sjhuff fics heh...

I'm sorry for creating this, Morgan is literally such a cutie and I really wanna write a fluff fic of them... (am I foreshadowing or what?)

Here is New Prostitute Reid x Pimp Morgan.

Breaking In (M/M)

Moreid Prostitution AU

Spencer Reid had always believed knowledge was power. He’d read thousands of books, memorized entire textbooks, solved equations most people couldn’t even pronounce. But none of that prepared him for the arithmetic of survival when the numbers stopped adding up.

His mother’s hospital bills arrived like clockwork—thicker envelopes each month, red ink bleeding across the totals. The state assistance dried up faster than the doctors could explain why her mind was slipping further away. His father had vanished years earlier, leaving nothing but a forwarding address that bounced back unopened. Rent was two months behind. The electricity had already flickered its last warning. The library job—part-time, minimum wage—barely covered bus fare.

So he’d done the math.

One body. Approximately twenty-four usable hours per day. Market rate for inexperienced but attractive young men in this part of the city hovered between one-fifty and three hundred per client, depending on what they wanted and how long they wanted it. If he worked four nights a week, screened carefully, avoided the worst corners… he could keep the lights on. Keep her room paid. Keep the Haldol flowing.

He hated the conclusion. Hated it so much his stomach cramped for three days straight. But hate didn’t pay invoices.

Which was how he ended up standing under a flickering streetlamp on the edge of the industrial district at 1:17 a.m., wearing the only outfit he owned that didn’t scream “graduate student”: slim black jeans, a charcoal button-down rolled to the elbows, and the least threadbare pair of sneakers he had. His hair was longer than he usually kept it—curls brushing his collarbones—because he hadn’t had money for a haircut in months. He looked younger than his twenty-six years. That was the point.

A black SUV rolled to a slow stop at the curb. Tinted windows. Engine idling low and expensive.

The driver’s side door opened.

Derek Morgan stepped out.

Six-three, maybe six-four. Broad shoulders that filled the leather jacket without effort. Dark skin gleaming under the sodium light. Gold chain resting against the open V of his black Henley. He moved like he owned the street, the block, the city. Eyes sharp, assessing, unimpressed.

He didn’t speak at first. Just looked Spencer over—head to toe, slow enough to make it deliberate. Then he leaned one hip against the hood of the SUV and crossed his arms.

“You new?”

Spencer’s mouth went dry. He nodded once.

“Speak up.”

“Yes. I’m… new.”

Morgan snorted. “No shit. You look like you’re about to recite pi to the thirtieth digit instead of suck dick for money.” He pushed off the vehicle, closed the distance in two strides. Towered. The size difference was immediate, visceral—Morgan’s chest level with Spencer’s eyes, arms thick enough to make Spencer’s look childish by comparison. “You got a name, college boy?”

“Spencer. Reid. Spencer Reid.”

“Real name. Cute.” Morgan’s mouth curved, but it wasn’t friendly. “You know why I stopped?”

Spencer shook his head.

“Because you’re standing on my corner like you got a death wish. No one works this stretch without my say-so. You either pay tribute, or you disappear. Simple math.”

Spencer’s pulse hammered in his throat. “I didn’t—I didn’t know there were… rules.”

“There are always rules.” Morgan stepped closer, forcing Spencer to tilt his head back to maintain eye contact. “Lucky for you, I’m in a generous mood tonight. You wanna work? You work for me. Seventy-thirty split. I handle screening, protection, scheduling. You show up, look pretty, do what you’re told. You try to go solo again, I’ll make sure every john in a ten-mile radius knows you’re damaged goods. Clear?”

Spencer swallowed. “Seventy-thirty is—”

“Non-negotiable,” Morgan cut in, voice flat. “You think you’re the first pretty white boy who showed up broke and desperate? You’re not special. Yet.”

Spencer’s jaw tightened. He hated the way his body reacted to the casual cruelty—hated the flicker of heat low in his belly even as shame burned his cheeks. He needed the money. That was the only fact that mattered.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “I’ll do it.”

Morgan studied him another long second. Then jerked his head toward the SUV.

“Get in.”

Spencer hesitated.

“Now, Reid,” Morgan said, colder. “Or walk away and figure out how to explain to whatever broke-ass family you’re trying to save that you’re too chickenshit to earn.”

Spencer climbed into the passenger seat.

The drive was silent except for the low bass thumping from the speakers. Morgan didn’t ask questions. Didn’t try to make small talk. Didn’t pretend this was anything other than a transaction.

They pulled into the parking lot of a low-slung motel that looked like it had been built in the seventies and never renovated. Neon sign missing the “M” in “Motel.” Morgan killed the engine, got out, didn’t wait to see if Spencer followed.

Inside room 12 the air smelled of cigarette smoke and disinfectant. One lamp. One bed. A single chair. No pretense of romance.

Morgan locked the door, shrugged out of his jacket, tossed it over the chair. Rolled his shoulders like he was preparing for work.

“Strip,” he said. No preamble.

Spencer’s fingers fumbled the first button. “What—right now?”

“You think clients wait for foreplay and candlelight? They want efficiency. You learn that tonight.” Morgan sat on the edge of the bed, legs spread, forearms on his thighs. Watching. “Clothes. Off. Fold them. Put them on the chair. Then stand in front of me.”

Spencer obeyed—slowly, mechanically. Shirt first. Undershirt. Jeans. Socks. Briefs. When he was naked he stood with his arms at his sides, trying not to hunch. He wasn’t skeletal; he still had some softness around his middle, definition in his arms from carrying library crates, but next to Morgan he looked small. Delicate. Breakable.

Morgan’s gaze dragged over him without hurry. Lingered on the narrow waist, the faint trail of hair leading down, the cock that was already half-hard from nerves and adrenaline and humiliation.

“Not bad,” Morgan said clinically. “You’ll clean up nice once we get some better clothes on you. Turn.”

Spencer turned.

“Slowly.”

He did.

“Face me.”

Spencer did.

Morgan stood. The height difference was obscene—Spencer had to crane his neck. Morgan reached out, gripped Spencer’s jaw—not gently—and tilted his face up.

“You ever been fucked?”

Spencer’s breath hitched. “No.”

“Ever had a dick in your mouth?”

“No.”

Morgan’s thumb pressed against Spencer’s bottom lip, forcing it open just enough to slide inside. “You’re gonna learn fast. I don’t have time for slow learners.”

He withdrew his thumb, wiped it on Spencer’s cheek like it was nothing.

“On the bed. Back. Knees up.”

Spencer climbed onto the mattress. The comforter scratched his bare skin. He pulled his knees toward his chest, feet flat, exposing himself completely. His cock lay hard against his stomach now, flushed dark at the head. He stared at the ceiling because looking at Morgan felt like staring into the sun.

Morgan didn’t undress fully. Just unbuckled his belt, popped the button, shoved jeans and black boxer-briefs down far enough to free himself.

Spencer’s eyes widened involuntarily.

Morgan was thick—visibly thicker than average—and long enough that the head reached past his own fist when he gave himself one lazy stroke. Darker at the base, veins prominent, already glistening at the tip.

“Eyes up here,” Morgan snapped.

Spencer jerked his gaze to Morgan’s face.

“Good. First lesson: clients want to feel big. Powerful. You look at them like they’re the only thing that matters. Like their cock is the center of your fucking universe. Practice on me.”

Morgan knelt between Spencer’s thighs, one big hand braced beside Spencer’s head, the other guiding his thick cock to rub slowly against Spencer’s hole—teasing, pressing just enough to make the younger man flinch.

“Lube,” Spencer gasped, voice small.

Morgan’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “You’ll get lube when you earn it. Tonight you learn what it feels like to want it bad enough to beg.”

He leaned down, gathered spit in his mouth, and let it drip directly onto Spencer’s hole—slow, deliberate, watching the way Spencer’s body clenched at the wet warmth. Then he spat again, letting it pool before rubbing the head of his cock through the slickness, coating himself as much as he could with just that.

“Better than nothing,” Morgan said flatly. “Breathe through your nose. Push out when I push in. You clench, it hurts worse. Your choice.”

Spencer tried. Exhaled shakily. Morgan pressed forward—slow, relentless. The head breached him with a sudden, burning stretch. Spencer cried out, back arching, nails digging into the sheets.

Morgan didn’t stop. Kept sinking in—inch after thick inch—until his hips met Spencer’s ass and he was buried to the root.

Spencer was panting, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. It burned. It stretched. It felt impossible, even with the spit helping just enough to keep it from tearing.

Morgan stayed still for a long moment, letting him feel every centimeter. Letting him feel small.

“Look at me,” he ordered.

Spencer’s eyes fluttered open. Morgan’s face was close—too close—expression hard, unreadable.

“You’re tight as fuck,” Morgan said, voice low. “Gonna make me good money. But first you gotta learn how to take it like you want it.”

He pulled back halfway—slow drag of friction—and thrust back in. Sharp. Deep.

Spencer keened.

“Again,” Morgan said. “Look at me the whole time.”

He set a rhythm—not brutal, but unforgiving. Long, deliberate strokes that forced Spencer to feel every ridge, every vein. Morgan’s hand stayed on his throat—thumb pressing just under the jaw, feeling the frantic flutter of pulse.

“Touch yourself,” Morgan ordered. “Show me how you jerk off when you’re alone thinking about getting paid to get fucked.”

Spencer’s hand shook as he wrapped it around his cock. He was leaking steadily now—precum slicking the way. He stroked in time with Morgan’s thrusts, humiliated and aching and so close already it was embarrassing.

Morgan watched. Eyes dark. Hungry.

“Faster,” he said.

Spencer obeyed.

“Tell me you want it.”

“I—I want it,” Spencer choked out.

“Louder.”

“I want it—fuck—I want your cock—”

Morgan’s hips snapped forward—harder now. Bed creaking. Headboard thumping the wall.

“Good boy,” he growled. “Come on my dick. Show me you can earn your keep.”

Spencer’s back bowed. Hand flying. The pressure built too fast—too much—then shattered. He came with a broken sob, spilling over his stomach in thick pulses.

