Page 4 of Kept
He drifted down the hallway and up the stairs, curiosity nudging him forward. The next door, right across the hall—it had to be the bedroom.
He pushed it open inch by inch. As moonlight slanted across the floor, Eli’s nose filled with the new scent: a warm, spiced cologne, layered with pine and a deeper, musky undertone that felt alive.
The smell curled in his chest and made his pulse skip. He hesitated, just inside the doorway, scanning for anything out of place.
Clothes were slung over a battered leather chair, a jacket that looked soft from years of wear. The bed dominated the space, a solid thing, built for permanence. Its wooden headboard coiled in carved vines and snarled leaves, the posts sturdy enough to last through generations.
Eli drifted closer. The bed didn’t so much as squeak as he sank onto the edge. Something about the steadiness of it—the way it gave but didn’t yield—made his own breath truly slow down for the first time since Scott had started eyeballing him that night. He folded his arms over his knees, tucking in, trying to take up as little space as possible.
He couldn’t help it. He let his head tip forward, letting himself breathe in the scent pressed deep into the pillow—a wild, masculine warmth. There was nothing subtle about it: sweat and pine, leather, a smoky undertone, and beneath it all, the dense, living smell of a man’s skin, something earthy and raw and undeniably male.
Eli’s cheeks flushed. Being here, being wrapped in that scent… It hit him harder than he wanted it to. His whole chest felt shaky, heat gathering low and tight.
He jerked away, shame prickling up his arms, down his neck. What the hell was wrong with him? Why was he—why did this ache, like part of him wanted to vanish, and part of him wanted to call out,Look at me. Why couldn’t he just be invisible? Why did wanting, even in his own head, make him feel like he was on fire?
He hugged his knees, tucking himself smaller. Revulsion climbed up through the warmth in his gut.
Fucking disgusting. You wanna be one of them? Is that what you are?The words spat, sharp and cruel, in Scott’s voice; that sound had lived rent-free in his skull for years, barking every time Eli’d caught himself wanting anything.
No matter how many times he told himself Scott was full of shit, the words had stuck, chewing holes through comfort, turning simple curiosity into something ugly.
No wonder no one wants you around.
He shut his eyes, burying his face in his arms. The comfort of the bed soured instantly, the air twisting with guilt and memory and an old, sticky dread. His insides knotted up, mean and tight, so familiar he almost didn’t notice it; shame and longing, bound together inseparably.
It had been easier, years ago. Before Scott, before all the rules about how boys should act crashed down around him. Eli had instinctively been drawn to men in the same way he was drawn to certain songs, or sketches—some deep curiosity, something that made him hum inside. Nothing dangerous. Nothing bad.
Things changed when Scott barged into his life.
The lines about what was allowed narrowed to a needlepoint: manning up, toughening up, making his voice deep and his arms strong and his interests loud and obvious and nothing close to gentle. Scott made sure Eli knew just how short he fell—just how far from man enough he apparently was.
Eli’s tender new attraction folded in on itself, buried deep where neither his mom nor Scott could notice.
It was hard to want men—any men—when the only example was someone who made every day feel like a test you couldn’t pass. There wasn't comfort there, only warning signs that said:Don’t want. Don’t even look. Don’t breathe wrong, or you’ll pay.
Despite it all, Eli’s gaze drifted back across the room, at the abandoned jacket, the boots half-kicked under the bedframe—signs of a man who was strong, comfortable in his own skin, nothing like Scott and his brittle, defensive, by-the-books masculinity.
Eli’s thoughts hovered there, unable to settle.
He didn’t want to be someone like Scott, didn’t want to be a “real man” just because people told him that was how to be worth something. That he had to be aggressive, to protect what was his.
He just wanted to be himself—soft, real, alive—even if he didn’t know what that really looked like yet.
To be the one being protected.
His fingers tightened on his sleeves. “Enough,” he muttered under his breath. There was no sense in letting his brain chase these thoughts. He was here to survive the night, that was all—not to have a crisis over a stranger's bed, for fuck’s sake.
He clenched his jaw and forced himself to focus on the moonlight, trying to let himself forget, for just a little longer, how much he still wanted things he wasn’t sure he should.
Just make it until sunrise. Keep my head down, stay silent, and slip out when the first birds start yelling at the window. I'll figure out everything else later.
That was all his life had become: holding on for one more night at a time.
Then—creak.
Eli froze.
The noise had come from downstairs. It wasn’t the wind, and it wasn’t the house settling. It was too heavy, too deliberate.
