Elias sat in the armchair, a statue of quiet contemplation. But his stillness was a lie. Beneath his composed exterior, his heart was a frantic, desperate thing, beating a rhythm that had nothing to do with adrenaline and everything to do with the sleeping boy on the couch. The setting sun cast long shadows, painting the room in a gentle amber light, and still, Elias watched.
Milo's chest rose and fell with the soft, even rhythm of sleep, every sound a comfort to Elias. But it was Milo's shirt that held his complete, utter, and mortifying attention. As Milo had settled into his sleep, the fabric had curled at the hem, revealing the pale, subtle curve of his stomach. It was a simple, innocent thing, but to Elias, it was a work of devastating, quiet art.
Just as Elias felt his breath catch in his throat, Milo shifted. He let out a soft sigh in his sleep and turned slightly, nestling deeper into the cushions. The fabric of his t-shirt, pulled taut by the movement, rode up a little more. Now, a faint, straight line of muscle was visible, a ghost of definition that spoke of a strength Milo didn't even seem to realize he possessed.
A wave of heat, powerful and sudden, washed over Elias. His entire face flushed a deep crimson, and his wolf-ears, already flat with embarrassment, twitched wildly. His hands, resting on the arms of the chair, clenched into tight fists. He was a being of immense power, of ancient lore, capable of stopping water with a thought, but this small, unconscious revelation was threatening to tear his composure to shreds.
He stared, unable to look away, utterly consumed by the sight. He found himself cataloging every single detail: the soft, unblemished skin, the way it caught the light, the graceful curve of his side. And then, as if to torture him further, Milo shifted again.
This time, Milo's arm moved, coming to rest above his head. The action pulled his shirt up even higher. Now, not just the pale curve was visible, but a solid, tantalizing landscape of perfectly formed, incredibly toned abs. They were beautifully defined, a testament to a strength Milo so casually hid under loose t-shirts. They were even more perfect than the ones Elias had glimpsed that agonizing night in the bed.
Elias gasped, a soft, strangled sound that was lost in the quiet room. His entire body went rigid. His heart, already pounding, began to beat with a desperate, frantic rhythm that felt like it would break his ribs. His mind, which was usually so clear and analytical, was a chaotic mess of pure, unspoken adoration. The sight of Milo's sleeping face, so peaceful and beautiful, combined with the utterly sensual reveal of his stomach, was a torment of the most exquisite kind.
He wanted to touch him. Not in the frantic, desperate way he had a week ago, but with a quiet, careful reverence. He wanted to trace the line of those abs with his fingertips, to feel the warmth of Milo's skin beneath his hand. He wanted to pull the shirt down, to protect this sacred, vulnerable moment from the world, and from his own gaze.
Elias stood up, moving with a quiet urgency. He approached the couch, his deep green eyes fixed on the beautiful sight before him. He reached out a trembling hand, his fingers hovering just inches from Milo's skin. He was going to do it. He was going to gently pull the shirt down. It was a small act, but to him, it was a profound declaration of quiet affection.
But his fluster won. Just as his fingers were about to make contact, his hand began to shake uncontrollably. A wave of shame and embarrassment, fueled by the sheer, unadulterated yearning he felt, washed over him. He let out a silent, pained sigh and pulled his hand back, clenching his fists at his sides. He couldn't do it. He couldn't touch Milo, not in such a sacred, vulnerable moment. The sight of him was enough.
It was more than enough.
Elias stood there, a silent, flustered guardian. The sun was setting, painting the room in a fiery hue that mirrored the heat on his cheeks. He was a powerful, ancient being, but in this moment, he was reduced to a silently admiring, deeply flustered boy. The simple, innocent sight of Milo's abs, a quiet, unconscious reveal, was all the proof he needed. He was completely, irrevocably, and secretly in love. And he was completely helpless to do anything about it.