Morgan didn’t stop. Fucked him through it—rougher—chasing his own release. When he came it was deep, grinding in, hips locked tight as he filled Spencer up.

He stayed inside long after, breathing steady while Spencer trembled beneath him.

Finally he pulled out—slow—watching his spend leak from Spencer’s swollen, reddened hole.

Morgan stood, wiped himself on the sheet, then reached for the small bottle of lube on the nightstand he’d set there earlier. He slicked his still-hard cock generously, the wet sound loud in the quiet room.

Spencer’s eyes widened. “Again?”

Morgan’s expression didn’t soften. “You think one round teaches you everything? Clients don’t come once and leave. Some want seconds. Some want to see how much you can take before you break. Get your knees back up.”

Spencer’s legs shook as he obeyed, thighs already sore. His hole was puffy, slick with cum and spit, still twitching from the first round.

Morgan knelt again, lined up, and pushed in—this time with lube, the slide much easier, smoother, but no less overwhelming. Spencer gasped at the renewed fullness, body still sensitive.

“Fuck—too much—”

“Too bad,” Morgan said coldly. He bottomed out in one long thrust, then started moving—deeper, steadier, using the lube to fuck Spencer harder, faster, the wet slap of skin on skin filling the room.

Spencer’s cock—still half-hard from his orgasm—twitched against his stomach with every thrust. Morgan wrapped one big hand around it, stroking roughly in time.

“You’re gonna come again,” Morgan told him. Not a question. An order. “Clients like when you’re greedy. Show me you can be greedy.”

Spencer whimpered, hips jerking up into Morgan’s fist. The angle was perfect now—Morgan hitting that spot over and over with brutal precision. It didn’t take long. Spencer’s second orgasm ripped through him—smaller, sharper, almost painful in its intensity. He sobbed out Morgan’s name without meaning to.

Morgan fucked him through it, pace ruthless, until he came a second time—deep, grinding, adding to the mess already inside.

This time when he pulled out, Spencer’s hole gaped slightly, cum leaking steadily down his thighs. Morgan looked down at the sight with clinical satisfaction.

“Clean yourself up,” he said, already reaching for his jacket. “Shower’s in there. You got ten minutes before I drop you back at the corner. Tomorrow night, same time. Wear something tighter. And lose the deer-in-headlights look. Clients don’t pay for scared.”

Spencer lay there—legs still spread, body aching, cum drying on his skin and leaking out of him—trying to remember how to breathe.

Morgan paused at the door.

“One more thing.”

Spencer looked up, dazed.

“You belong to me now. Don’t forget it.”

The door clicked shut behind him.

Spencer stared at the ceiling for a long time after.

The math still didn’t feel right.

But the money would.

And that was enough.

Chapter 2: Arrival

The door shut behind him with a hollow sound.

The room was simple: a bed with white sheets tucked too tightly at the corners, a table with a small lamp, and a chest of drawers with handles that clinked when he tested them. A faint hum came from the air vent above, steady and constant, like the mansion itself breathed differently from the world outside.

Phuwin stood for a while without moving.

The air felt filtered, thin in a way he wasn’t used to. His reflection flickered in the windowpane — a ghosted outline in the glass, half-lit by afternoon sun. He set his bag down on the bed, and the soft rustle of cloth was swallowed instantly by the stillness.

He unpacked slowly. Folded, stacked, tucked. His movements careful, his hands working in quiet rhythm. Inside were only a few things: three shirts, a spare pair of jeans, a toothbrush. He didn’t arrange anything deliberately, just placed each item where it fit. When he finished, he sat on the edge of the bed and let his hands fall to his knees. The mattress creaked softly under him.

For a long moment, he listened. The faint murmur of voices drifted from somewhere down the hall — a low rhythm of conversation and motion — but no one came.

When he finally stepped outside, the corridor was empty.

The mansion stretched endlessly in both directions, its polished floors catching slants of light from high, narrow windows. Footsteps sounded faintly from another hallway, sharp against the marble, then faded. Phuwin adjusted the collar of his shirt and started walking.

He passed by open doorways — glimpses of people moving efficiently: someone carrying linens, another arranging silverware. No one stopped him. No one looked his way.

He stood for a moment at a junction where three hallways met, uncertain which direction led to the kitchens. The air smelled faintly of detergent and citrus. Somewhere distant, a clock chimed. But still, no one approached.

He hesitated, then followed the sound of voices, trailing the faint echoes of work until he reached a wide, bright room lined with counters and sinks. The kitchen, where a handful of servants worked in synchronized motion — chopping vegetables, stirring pots, washing dishes. They spoke in short sentences, their tone brisk and familiar. Phuwin lingered by the door, waiting for someone to tell him what to do. No one did.

He cleared his throat quietly, but the sound was swallowed by clatter and steam. He watched for a few moments, unsure where to fit himself in, and finally stepped aside to the edge of the counter, folding his hands in front of him.

It was an older woman, perhaps in her fifties, who eventually noticed him. Her sleeves were rolled up, her hair pinned back in a quick twist. She gave him a brief look — not unkind, just assessing — then nodded toward a nearby table stacked with crumbs and empty plates.

“You can clear that,” she said.

Her tone was offhand, like she was giving away a task that hadn’t quite been hers.

Phuwin nodded quietly as he crossed to the table, collecting the dishes one by one. The plates were heavier than they looked, the porcelain cool against his fingers. He worked quietly, balancing the stack against his arm. The woman didn’t look again; she had already turned back to the pot simmering on the stove.

When he brought the plates to the sink, someone else moved aside without a word. He rinsed them, dried them, and returned to the table to wipe it clean. The rag smelled faintly of bleach, its texture rough against his skin.

It was work he knew — small, repetitive, grounding.

But here, it felt different.

Back home, even the simplest chores carried sound: the hum of a fan, the occasional cough from his father’s room, the noise of passing traffic outside the window. Here, there wasn'thing but the rhythm of tasks performed perfectly and quietly, as if sound itself would be reprimanded.

When he finished, he stepped back, unsure of what came next.

He caught his reflection again — this time in the polished silver of a refrigerator door — and barely recognized himself. The uniform the house had given him that morning fit too neatly, the sleeves pressed and stiff. It made him look like he belonged here, but he didn’t feel it.

No one addressed him again.

The older woman called to another servant about the linen order, and two others laughed quietly at something one of them said. A voice broke through the chatter and caught Phuwin's attention, however,

“They’ll be back tomorrow.”

“The family?” Her friend murmured.

The first gave a small hum, the sound of someone half-distracted by her work, plates clinking faintly as she stacked them.

“And the son,” she added, lowering her voice even further. “He’s the one they always rush around for. Always wants things just so. The maids were cleaning his room all afternoon.”

She shook her head, half impressed, half exasperated. “I don’t know how anyone keeps up with it. Every time he comes home, it’s like the whole house goes into a frenzy — checking every corner, every hallway, like he’s some inspector instead of the young master.”

“Must be nice,” the other said, half under her breath.

Their voices faded again, swallowed by the low thrum of the refrigerators.

Phuwin didn’t move. The words hung briefly in the air, curious but meaningless to him. Whoever the son was, he was someone else’s concern.

He ignored them, instead, a towel left folded on the counter, a tray that needed rearranging, utensils slightly out of line — he adjusted them all, quietly, efficiently. It was easier to keep moving than to stand still and risk being seen for what he was: new, uncertain, and not yet part of the rhythm.

By the time evening light slanted through the high kitchen windows, the chatter had faded. One by one, the staff began to leave. The older woman wiped her hands, called a few parting reminders, and disappeared down the hall with the others.

Phuwin stayed a few minutes longer, making sure every surface was spotless. Then he returned to his room.

The corridor was quiet again. The same filtered hum filled the air, and the scent of flowers returned faintly from somewhere near the main hall. He reached his door, turned the handle, and stepped back inside.

Everything looked the same: the bed untouched, the lamp waiting. Nothing had changed, because there was no one here to change it.

He sat again on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, staring at the empty table. The quiet pressed in, heavier now. He leaned back slowly, feeling the mattress dip beneath him. His hands rested on his chest, fingers brushing the edge of the worn watchband he’d slipped around his wrist before unpacking.

He could hear faint footsteps overhead, then the quiet thud of a door. After that, nothing. The house settled into silence again, as if it were breathing around him.

Maybe this was easier. To be unseen. To move quietly enough that nothing could touch him anymore.

The morning came soft and grey.

Phuwin woke before the others — if they were even awake at all — and lay still for a while, staring at the ceiling. The air felt cooler here, untouched by weather or time, as though the mansion itself existed in its own quiet season. Somewhere beyond the window, birds called faintly from the trees, their sound thin through the glass.

He sat up and dressed quickly. The uniform smelled fresh, still too crisp against his skin. He tied the collar neatly, smoothing it flat with his palms before slipping out into the corridor.

The mansion was already stirring.

Distant voices carried from the lower floors, the muffled rhythm of footsteps and soft instructions passed down the hall. Somewhere, a vacuum hummed. The scent of polish and lilies hung in the air again — sharper now, cleaner, like someone had just wiped every surface twice.

The family was returning today.

He hadn’t thought much of it the night before, but now the house moved differently. There was purpose in every motion, urgency disguised as efficiency. The staff seemed to multiply in number; figures passed briskly through the halls, balancing trays, dusting railings, checking reflections in glass.

Phuwin kept out of the way. That was what he was good at.

He followed the flow of movement until he reached the front foyer — an expanse of marble and light that almost didn’t look real. The floor reflected everything like water: chandeliers, uniforms, the sharp edges of morning sunlight that spilled through tall windows. Voices overlapped in the echoing space, low but steady, as if everyone had rehearsed this routine many times before.

“Positions,” someone called softly, and the quiet scattered into order.

Phuwin fell into line with the others near the back. He didn’t know if he was supposed to, but no one corrected him. A line of servants stood along the wall — not stiff exactly, but composed. Hands folded neatly. Eyes down.

Outside, a faint hum rose — the sound of engines.

Then the first car appeared through the gates.

