heavy, like the air before a thunderstorm. I can feel my own heartbeat in my ears. The world narrows until it’s just us, just this moment, just the unbearable tension of wanting something we can’t define.
\---
“I don’t want this to be some…thing,” I say finally. “I don’t want to be your secret, your distraction, your night-time fix when the world doesn’t see you.”
He flinches. I see it. The corner of his mouth twitches. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s recognition. Maybe it’s the faintest acknowledgment that I’ve just named what we’ve been avoiding.
“I…don’t know how,” he admits. “I don’t know how to do this—how to…exist without it—without you—without losing everything.”
And that’s when it hits me.
Not the words. Not the admission.
The truth.
He is scared. Not of me. Not of desire. Not of us.
He is scared of himself.
\---
I want to shake him. I want to make him understand that fear isn’t a valid excuse when the alternative is living without knowing what we could be.
Instead, I do the only thing I can.
I move closer.
Closer until the space between us disappears. I don’t kiss him—not yet. I just let my hand rest against his cheek, thumb brushing lightly across the skin. I want him to feel me, to recognize that I’m still here. That I won’t disappear.
“You’re afraid,” I say gently.
“Yes,” he breathes. “I am.”
“Then admit it,” I whisper. “Admit that you want this. Admit that it matters. You can’t keep pretending.”
He closes his eyes, a slow exhale shivering through him. I can feel the tension rolling off him, rolling off months of denial and control. But when he opens them again, the fight hasn’t left. The armor is still there. It always will be.
“I…don’t know what we are,” he says finally.
There it is. The question I’ve been waiting for. The one that’s been hovering between us all this time.
And the answer doesn’t come easily.
\---
I grip his shoulders, just enough to anchor him. “Then tell me what you want,” I insist. “Because I’m done guessing. I’m done pretending I’m okay with half-truths and stolen nights and whispered lies. What do you want, Noah?”
He swallows. Long. Slow. His gaze falls to the ground, then back to mine, and in that look, I see the weight of every expectation, every fear, every secret he’s been carrying since the beginning.
“I…want…you,” he says finally, voice breaking. “I want you, but I don’t know how to…be. How to…be with you. Publicly. Privately. I don’t…know.”
I feel something fracture inside me—relief, hurt, longing, and fear all tangled together.
“That’s not enough,” I say quietly. “It’s never been enough.”
“I know,” he whispers. “I know…”
And then we just stand there.
\---
It doesn’t resolve tonight. It doesn’t resolve ever, maybe. But the night changes something.
I leave his dorm the way I came in—walking, steady, outwardly composed—but inside, I’m shattered. And yet, more alive than I’ve felt in months.
I don’t know what we are.
And neither does he.
But for the first time, the silence isn’t empty. It’s loaded with truth.
\---
By the time I reach my dorm, the sky has begun to lighten. The first threads of dawn make the world look less sharp, less dangerous. I sit on
the edge of my bed and stare at the floor. The question remains. What are we?
The Captain still refuses to answer.
And I don’t know if I can wait forever.