Part Two: What the Body Remembers

Eli didn't speak during the first four sessions.

Not once.

He showed up, sat in the same chair, arms crossed, hood up. Christian didn't push. He knew better than to force a wound to speak before it had scabbed.

But bodies had their own language.

Eli's flinches weren't random—they had rhythm. Certain words, sudden noises, the way Christian reached for the blinds too quickly. It was in the tensing of his jaw, the twitch in his fingers, the way he never let the chair back touch his spine.

A child taught to never relax.

A boy who had only ever known safety as a lie.

Christian began to piece it together in the silences.

Court-mandated therapy meant a paper trail. Christian read every page—juvenile records, social worker reports, a vague note about "domestic trauma," but no details. No names.

Only one pattern: Eli always ran.

Ran from group homes, from schools, from hospitals. From anyone who tried to get close.

Until one night, he didn't run fast enough.

Christian had seen the emergency report. Seventeen, picked up after a suicide attempt behind a liquor store. They found track marks. Burn scars. Cigarette lighter. Two broken ribs. No one came to claim him.

The system labeled him "at-risk." But Christian knew what that really meant.

It meant forgotten.

Discarded.

Dangerous only because he'd been in danger for too long.

That fifth session, Christian brought in tea. It was mint, not eucalyptus. Gentle, sweet. He set it in front of Eli without a word, then sat down.

Eli stared at it for a long time.

"You know what people hate?" he said, voice like sand. "When they don't get to fix you."

Christian didn't look up from his notes. "I'm not here to fix you."

Eli's eyes narrowed. "Then what are you here for?"

Christian met his gaze for the first time that day. "To stay. Until you're ready."

Eli didn't answer.

But he drank the tea.

And when he left, he didn't slam the door.