It rolled up the long drive like a shadow — sleek, black, the kind of vehicle that seemed to absorb the light rather than reflect it. Another followed close behind, and another. Tires crunched against gravel, doors opened, voices spilled briefly into the air.

Phuwin straightened instinctively, shoulders drawing back, chin lowering just slightly.

The front doors opened with a sound that barely echoed. Cool morning air rushed in, carrying the faint scent of rain and perfume.

They entered all at once — a small group, framed in the light. A man and a woman first — elegant, familiar to everyone except Phuwin. They moved with the ease of people accustomed to being watched, greeting the butler with polite nods as though they’d never truly been away. Behind them, two maids hurried to take coats and luggage, already halfway through apologies and welcomes.

And then another figure stepped through the doorway.

You could tell, even before he spoke, that he didn’t need to announce himself.

He wasn’t particularly tall — not in a way that demanded attention — but the air shifted around him. He moved like someone born into space, unhurried, his confidence subtle rather than loud. His clothes were simple but deliberate: pale shirt, tailored trousers, a faint glint of something silver at his wrist.

He paused by the threshold, eyes adjusting to the cool light of the foyer, and for a moment, the house seemed to exhale.

“Welcome back, sir,” came the butler’s voice — steady, formal. “Everything has been prepared.”

“Thank you,” the young man replied, tone polite but detached. His voice wasn’t deep, but it carried easily — smooth, measured, the kind that lingered in the quiet afterward.

Pond.

Phuwin didn’t know his name then, but later he would remember that voice — the way it fit perfectly into the stillness of the mansion, like it had always belonged there.

Now, standing among the other servants, Phuwin only saw a figure outlined by light. He kept his eyes down, hands clasped in front of him, the way he’d seen the others do. The air in the foyer felt denser now, filled with footsteps, greetings, and faint laughter that didn’t reach the eyes of those who gave it.

Pond’s parents exchanged quiet pleasantries with the butler before moving toward the staircase. Their footsteps echoed once, then softened into the carpet. The young man remained behind for a moment, glancing briefly around the space — not with awe, but with the easy detachment of someone returning to something he owned. His gaze lingered near the line of servants, a casual sweep that moved like light along glass.

And then it stopped.

It shouldn’t have.

There were ten people standing there — twelve, maybe — all identical in posture and uniform. Yet his eyes caught on one.

Phuwin stood at the far end, partially hidden by the shadow of a pillar. He didn’t move. He barely breathed. The towel in his hands — one he’d been folding absentmindedly before being called to the foyer — felt suddenly heavy, the edges damp from his grip.

He didn’t understand why the air seemed to stretch thin in that instant. The boy — Pond — was still, expression unreadable, gaze anchored for a second too long to be accidental.

It wasn’t recognition, not exactly. More like a flicker of memory that hadn’t yet formed into thought. A faint pull of something he didn’t know how to name.

Phuwin felt it, too, though in a different way. The awareness of being looked at, of existing suddenly in someone else’s line of sight, cut through his practised stillness. His throat tightened.

He dropped his gaze quickly to the floor.

The sound of movement filled the pause — Pond shifting his weight, a servant coughing softly to the side. Someone spoke, breaking the quiet spell, and the moment collapsed like it had never been there.

“Would you like to see your room, sir?” the butler asked.

“Yes,” Pond replied. His tone was lighter now, distracted.

He started up the staircase, footsteps echoing faintly against the marble.

Phuwin didn’t look up again until the sound had faded.

Around him, the others began to disperse — small motions, practised, like a routine they’d performed countless times. A few spoke in hushed tones, trading quiet remarks about luggage or schedules. No one mentioned the young master’s brief pause, or the servant standing just outside the circle of attention.

They didn’t need to.

Phuwin adjusted the towel in his hands, folded it once more for the sake of something to do, and stepped aside to let the next flurry of movement pass.

It was only a second, but Pond’s gaze had lingered — as if he’d seen something he wasn’t meant to. Then he looked away, and the moment passed.

Phuwin moved through the hallways like a shadow, steps measured and precise. The mansion was vast, every corridor polished and gleaming, the scent of wax and lilies lingering faintly in the air. He carried a tray of clean linens, folded neatly, balanced carefully against his forearms. Each step on the marble floor echoed slightly, but he adjusted his pace to keep the sound soft, blending with the muted clatter of distant dishes from the kitchen.

He passed doorways where the staff worked: a maid stacking folded clothes in a linen closet, a footman arranging silverware on a sideboard, another worker sweeping the polished hall. Phuwin stayed to the edges, his presence careful, silent, a shadow moving in rhythm with the household.

He approached one of the upstairs bedrooms, where linens had to be replaced and towels folded for the next day. He set the tray down and began aligning the stacks on the shelf, smoothing each fold meticulously. His movements were slow, deliberate — an exercise in precision and invisibility.

From the doorway, Pond appeared briefly, seated at a small writing desk in the corner of the room. He wasn't here for Phuwin; he'd been finishing some schoolwork and reviewing a letter. But the moment Phuwin’s tray entered the room, Pond’s gaze shifted subtly, catching the boy in motion. It wasn't recognition, not curiosity in any conventional sense — just a faint pull, an instinctual attention toward someone moving differently, deliberately, quietly.

Phuwin didn't look up. He didn't speak. He adjusted a small stack of towels, straightened a rug, and arranged the sheets neatly, his eyes on the task. He bowed slightly when placing the last stack on the table, then stepped back toward the doorway, retreating in silence.

Pond’s eyes followed, just for a moment, before returning to his own work. His glance lingering longer than it should, though — a silent, subtle observation.

Phuwin continued down the hallway, delivering linens to the next room, a small guest bedroom near the end of the wing. The sunlight slanted across the polished floors, casting bright rectangles that illuminated the dust motes drifting lazily in the air. Each step was careful, precise. He straightened a chair, aligned a small table, and set the linens neatly on the bed.

The mansion’s details became more pronounced with every room: carved doorframes, ornate handles, rugs laid symmetrically along the corridors. Light filtered through high windows, reflecting across the polished surfaces. Phuwin’s movements became a quiet rhythm, a silent cadence of work performed efficiently, deliberately.

Later, he returned to a dining room, working quietly, methodically, aware that every motion was being watched, even if only indirectly.

Pond appeared at the far end of the room, adjusting a chair while speaking briefly with the butler, who noticed the subtle exchange — the young master's gaze lingering for just a fraction of a second longer on Phuwin— but said nothing. His face betrayed only the smallest hint of curiosity, a shadow of acknowledgement before he returned to his duties.

Phuwin didn't look up. He didn't speak. His head remained bowed, hands moving methodically over the work beneath him.

Each room he entered offered small, mundane tasks: folding towels, arranging linens, tidying chairs, dusting a side table. His movements were controlled, careful, silent. The mansion itself seemed to respond to him, every creak and echo muted, the light shifting across the corridors as if waiting for him to finish. Pond’s presence remained faint, just a subtle awareness from the corner of a room or the end of a hallway.

By the late afternoon, Phuwin had moved through the majority of jobs he was allowed to take on. He had tidied, aligned, folded, and arranged, moving silently and efficiently, aware of Pond’s distant but persistent gaze. Each glance from the boy left an unspoken weight, a curiosity that didn't require acknowledgement.

As Phuwin returned to the stairway, carrying the last tray of glasses back to the kitchen, Pond had already retreated to his study. The light fell across the polished floors, illuminating the faint dust motes and casting long shadows. Phuwin moved down the corridor, each step soft, almost swallowed by the echoing mansion.

He paused briefly at the door, and for a heartbeat, he allowed himself a glance at the hallway that looked entirely empty. The quiet was so absolute that even the hum from the air vents felt loud. His eyes lingered on the space for a moment, imagining what might occupy it. Pond’s presence was gone, but the memory of his gaze lingered, subtle and unresolved.

Pond leaned lightly against the wall, the sun catching the edge of his hair and casting a faint glow around his figure. He was still, perfectly still, his attention entirely on Phuwin. Every motion the boy made seemed amplified in Pond’s perception — the slight bend of his shoulders, the way he set his tray down and adjusted the corner of a table. Pond didn’t step forward; he remained hidden, the faintest smirk of curiosity tugging at his lips.

Phuwin straightened himself, glancing again at the hallway. His pulse quickened slightly, though he told himself it wasn't anything, a strange flutter he tried to ignore. He shook his head, as if that simple motion could sweep away the odd tension coiling in his chest. A slow breath in, a deliberate exhale—he told himself it was nothing, just the unfamiliarity of the mansion, the weight of responsibility pressing on him. He flexed his fingers, letting them brush against the smooth surface of the banister, grounding himself in the physical world, and willed his thoughts back to routine, to tasks he could control. Still, the uneasy prickle lingered for a moment, fleeting and unnameable, before he forced his shoulders back and stepped forward, determined not to let it slow him down.

Pond’s eyes followed, lingering on the slight tension in Phuwin’s hands, the way his feet shifted carefully over the marble. He noted the quiet efficiency of the boy’s movements, the way each task was performed without fuss, without sound. Pond’s curiosity wasn’t loud; it was quiet, restrained, as if he were cataloguing each detail without interfering. He had watched enough of the household to know when someone moved differently — and Phuwin did. There was a natural rhythm to him, subtle and precise, and Pond couldn’t stop noticing it.

As Phuwin stepped forward, Pond pressed his back and hands flat against the wall of a narrow alcove just off the main corridor, holding himself still. The angle was tight, the light dim, but it allowed him to peek out just enough.

When Phuwin’s figure passed, Pond leaned slightly, tilting his head to peek around the corner. His gaze followed the boy, tracking the quiet rhythm of his movements, the subtle precision of each gesture. Every fold of linen, every careful adjustment of a chair, caught his attention. He was drawn to him.

He held his breath, remaining perfectly still, as though even the smallest shift might alert Phuwin to his presence. The hallway stretched long and empty ahead, and Phuwin moved down it without glancing back. The sound of his footsteps was soft against the marble, each step absorbed by the polished surface. Pond allowed himself a fraction of movement, just enough to track him, the corner of his shoulder brushing the wall. He watched until Phuwin was far enough away.

