Boundaries

The hospital room smelled sterile—an antiseptic bite that pricked Elias's skin like a thousand tiny needles.The soft whir of machines. The sharp rustle of paper gowns. The cold touch of metal rails.It should have repelled him. Usually, it did.

And yet, here he was—sitting rigid on the edge of the bed, watching Adeline sleep.

His fingers cramped at the thought of touching anything unnecessary—bed rails, door handles, even his own face.Invisible threats closed in like a cage.Every breath carried risk. Every glance around the room whispered caution.

But—

Every time his eyes traced the gentle rise and fall of her chest, the slight crease between her brows, something inside him clenched and shattered all at once.

Without meaning to, his hand reached out—hovering just inches from hers—torn between the instinct to recoil and the primal urge to close the distance.

A silent war raged inside him—years of carefully built walls clashing with the raw need to stay close, to protect.

He swallowed the bitter taste of panic and steadied himself with a single thought: she needs me.

Slowly, he pulled a disposable glove from the box on the bedside table.Thin latex stretched tight over his hand—his own fragile armor.

His hand trembled, but he reached out and took hers gently.

A small act of defiance.A fragile truce with the invisible threats his mind conjured.

She stirred slightly, eyes fluttering open—still trusting as she looked at him.

Elias blinked hard and looked away.The weight of his fears pressed down, but so did the weight of responsibility.

He would not let them break him.Not—not this time.

Sometimes, bravery wasn't about conquering everything at once.It was about choosing what mattered enough to face the fear anyway.

The following morning, the room was more subdued — except for the steady beeping of the monitors. Elias sat next to her once more, this time with a bottle of water and a disposable cup carefully opened. His gloved fingers were deliberate in their movement, not touching anything she didn't need to.

When Adeline moved and stretched out a hand for the cup, his gaze jumped to his hands, clenched in tension. For an instant, he hesitated, then eased the cup toward her lips.

"Drink," he muttered, voice raspy from fatigue.

She smiled lightly, a tiny movement of thanks. His chest constricted.

Later, as a nurse came in, Elias's eyes flicked away, onto the floor, his hand holding more tightly to the arm of the chair. He edged away, ever so slightly, from the nurse's hand as she repositioned the IV tube.

Adeline saw the movement and looked up, a blank expression passing over her face. "It's all right," she whispered. But Elias merely nodded slightly.

Throughout the day, Elias battled invisible walls — the urge to wash his hands again, the instinct to avoid touching surfaces. Yet, whenever Adeline's eyes met his, he felt a quiet strength growing — a tether pulling him forward.

When she winced slightly and tried to sit up, Elias was instantly at her side, gloves on, steadying her with the gentlest touch he could manage.

"It's okay," he whispered. "I'm here."

And finally, for once, the fear gave way to something much more tangible.