Only then did Pond let himself exhale, lowering his head slightly and retreating further into the narrow alcove. His posture was tense, alert, every sense tuned to the rhythm of the boy’s movements, and yet, a quiet satisfaction curled at the edges of his lips as he let Phuwin walk off. It was almost imperceptible, this quiet fascination, the way he lingered in the shadows, careful to remain unseen. And for a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy the small thrill of being hidden yet present.

Meanwhile, Phuwin had no idea he was being observed. The corridor felt empty, the polished floors reflecting sunlight. He adjusted the edge of a chair as he passed, every motion controlled, careful — a practised silence that made him almost invisible in the vast house.

And still, Pond watched. He ducked slightly again, craning his neck just enough to catch the end of Phuwin’s figure as it disappeared rounding a bend where the corridor opened into the sunlight of a high window. His eyes followed, lingering on the soft slope of the shoulders, the careful alignment of hands and finger by his sides. The subtlety of him drew Pond in — this wasn't someone demanding attention, not someone seeking it. Yet the way Phuwin moved through the house, fully present in his duty, left a small, insistent impression.

For a moment, the mansion seemed to exist entirely for that silent exchange: one boy performing, the other observing.

No Safe Place

Chapter 12: Comfort

You woke to the sound of something dragging across the floor.

For a moment, you weren’t sure if it was real or something tangled in the remnants of a dream. Your head was still heavy, weighed down by the fever that hadn’t quite burned itself out. But then you heard it again — a low, dull scrape, followed by a muttered curse.

Your eyes opened slowly, the pale morning light bleeding in through the thin curtains, casting the room in that washed-out, silvery haze that only happened in early winter. Shapes took time to sharpen. The dresser. The glass of water you’d left half-drunk. The chair pulled up beside your bed. And in that chair, Henry Bowers.

He was slouched forward, elbows braced on his knees, as if he’d only just sat up after sleeping with his chin tipped to his chest. His jacket had been draped over the back of the chair but now hung loosely in one hand. His hair was a mess — sticking up in the back like he’d been through a windstorm, and his eyes were bloodshot in a way that told you he’d gotten very little real sleep.

“You’re still here?” Your voice came out rough, like you hadn’t spoken in years. You winced at the sound, clearing your throat, but it didn’t do much good.

He looked up at you, blinking once like he was pulling himself back into the present.

“Didn’t want to leave you alone,” he said simply, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It wasn’t. Henry Bowers didn’t do “sticking around.” He didn’t do “making sure people were okay.”

You pushed yourself upright slowly, the blanket sliding down from your shoulders to your waist. The movement made your head spin a little, and Henry’s gaze flicked toward you immediately — not in a lingering, obvious way, but in that sharp, assessing glance you’d seen him use when sizing up a fight.

“You slept in a chair?” you asked.

“Better than the floor.” He stretched his arms out, the motion pulling at his shirt, and rolled his neck until it popped. “Besides… if you’d gotten worse—” He broke off mid-sentence, rubbing the heel of his palm over his eyes. “Forget it.”

You didn’t.

Because in the silence that followed, you could hear the unspoken part anyway — if you’d gotten worse, I wouldn’t know what to do anymore.

Your gaze drifted to the water glass from last night, still on the nightstand beside the aspirin bottle. The scene felt strange in a way you couldn’t quite name — waking up to find him there, like he’d been some kind of guard dog all night, watching the door for trouble that never came.

You half-expected him to stand and make some excuse to leave now that you were awake, but instead, when you finally pulled on your hoodie and shuffled toward the front door, Henry was already reaching for his own jacket.

“I’ll walk you in,” he said. No question, no hesitation.

No Safe Place

Chapter 11: Fever

You woke with a dry throat and an ache blooming behind your eyes. The room was dim, curtains drawn tight, air thick with the kind of stillness that only comes with fever. Your muscles ached like you’d been dragged behind a truck. For a moment, you couldn’t tell what time it was—couldn’t even tell if it was morning or evening.

The world tilted when you sat up, stomach twisting in slow, nauseous waves. Your room felt heavier than usual. A light sweat clung to your skin, and your limbs moved like they were made of stone. Every breath rasped hot and shallow.

The only thing you knew was that you weren’t going anywhere.

You lay back, sticky with sweat, and stared at the ceiling, too exhausted to even reach for your phone. Your body had given up. Everything inside you felt heavy and slow. Like your limbs were made of cement.

The idea of getting dressed, of walking to school, felt as absurd as climbing a mountain barefoot. Your hoodie was a crumpled mass at the foot of your bed, and even just looking at it exhausted you.

You didn’t even remember falling back asleep. You drifted in and out for hours, barely aware of the world outside.

When you did wake again, it was late morning. The sunlight was sharper, cutting across your bed in pale streaks. Your phone buzzed somewhere nearby, but you didn’t check it. The idea of movement made your stomach turn.

Henry had a bad feeling the second he stepped onto school grounds. He was losing his mind.

It wasn’t just that you weren’t in homeroom. People missed class all the time. But when second period came and your seat was still empty, and then third, that pit in his stomach started to harden.

By lunch, he wasn’t even pretending to sit still.

He told himself you were just sick. That was all. Nothing to panic over. But his foot was bouncing, leg jiggling with anxious energy.

He hadn’t meant to scan the cafeteria like he was looking for someone. Hadn’t meant to ask Victor, low under his breath, “Have you seen him today?”

Victor had just shrugged. “Thought he was with you.”

That was when the static started.

Henry stood abruptly, chair scraping the floor loud enough to make heads turn.

"Where are you going, man?" Victor asked.

"Bathroom," Henry snapped, already walking off.

But he didn’t go to the bathroom.

He searched the halls first, checking all the places you usually lingered — near the lockers, down that forgotten hallway by the library, even the janitor’s closet where you sometimes ate lunch.

Nothing.

He tried the nurse's office. Empty.

"You looking for someone?" the receptionist asked when he lingered too long outside the main office.

"No," he muttered, turning away.

The anxiety was crawling now — under his skin, through his chest. He hated this feeling. Vulnerable. Helpless. Like he was twelve again, waiting to hear bad news.

Henry sat in the back of class and didn’t hear a word the teacher said. He kicked the desk leg until the guy in front of him flinched. He lit a cigarette in the boys’ room even though it burned his throat. He watched the hallway. Watched the shadows. Watched the clock.

You never missed school. Not after what happened.

He told himself it was probably nothing. A cold. A migraine. Maybe you were just hiding out, taking the day to breathe, to shake off the last week. He wanted to believe that.

But that gnawing in his gut wouldn’t go away.

By third period, he couldn’t sit still. By fourth, he wasn’t even pretending to try.

By last period, Henry wasn’t even in class. He was outside, circling the edges of the school yard like a wolf sniffing for a trail.

That’s when the panic really hit.

What if Patrick had finished what he started?

Henry hadn’t seen him since the fight. The bastard had slithered back into whatever sewer he crawled from. But Henry knew him. Knew how he held grudges. Knew how he got ideas.

He left, stormed out past the gates with his hoodie up, fists clenched, jaw tight. If anyone saw him, they didn’t stop him. They never did.

He didn’t even know what he’d do when he got to your house.

He just knew he had to see you.

It wasn’t far. He’d never admitted to himself how many times he’d memorized the turns to get there. How many times he’d thought about walking past it just to make sure everything was okay.

This time, he didn’t just pass by.

He stopped.

Your house was quiet. Still.

Henry stood across the street at first, soaked from the drizzle, scanning the windows. No movement. Curtains pulled. Porch light off. The kind of silence that makes the hair on your arms stand up.

He crossed the street fast, up the steps, and knocked hard. Once. Twice.

No answer.

He tried again. Louder.

Still nothing.

That gnawing feeling twisted deeper. It wasn’t like you to ignore someone pounding on your front door. Even if you hated him. Even if you’d never want to see his face again.

He stepped back, eyes tracing the side of the house. Then he saw it—your window. Second floor. Slightly cracked.

And in that moment, the choice made itself.

Without thinking, Henry crossed the yard. Found the trellis. The wood creaked under him. It wasn’t meant to hold weight, but Henry didn’t care. He'd done dumber things. His boots scraped the wooden slats. His breath fogged the glass. He climbed like the house owed him answers, like he had a right to them.

The window was just wide enough to slide open further.

Inside, it was dark — curtains pulled halfway shut, the room heavy with still air. By the time he reached the ledge, his fingers were slick with rain and sweat. He crouched on the narrow sill, peering inside.

And then he saw you.

Lying on your side, blanket twisted around your legs, brow furrowed in sleep. Pale. Still. The kind of stillness that made panic grip his chest in a vice.

You didn’t move. Didn’t twitch. Didn’t even flinch when he knocked once—soft, hesitant—against the glass.

For a second, Henry’s heart stopped.

He froze on the windowsill, breath caught in his throat. He stared, eyes wide, chest tight with dread.

Were you—

No. You were breathing.

“Shit,” he whispered.

His heart slammed against his ribs. He pushed the window open and he climbed inside without a second thought. His boots hit the carpet soft. The whole room smelled like illness — damp clothes, fevered skin. The room was warm. Too warm.

Henry moved fast. Quiet. He crossed the space slowly, steps almost silent as he crouched beside your bed. Standing over you, something in him unraveled.

Henry didn’t know what to do. He’d never… been here before. Close to someone like this. Close enough to touch. Close enough to feel the heat rolling off your body and know it wasn’t from nerves or anger.

He crouched beside the bed, hesitating. His hand lifted slightly, like he might reach out—might touch your forehead, check the fever like he knew what he was doing.

His eyes scanned your face, your chest, waiting for the rise and fall of breath.

There.

Relief cracked through him so fast it hurt. But it didn’t last. Because now he was here. In your room. With you.

And you still hadn’t woken up.

He leaned closer. Hovered. Reached out like he might shake you—might grab your shoulder and pull you back into the world.

That’s when your eyes snapped open.

You gasped. Sat up. And saw him.

“What the fuck—” your voice cracked, hoarse and panicked.

You shoved at him instinctively, hands weak, but frantic.

Henry raised his hands, backing up fast. “Hey—hey, it’s me! It’s just me!”

Your chest heaved. Sweat clung to your forehead. You blinked hard, trying to process what the hell was happening.

“...Henry?”

Then, before you could say anything else, he dropped to his knees and pulled you into a hug.

Not rough. Not greedy. Just solid — arms around you, holding like he didn’t know what else to do.

Just like that.

No warning. No hesitation.

Arms wrapped around you tight, almost desperate. His face pressed against your shoulder, hands gripping the back of your shirt like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.

You froze.

Every muscle in your body tensed. Not from fear—but from sheer disbelief.

Henry Bowers. Hugging you.

You were sick, maybe delirious. That had to be it. Because Henry didn’t do this. He didn’t shake. He didn’t hold people like they mattered. He didn’t breathe like he’d been underwater until now.

Your brain couldn’t make sense of it. Your arms didn’t know what to do. They hovered awkwardly. But he didn’t let go. He just breathed, long and shaky, and you felt the tension leaking out of him with each exhale. Like holding you was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart.

Then, low—so low you almost didn’t catch it: “I thought I lost you.”

“You— what…?”

He didn’t answer at first. Just held on tighter. You felt his fingers clench in the fabric of your hoodie. Like if he let go, something awful would happen.

Then, very quietly:

“I thought he hurt you again.”

You went still.

His hold tightened for a second, just a second. Then loosened. He pulled back, but only a little—just far enough to look at you. His eyes were bloodshot. Jaw clenched. He looked like he hadn’t slept. You didn’t know what to say. So you stared. He looked back.

Neither of you spoke.

Until, “I didn’t know what else to do,” he muttered, like the words hurt to say and he buried his face in your shoulder.

You swallowed. Your throat still ached.

You were still burning up, and Henry could feel it through your clothes. His arms wrapped tighter around you for a moment, like maybe he could sweat the fever out of you by sheer will. Then, carefully, he pulled back.

“Uh— you need to lay down,” he muttered, his hands hovering like he wanted to help you lie back but didn’t trust himself to touch you again.

You didn’t say anything, too exhausted to protest. You slumped against the pillow, every muscle aching like it had been rung out and left to dry. The world swayed again, but slower this time. Henry’s hand caught your arm to steady you.

“You’re so fucking warm…” he muttered. “Christ.”

You were already sinking back into the haze when you felt the mattress shift beside you. Then the weight dipped, and a moment later, warmth curled up at your back. Arms encircled your waist. Gentle, but there—solid, grounding.

You stiffened slightly, not because it felt wrong, but because it didn’t.

“…You’re in my bed,” you said faintly.

“I know,” he murmured.

Then, quieter: “You need to stay warm. Don't want you getting the chills.”

You didn’t answer.

There was nothing else to say.

His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist. You didn’t even realize he’d taken your hand until then. But there it was—calloused, warm, steady.

You drifted for a while like that. Not asleep, not awake. The only thing anchoring you to the moment was the pressure of his chest behind yours, the rhythm of his breathing. You lost time. Then his voice returned—barely a whisper against your shoulder.

He didn’t say anything more. Just held you tighter, like maybe he could will the sickness out of you. Like maybe, if he stayed close enough, the world would stop being so fucked for a minute.

And at some point, you drifted off again.

um so i think i wrote another chapter for 'No Safe Place'? so, ill probably post that later

BUT, right now... i have a new fic im writing cuz why not? so i will definitely be posting more often now and i will make sure to update my henry bowers fic but it isnt currently my first priority cuz...

GCSE ART IS SO TIME CONSUMING DUDE dont even play w me rn

and also this current fic is lowkey one of my best ideas and COMPLETELY ORIGINAL

i mean, prolly not but i came up w it all on my own and im not gonna put myself down by finding out if its someone else's idea already

ik it probably is but ive planned it out completely so it shouldnt be too similar to anything else

ANYWAY im really excited to keep writing it because its currently only two chapters (but its still longer than my previous fic with like 12??) so yes, it will take longer to write BUT i will be more motivated to complete it than my previous one so, there you go

here it is........ ITS PONDPHUWIN BTW JS SO YK

Obligation

Chapter 1: Duty

The house had never been grand. A small two-bedroom structure pressed against a narrow street, walls faded to a pale yellow from sun and time, floorboards warped where water had leaked through the ceiling last rainy season. Yet, for Phuwin, it had always been home—warm, familiar, the rhythm of his father’s footsteps a constant undercurrent in the spaces he occupied.

Now, though, the quiet had grown heavier. It wasn’t just the absence of sound; it was the oppressive weight of waiting. Every tick of the clock seemed exaggerated, every breath measured. Phuwin moved carefully, feet bare against the cold wood, ears attuned to his father’s shallow breathing in the bedroom.

His father lay propped up against the pillows, a thin blanket pulled around his shoulders, face pale with fever. Yet he smiled as Phuwin approached, a fragile thing that seemed too bright for his condition.

“You’re awake early,” his father rasped, voice weak but tinged with habitual cheerfulness. “Coffee’s almost ready if you want some.”

Phuwin crouched beside the bed, brushing a damp strand of hair from his father’s forehead. “I couldn’t sleep,” he admitted softly, trying to keep his voice steady. He watched the faint pulse in his temple, the shallow rise and fall of the chest. The man was smiling, but Phuwin could see the truth behind it—how much he was pushing himself to be hopeful, to appear stronger than he felt.

“You’ll tire yourself out if you keep worrying,” his father said, reaching a trembling hand toward him. “I’ll be fine.”

Phuwin hesitated, knowing the lie too well. He had been tending to his father for months, seeing each day take more from him than the last. The coughs that wracked his chest, the pauses in his speech, the way his hands shook when lifting a cup—these were not signs of someone fine.

And yet his father’s hope was stubborn, a small defiance against the truth of their reality. Phuwin knelt, gripping the edge of the bed, wishing he could hold that hope too, but knowing it wouldn’t last.

He moved to the small table near the window and rinsed the cloth in the bowl of water beside the bed, wringing it out until it dripped between his fingers. The water had gone lukewarm hours ago, but he didn’t dare leave his father long enough to fetch more. When he pressed the cloth to his father’s forehead, the man stirred faintly, eyes flickering beneath paper-thin lids.

“Don’t,” his father murmured, voice gravelly. “You should be resting.”

“I’m fine,” Phuwin said softly. He wasn’t. The circles beneath his eyes were bruised shadows, and his shoulders ached from days of half-sleep beside the bed. But he smiled anyway.

His father’s breathing steadied again, though it came shallow and slow. Phuwin sat back on the stool, elbows on his knees, eyes drifting over the chipped paint of the walls. He tried not to think about how different things used to look—how, before the illness, his father filled this space with movement and noise. The steady sound of his voice calling through the rooms. The smell of coffee and cologne before leaving for work at the estate.

It hadn’t been a glamorous job. But his father had worn the uniform like it meant something.

“You’ll see, Phuwin,” he used to say, smiling through the steam of his coffee. “Hard work gets noticed.”

Now he barely had the strength to lift his cup.

Phuwin set the cloth back in the bowl, careful not to spill. He’d learned the rhythm of caring for his father without needing to think—when to change the sheets, how to prop him up when the coughing fits came, how to measure out the medicine that always seemed to run low.

He could almost forget that everything outside this room was still moving on without them.

Almost.

“You should eat,” his father said, voice faded but breaking through the silence. “You need your strength.”

“I know,” Phuwin murmured, forcing a smile. He had been forcing smiles so long he could almost forget how tired he was himself. But even as his father ate, he felt the growing, hollow ache in his chest: the knowledge that nothing he could do would be enough to restore what had been lost.

After helping his father eat and settling him back against the pillows, Phuwin paused, staring at the small plate he had cleared. He hadn’t touched his own breakfast, though he had claimed he had—it was easier to let his father eat first, to keep the little food they had for him. Hunger tugged at his stomach, but he shoved it aside, pretending the empty plate didn’t matter. The quiet of the house felt heavier now, weighted with the act of choosing his father’s needs over his own, and with every tick of the clock, the ache in his chest grew sharper.

Needing something to occupy his hands and mind, Phuwin took to cleaning. The small kitchen demanded attention—scrubbing counters, sweeping floors, washing dishes—and the motions gave him something tangible to hold onto amid the fear that coiled in his stomach. He moved carefully, listening for the rasp of his father’s breathing, the quiet cough that followed each shallow inhale.

He caught his reflection in the window: pale, eyes darkened from sleepless nights, hair falling in messy strands across his forehead. It was a face too old for his years, drawn tight with worry and responsibility. He looked away quickly. He didn’t want to meet that reflection too long; it reminded him of the truth he refused to speak.

Truths that sat heavy in the silence: his father’s hope, his own exhaustion, the fragile thread keeping the house together. And somewhere beneath it all, a quiet dread that what he feared most might soon become reality.

He knelt beside the bed again, brushing a hand over his father’s arm. “I’ll take care of everything,” he said softly. Not a promise, not quite, but a reassurance he needed to hear himself repeat. His father’s eyes softened, faint relief flickering across his pale face.

“You always do,” the older man said, and Phuwin knew he could not argue. He could not tell him the truth—that he wasn’t sure he could handle it, that he feared the moment when hope was no longer enough.

Hours passed in the quiet rhythm of care. Phuwin changed the sheets, measured out water for medicine, wiped sweat from his father’s brow. He moved like a shadow, quiet and deliberate, listening to the faint hum of life outside the walls. Every creak of the floor, every distant voice reminded him that the world waited beyond the fragile bubble of their home. And yet, despite the careful motions, a gnawing worry never left his side: the thought that he might not be able to protect the only person who had been steadfastly his anchor.

Late in the afternoon, the city sun slanted through the blinds, catching dust in the air like tiny stars suspended in stillness. Phuwin paused, leaning against the counter, fingers tracing the worn edges of the wood. His father’s voice called softly from the bedroom:

“Phuwin…”

“Yes?” he replied, his throat tight.

“Don’t forget… the world goes on,” his father murmured. “Even if I can’t.”

Phuwin paused before nodding. The words settled over him, heavy but grounding, a reminder that life outside his world existed, whether he was ready to accept that or not. He straightened, shoulders tense but resolved, and let the quiet weight of the afternoon wash over him.

The house felt still in the late afternoon, the sunlight stretching thin across the worn floorboards. Phuwin had spent the day attending to the usual chores—cleaning, washing, preparing simple meals—moving in the quiet rhythm of habit. His father’s breathing was shallow but steady, and the room smelled faintly of medicine and boiled rice.

“Phuwin,” his father said from the bed. The voice was soft, deliberate. “Come here.”

Phuwin set down the cloth he had been wiping the counter with and approached. He knelt beside the bed, careful not to let the stool creak too loudly. His father’s gaze met his, clear and measured despite the fever.

“There’s something I need you to do,” his father said. “I can’t work at the estate for a while. Maybe longer than I expected.”

Phuwin listened, keeping his expression neutral. He had already suspected this, seen the way his father’s strength had diminished over weeks. “I understand,” he said simply.

“I need you to take my place,” his father said. “Just until I’m better. You know the routines. You can manage.”

Phuwin paused. “I can’t,” he said evenly. “I have classes. I can’t—”

“You can’t what?” his father asked, a hint of impatience threading through the voice.

“Leave school, miss lessons. My teachers expect me there,” Phuwin said. His tone was firm but not raised. “I can’t just drop everything.”

His father’s hand pressed lightly on his arm. “Phuwin, it’s work. We need the income. I can’t manage right now. You’re the only one I can rely on.”

Phuwin took a breath. “I know. But I have responsibilities too. I can’t just—”

“You won’t be doing it forever,” his father interrupted. “Just a short time. You know the routines. You’re careful. You’ll manage. You’ve seen how I do it. You can do the same.”

Phuwin’s hands flexed at his sides. He looked at the floor, then at his father’s face. He could see the steady expectation there, the faint worry under it. It wasn’t pleading, and it wasn’t blame—it was simply a statement of fact: this was what needed to be done.

After a moment, Phuwin nodded. “Fine, I'll do it,” he said quietly. “For now.”

His father’s expression softened slightly. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”

Phuwin straightened, the tension in his shoulders easing just a little. He wasn’t eager, and he didn’t feel triumphant. He felt the weight of the choice, the knowledge that stepping into the estate’s world would be unfamiliar and demanding. But he also knew there was no alternative. He would do what was necessary.

“Rest now,” his father said, settling back against the pillows. “You’ll need your strength tomorrow.”

Phuwin stayed for a moment longer, hands at his sides, watching the faint rise and fall of the man who had always been steady in his life. Then he turned toward the window, studying the quiet street outside. The day was ending, the city moving on without concern for their small house.

The decision was made. There was no need for further argument. Still, it wasn't appreciated.

Night settled over the small house with a gentle, almost indifferent quiet. The city beyond the walls hummed faintly, the distant traffic a low murmur, the occasional shout or bark reaching through the windows. Inside, Phuwin moved slowly, performing the evening routines with the careful precision he had learned from long months of tending to his father.

His father was resting, tucked into the bed with the thin blanket pulled high. The fever had subsided slightly but left behind a persistent fatigue. Phuwin adjusted the pillows, smoothing out wrinkles, making sure the room felt orderly, calm. Any disturbance tonight might unsettle the fragile rhythm they had maintained all day.

Phuwin paused at the counter, drying his hands, and allowed himself a moment to think. Tomorrow, he would leave for the estate. The thought had settled in his mind over the course of the day, but tonight it pressed more firmly. He would walk into a world he had only glimpsed from the edges—a place where manners mattered more than effort, where wealth and status dictated attention, and where he would be measured in ways he had not yet experienced.

He tried not to dwell on it. Planning made things concrete. He went over the tasks in his head: arriving at the estate, finding the owner, understanding the schedule, performing his father’s duties as he had seen done hundreds of times. The logic of it was simple enough, but even simplicity could feel heavy when applied to a world that wasn't his own.

Still, his thoughts strayed to a quieter, more personal weight. There was something in him he had carried quietly for years, something he didn’t speak of, something he kept carefully tucked away. He knew that stepping into the estate might expose him, in small ways, to people who would notice differences. He hoped his control would be enough to keep that part of himself hidden. He had always been careful, but new eyes, new scrutiny—especially those accustomed to privilege—could easily unravel him.

He moved to the small window, brushing back the damp strands of hair from his forehead. The street below was dark, glimmering with scattered lights. Shadows moved quickly past the cracked walls, indifferent to his quiet concerns. He pressed his palms lightly against the frame, staring out, as if he could see the future waiting there.

The truth was, he wasn’t afraid of the work itself. He had done it before, often in the absence of anyone else to rely on. What unsettled him was the unknown: the judgment of strangers, the small differences he could not erase, the feeling of being scrutinized simply for being himself. The thought tightened his chest, though he didn't let it show. He had learned long ago that outward calm was often enough to mask the internal tension.

He went back to the kitchen, preparing a simple meal for himself. Rice and a few vegetables, nothing extravagant. He ate slowly, methodically, thinking through the routines he would follow tomorrow, and keeping his thoughts deliberately practical. Hunger gnawed at him, but he ignored it, focusing on what could be controlled.

After cleaning up, he returned to the bedroom. His father slept lightly, the chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths. Phuwin sat beside the bed, resting his hands on his knees, eyes trained on the floor. He thought of the estate, of the tasks ahead, the expectations he would need to meet.

He forced the thought aside. It wasn't the time for distractions. The night demanded focus, attention, and the quiet vigilance he'd grown accustomed to.

Yet, even in control, he couldn't fully ignore the unease, the whisper of possibility that something might go wrong, that he might falter, that someone might notice the part of him he usually kept hidden.

Yet, as if by focusing on the physical tasks he could delay the emotional ones, he rose and began to pack, methodically. A small bag for clothes, a notebook, a toothbrush, a few essentials he couldn’t leave behind. He wasn't planning on staying long whether it be his father recovered, or… not.

The next morning arrived quietly, the air still and heavy with the warmth of early sunlight filtering through the blinds. Phuwin had slept poorly, turning restlessly beside his thin mattress, thoughts cycling through the tasks ahead. Even in the dim light of dawn, the quiet seemed almost accusatory, reminding him that he would soon leave this small house, the only place he had some semblance of control.

He moved carefully, dressing in plain, clean clothes he had laid out the night before. Every motion was deliberate.

The kitchen smelled faintly of leftover food from the night before. He ate slowly, methodically, focusing on the physicality of each bite rather than the anxious swirl in his mind.

Finally, he moved to the bedroom. His father lay awake, propped against the pillows as always, gaze steady despite the pallor of fever. Phuwin knelt beside the bed, bag at his side, hands resting lightly on the blanket.

“You’re leaving soon,” his father said quietly, voice faint but steady. “I know it'll be hard. New place, and all.”

Phuwin nodded, saying nothing at first. The words felt unnecessary, almost impossible. Leaving the house, stepping into the world beyond, felt heavier than anything he had done before.

“I’ll manage,” he said finally, voice low, controlled. “It’s not unfamiliar work... I can do it.”

His father’s hand rose, resting briefly over Phuwin’s. “I know you can,” he murmured. “But don’t push too hard, got it? Not for anyone.”

Phuwin’s throat tightened slightly, but he didn't respond. He pressed his lips together and let the silence carry them both for a moment. The warmth of his father’s hand, the faint pulse beneath the skin, anchored him more than words ever could.

Finally, he stood, swinging the bag over his shoulder. “I’ll be back soon,” he said simply. It was a statement of fact, not comfort. “I’ll take care of the estate. Promise.”

His father inclined his head slightly, eyes softening with a quiet pride.

Phuwin managed a smile, turning toward the door. Each step away felt heavier than the last, but he didn't look back.

The walk to the bus stop was short but felt interminable. He carried himself quietly, eyes fixed on the cracked pavement beneath his feet, thoughts moving in measured patterns. Tasks first, distractions later. Each breath reminded him of the small distance between responsibility and anxiety.

By the time he reached the stop, the bus had already pulled away. He stared after it, frustration tightening his chest. He checked his watch: fifteen minutes until the next one. Fifteen minutes in which the world moved on without pause, and he would have to wait, just one more step behind.

He leaned against the cold metal of the pole, bag tight over one shoulder, and closed his eyes for a brief moment. The unease he had carried all night pressed heavier now, a small knot in his stomach that refused to loosen. It wasn't fear of the work itself—he could handle that—but the unknown: the people, the hierarchy, the scrutiny that awaited. And yet, he reminded himself, all of it was manageable. Methodical, predictable. He could do this.

When the next bus arrived, he climbed aboard with careful movements, exchanging a brief, polite nod with the driver. The seats were empty, and he took one by the window, bag at his feet. The city blurred past, distant rooftops and streetlights mingling with the rising sun. His hands rested on the bag as if it were an anchor, and he let his mind run through the routines once more.

Step by step: arrive at the estate, find the owner, learn the schedule, perform the duties. Simple, right?

By the time the bus approached the estate, the anxiety had tightened to a low hum, manageable but persistent. He stepped off, smoothing his jacket, and walked toward the grand gates. The tall stone walls, polished and imposing, cast long shadows over the driveway. Even from a distance, he felt the difference: the world beyond his home operated by other rules, rules that had nothing to do with kindness or fairness.

The main doors loomed ahead. He paused, bag at his side, inhaling slowly. The first step through them would mark the start of something unfamiliar. He checked the time again—he was already late. The first impressions mattered, he knew, but the missed bus had delayed him. A faint tension climbed in his chest, not fear, but awareness that his timing might already set judgments in motion.

He straightened his shoulders and stepped forward, each movement deliberate. The sound of his shoes echoed faintly on the marble floor as he entered the lobby. A pair of workers glanced at him, their expressions measured. He offered a brief nod, but they didn't respond with warmth.

Phuwin lowered his gaze, moving forward with quiet determination. Apologies would come later. First, he had to figure out where the hell he had to go…

As he looked right, woman in a crisp uniform stood waiting. Her posture was strict, her expression unreadable.

“You’re late,” she said as they made eye contact. Her tone wasn’t harsh, just factual—like she wasn'ting the time of day.

“I missed the bus,” Phuwin replied quickly, bowing his head slightly. “It won’t happen again.”

“It had better not,” she said. “We do value punctuality, you know?”

“Yes, sorry.”

She turned sharply and led him inside.

The air changed the moment they crossed the threshold—cooler, still, scented faintly with polish and flowers. Phuwin followed, careful not to let his shoes scuff the floor. The hallway stretched long and bright, lined with quiet paintings and vases. Everything seemed too clean, too quiet.

They stopped before a large wooden door, already half open. The woman knocked once before stepping aside.

Inside, a man in his fifties looked up from a ledger. His face was lined, his posture straight. When his gaze settled on Phuwin, it was quick but assessing.

“You’re Somchai’s boy,” he said. “Phuwin, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The man nodded. “He said you’d be coming in his place. Unfortunate circumstances. I’m sorry to hear he’s unwell.”

“Thank you,” Phuwin said, bowing slightly.

The man studied him for a moment longer, then gestured to a side table. “Set your bag there. We’ll find you a uniform after orientation…” Phuwin barely heard a word he was saying; that voice blurred into background noise, drowned out by the pounding of his own heartbeat and the lingering heat of embarrassment from earlier. “—Understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

The reply came smoothly, though his mind still wandered farther than he wanted to admit.

The man scribbled something in his ledger, then looked up again. “You’ll meet the rest of the staff during break. They’ll show you the routines. The family’s away for the weekend, but they’ll return tomorrow. That gives you a day to learn the layout and expectations.”

“Yes, sir,” Phuwin repeated.

He gave a brief nod. “Good. Now—go with Ms. Mali. She’ll show you where to start.”

The woman from earlier gave him a short look that was neither kind nor cruel. Just measuring. She turned without another word, and he followed.

The corridors wound deep through the mansion, each turn revealing some quiet detail—a painting here, a chandelier there, soft carpets underfoot. It was overwhelming in a way he hadn’t expected, the silence pressing in like a weight.

As they passed a glass door that opened onto the back garden, he caught a glimpse of sunlight spilling across trimmed hedges and the distant shimmer of a swimming pool. The sound of laughter drifted faintly from somewhere beyond, young and carefree, but gone as quickly as it came.

He didn’t think much of it. The estate was large. Voices carried.

He simply adjusted his bag again and kept walking.

guess what ive just done. ive just finished another show 👅👅👅 im on show 8 now but one that i kind of want to watch is literally 31st on the list

BRO i cant wait that long

but im gonna have to, i made a vow to watch all of them in the exact order so now it's irreversible

No Safe Place

Chapter 10: Eyes on You

You were back at school the next day, unaware of the hidden brawl that last night.

Henry saw you the second you stepped through the front entrance.

He didn’t approach right away. Just watched from a distance, leaning against a wall near the lockers, eyes sharp. Like he was making sure you were really here, really breathing. You felt his gaze even before you met it—that quiet intensity that had shifted from cruel to something… stranger. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded once when your eyes locked, and then turned to follow you.

All day, he lingered. Not right beside you, never obvious. But close enough. In the hall outside your first period. Three rows behind you in second. Near your locker before lunch. A shadow with a purpose.

And not once did you see Patrick.

It should’ve made you feel better. Safer. But it only made you feel more watched.

Halfway through the day, during the lull between classes, Henry brushed past a water fountain just as Patrick rounded a corner. They nearly collided, and for a second, everything held still. Then Patrick leaned in close to Henry, lips twisting into a cruel smirk.

"You can't protect them forever," he murmured, low enough for only Henry to hear. "I have more than one trick up my sleeve."

Henry didn’t reply.

Not with words.

His shoulder slammed into Patrick as he passed, hard enough to knock the other boy half a step back. Henry didn’t even turn around.

Patrick just laughed softly, rubbing his ribs. "Tick tock, Bowers."

After the final bell, the sky was already darkening. You should’ve gone straight home, but you lingered by the fence, trying to collect your thoughts. That’s when Henry caught up to you.

His hand caught your arm, firm but not rough. “Hey. I need to talk to you.”

You turned, eyebrows raised. He looked tense, eyes scanning the lot behind you like he expected something to jump out of the shadows.

“What?” you asked.

He hesitated, then leaned in, voice low. “Watch your back. Patrick’s not done.”

You blinked. “What are you talking about?”

“He said something to me today.” Henry’s grip on your arm tightened slightly. “Just— just… be careful.”

You pulled your arm back. “I can handle Patrick.”

Henry frowned. “I’m serious.”

“So am I,” you shot back. “I don’t need you shadowing me around school like I’m about to fall apart.”

Henry’s jaw worked, but he didn’t argue. He just stared at you for a long second, something unreadable in his eyes.

Then he stepped back, nodding once. “Fine. Just... don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

You watched him walk away, hands in his pockets, shoulders stiff.

ok so i finished that show like an hour ago and now im on another one

id say it's going quite well but who knows, ts is lowkey taking so long to finish even 10

but what did i expect? 👅👅👅

anyways, uhhhhhhhhhhhhh ill have to start writing chapters bcs ive left it so long and tho i still have 3 more chapters to post, that'll take like 2 minutes and then ill need more 😔🙏

ill maybe write one after i finish this show but no promises

No Safe Place

Chapter 9: Shit-Eating Grin

You stepped out of the shed, the door creaking shut behind you. The last of the daylight had slipped away while you were inside, and now the sky was an overcast blur of purples and greys. The school grounds were nearly empty—just the occasional rustle of trees and the hum of a flickering security light. Gravel crunched under your shoes when you hit the pavement. You didn’t look back.

The streets were quiet as you made your way home. A few porch lights glowed in the distance, and the occasional car passed with headlights sweeping long shadows across the sidewalk. You kept your pace steady, familiar with the route, taking the quieter streets like always. Nothing felt urgent. Nothing felt safe either. Just still. Still and watchful.

You walked with your head down, footsteps hollow on the sidewalk, backpack dragging at your shoulder. Still replaying Henry’s face. The near-touch. The tension you hadn’t been able to name.

You didn’t know he was behind you.

A block back. Always just far enough not to be seen. Just close enough to see you.

Henry didn’t know what he was doing. Not really. He told himself it wasn’t about obsession — it wasn’t. It was about making sure. About knowing you got home safe. About keeping something awful from happening before it was too late. It was easier to lie to himself that way. That it was duty. That it was control.

But none of this had ever been about control.

Every time his boots hit the sidewalk behind yours, he felt the storm in his chest coil tighter.

He saw the way you carried yourself, the way your shoulders stayed tense no matter how quiet the street was. You didn’t feel safe. And that made something in Henry want to tear the whole world down.

Then he saw Patrick.

Slipping out from the edge of a yard, eyes locked on your back like a hawk circling prey. He was grinning already. That lazy, shit-eating grin that Henry had learned to read years ago. The kind that always meant something bad was about to happen.

Henry stopped breathing.

Patrick started following — not fast, not stupid, just close enough to mean something. The grin widened, his shoulders relaxed like this was a game. Like he was about to win.

Henry’s hands curled into fists. He didn’t shout. He lunged.

The sound of impact cracked the quiet — Patrick slamming back against a wooden fence with enough force to shake it. Henry’s hand was already at his throat, pinning him before he could react.

“The fuck are you doing?” Henry hissed, voice low and shaking.

Patrick’s face twisted. “Jesus, Bowers — what the hell—”

Henry didn’t loosen his grip. “You were gonna follow him? Hurt him? Say it.”

Patrick’s eyes gleamed with mock innocence. “Just taking a walk. Maybe wanted to talk. That a crime now?”

Henry slammed him again, harder. The fence creaked. “Say it.”

Patrick’s smile twisted darker. “Fine. Maybe I wanted to scare him. See what he’d do. See if he cries. He’s always looking around like a kicked dog. Kinda cute.”

His vision narrowed, turned dark around the edges. The only thing he could see was Patrick — and the sick smile on his face — and suddenly nothing else mattered. Not the street, not the dark, not the bruises he’d leave behind.

He drove his fist into Patrick’s ribs. Once. Twice. The breath went out of Patrick in a wet cough, knees buckling.

Henry grabbed his jacket and yanked him back up. Face-to-face. Nose to nose.

“You do anything to him again, I swear to fuckin’ God, I’ll put you in the ground and leave you there.”

Patrick coughed, gasping. “Since when do you give a shit about anyone, huh?” Henry’s grip faltered for a second. Just a second. Then it came back twice as strong. “Since you turned into the creeps we see on the news."

Patrick stared. Something uncertain flickered behind his bloodshot eyes.

“I see the way you look at him,” Patrick said, half-laughing, half-breathless. “You’re just mad I got there first.”

Henry headbutted him and Patrick crumpled to the ground, groaning, clutching his face. Henry stood over him, chest heaving.

“You ever talk about him again —” He stopped. “I'll kill you.”

Patrick didn’t get up. Didn’t answer. He just muttered something venomous and dragged himself into the shadows.

Henry wiped blood from his knuckles, breathing hard. And when he looked up, you were gone. The corner where you’d turned was empty now. You hadn’t seen him. Hadn’t seen any of it. And somehow, that made it worse.

He stood there in the dark, heart pounding, the silence ringing.

“I'm sorry...” He muttered under his breath, more to himself than to you.

You were safe.

im watching show number 6 rn (my personal weatherman) and ts so freaky bro

actually, it's not really freaky compared to a lot of stuff ive seen before but the premise is and it has the potential to be much more

and bro, the yearning from tanada is lowkey crazy

he is so real, who wouldn't want segasaki (aka freakbob, aka freak master, aka freak lord)

uhmmmm anyway im back in school now and it's so ass bro

ive been trying to watch as much tv as i can and ive just ended up getting no sleep loll (literally got like an hour of sleep since my first day back) but now it's friday so i can watch to my heart's content and not have to wake up early in the morning

anyway, ill try and finish this show, start the next one and keep going from there but hopefully i finish the list of 70 (and the extras) SOON

No Safe Place

Chapter 8: A Ghost of Him

The next morning, school felt heavier than before. You had expected it — the sideways glances, the whispers, the way the bruises on your ribs and shoulder throbbed with every breath. But beneath the usual dread, there was something new. Something twisting in your chest that you couldn’t place.

Henry was back.

Not with the explosive fury you’d come to expect—the snarling taunts, the crashing fists, the wild chaos of his gang surrounding him like a pack. No, Henry had slipped into something colder, darker. He was no longer the storm raging at the centre of the school; he was the shadow lurking just beyond your vision—silent, still, watching with eyes that never fully met yours.

You caught sight of him first during homeroom. His gaze was fixed and sharp, but you knew it wasn't really on the lesson. It was on you.

You kept your gaze low, fingers tight around your notebook. Your heart hammered a rhythm in your ears as if warning you to run. But you stayed put, pretending to write, pretending to be small.

Later, in the crowded hallway between classes, the ghosts followed.

You were weaving through clusters of students when you felt it — a brush of skin against skin. Just for a second, fleeting, but unmistakable. Henry’s shoulder against yours. You barely had time to register before he slipped away, swallowed by the crowd. No glance back. No acknowledgment.

You wanted to ask if it was on purpose. Wanted to shout at him for making you feel like you were losing your mind. But your throat went dry, and the words never came.

Victor and Belch were around too, but they looked off—uneasy, like they were waiting for something but didn’t know what. Victor kept sneaking glances toward you and muttering to Henry, who never responded out loud.

Patrick? Still missing. The absence made a hollow space in the school’s atmosphere — like the storm had paused but wasn’t over.

You spent lunch hiding in the janitor’s closet again, pressing your back against the cold wall. Your phone buzzed softly. A text from an unknown number.

”Look behind the auto shop after school.”

No name. No clue. Just a single message that made your skin crawl.

The final bell rang like a starting gun.

You moved quickly through the halls, heart thumping so loud it drowned out the noise of the school. You stuck to the shadows, keeping your hoodie pulled up, hands shoved deep in your pockets.

You didn’t mean to end up there. Not really.

You could’ve turned down any other street. Taken the long way home, or gone straight through town where it was crowded, noisy — safe in its own way. But your feet moved on their own, each step pulling you closer like the ground had already decided for you.

The air smelled of oil and rust. The late afternoon light slanted low, casting long, dark shadows.

You weren’t here for a confrontation. You weren’t even sure if you were supposed to be here. He didn’t want to talk. Not really. And you weren’t here to listen. But something in you led you closer.

You saw him immediately.

Henry.

He leaned against the side of an old truck, a cigarette dangling from his fingers. Smoke curled around him like a cloak, hiding half his face.

There was something different in his gaze — his eyes locked onto yours — sharp, unreadable, like they were holding back a thousand things he refused to say.

It wasn’t the glare he used on everyone else. Not that cold, careless sneer. This was different. Slower. Heavier. Like he was trying to memorize the shape of you before he could stop himself. Like looking at you hurt, but he couldn’t look away.

You didn’t move closer.

Neither did he.

The silence stretched between you, thick and heavy, like a weight pressing down on your chest. He took a slow drag from his cigarette, exhaling through his nose. Then, without looking away, he said, “You came.”

You nodded, unable to find words.

Henry flicked the cigarette to the ground and crushed it with the toe of his boot. His hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched as if trying to disappear.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, voice rough, like he’d been yelling for days and it was finally catching up with him.

You swallowed hard. “Why did you send that text?”

You looked at him, eyes sharp with confusion, hollowed by hurt, lit with something like longing you hadn’t meant to show. It wasn’t accusatory — not fully. But it wasn’t soft, either. It was everything at once: the ache of unanswered questions, the heat of buried anger, the fragile hope that maybe, just maybe, this meant something more than another scar.

His eyes met yours again, dark and unreadable. “I just— did...”

You wanted to laugh, but it caught in your throat. And then the silence wrapped around you again.

You broke it suddenly, voice barely above a whisper: “Why are you like this?”

He looked away, jaw tightening. “Like what?”

“Like... haunted.”

His throat tightened, and his voice cracked. “You think I don’t know that?”

He stepped forward, then stopped. His breath hitched — sharp and uncertain — like the fight inside him was far from over. His hand lifted slowly, trembling just a little, fingers twitching in the air between you. For a split second, he looked like he might actually do it. Like the walls he built so violently around himself had thinned to nothing—and all that was left was this: his hand, open, trembling, reaching.

But then he pulled back — hard — as if the very thought scared him. Not because he didn’t want to.

But because if he did, he might not be able to go back.

“Don’t,” he whispered. “Don’t make me do that.”

i now have 70 bls on my list instead of 50 so... yk i have a lot to get through

it is possible i have bit off more than i can chew, but who cares? ive watched 17,696 episodes according to my tv time and that's not even counting what i watched before i got the app

pls add me on tv time bro 🙏 ive got one friend and we dont even have the same taste in tv

just search cloroform and im the only one that comes up, trust ✊

anyways, im still on the third one?? it turned out to be longer than i thought but also im pretty sure my friend hasn't even started yet so i stopped watching it for a bit so she has a chance to catch up

rn, im watching something else that was on my extras list and ive only watched one episode but it's so GOODDD

the only reason im not further into it is that i legit got dragged out of the house at 7 when it turned out we went to this place on the WRONG DAY and actually, our booking was for tuesday

like how do you mix up friday and tuesday?

anyway, that pmo and now im stuck at a family member's house and im secretly watching episode 2 in silence

No Safe Place

Chapter 7: Hesitation

It had been two days since the fight. You hadn’t gone back to school.

It wasn’t just the bruises, though they were bad enough. A swollen lip, yellowing marks across your ribs, a stiff shoulder. But you’d taken worse before. You could’ve walked through the front doors with your hoodie up and your head down. You could’ve done what you always did: endure.

But something in you had cracked.

You weren’t sure what hurt more—the bruises, or the memory of Henry’s face. The way he looked at you like you were something he didn’t recognise. Like the fight wasn’t about Patrick. Like it had never been about Patrick. So you stayed home, let the whispers churn without you, let Henry do whatever it was he did when he wasn’t throwing punches.

When you finally returned, the school felt different. Eyes followed you more than usual. Teachers glanced too long. Some students stared, but most just whispered, especially when they thought you couldn’t hear.

You heard enough. You kept your head down. Walked faster. Ate lunch in the janitor’s closet just to avoid the cafeteria.

And Henry? He was nowhere.

You didn’t see him for three days. Not in the halls, not behind the school, not even with the others. Victor and Belch loitered like always, but they looked less sure without him. Patrick hadn’t been seen since the fight, and no one really wanted to ask.

When you finally saw Henry again, it wasn’t on school grounds.

It was late. Past the last bell. You were alone, again. You’d started taking longer routes home—quiet ones. Side streets. Places no one cared to look. And maybe that’s why he found you.

The old gym shed was barely a building. Just rusted metal and forgotten mats. You sat on the floor with your back to the wall, knees pulled up, jacket wrapped tight. Trying to breathe. Trying to not think about fists or blood or the way Henry had stared at you like he knew something he hated.

The door creaked open. You didn’t move.

Then his voice, low and sharp.

“I figured I’d find you here.”

You looked up. Henry Bowers stood in the doorway, backlit by the fading daylight. His face was unreadable—tense, pale, jaw clenched tight. He stepped inside like he owned the space, but his movements were uneven. Hesitant. He closed the door behind him.

You didn’t speak. Neither did he. For a long moment, he just looked at you.

Then: “Why are you everywhere I look? I– I can't get rid of you...”

You blinked. “I didn’t ask you to come here.”

His expression flickered. Anger? Regret? You couldn’t tell. He crossed the room in a few long strides and stopped in front of you, looming again like he used to—except this time, his shoulders were tense. Like he didn’t want to be close but couldn’t stop himself.

You made eye contact. There was a pause — heavy, breathless — as your eyes met. His gaze was burning, searching, and underneath the fury, there was something desperate. He looked at you too long — like he was waiting for you to flinch, or speak, or understand something he couldn’t say.

“You don’t get to look at me like that now,” he muttered.

“Like what?”

“Like I didn't just beat the shit out of you a week ago.”

You stood, even though your ribs protested. Even though being this close to him still made your skin crawl in a dozen ways you didn’t understand.

“You helped me,” you said quietly. “You saved me."

Henry’s face twisted. “I didn’t do it for you.”

“Then why?”

He looked away, like the wall might give him an answer. “I don’t—,” he said. “I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing when I’m around you.”

His eyes found yours and didn’t let go. It was the kind of look that felt like a question and a threat all at once. Henry’s hands curled into fists. Not in threat—habit. Like he didn’t know what else to do with them. “I should’ve let him keep hitting you,” he said, and the words landed like a slap. “It would’ve been easier.”

“But you didn’t.”

The silence stretched, and for a while, it remained unbroken. Then, without thinking, you said, “What do you want from me, Henry?”

He stepped closer. Too close. His breath was uneven. “I don’t—” His breath hitched, sharp and uncertain—like he was caught between a laugh and a breakdown, and couldn’t tell the difference anymore.

His hand lifted—slow, uncertain, like it was moving before he could stop it. Just inches from your skin, it hovered there, fingers twitching with the ghost of a touch he couldn’t bring himself to make.

And then, just as quickly, he pulled back.

Not because he didn’t want to. But because he did—too much.

Because touching you would’ve made it real. Would’ve meant admitting something he didn’t have the words for, didn’t even want to name.

His hand fell to his side like it had betrayed him. He didn’t look at you. Just clenched his jaw and stepped back, like distance could undo the moment.

“Fuck...” he whispered.

You didn’t flinch.

He stepped back. Jaw clenched again. Like he hated every second of this.

And then he was gone.

Just like that.

Leaving you in the dark, in the silence, with only the sound of your heartbeat and the truth neither of you wanted to say out loud.

It wasn’t over.