Absolutely. Here's Chapter 17 of After Hours
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Chapter 17: Where Healing Begins
Julian didn't sleep that night.
He stayed on the couch beside Elliot, who finally dozed off at dawn — his head in Julian's lap, breath shallow but steady, like his body didn't quite trust rest yet.
When the sunlight slipped through the curtains and the ash and wine bottles caught the golden glow like relics from a war zone, Julian moved.
Carefully. Quietly.
First, he cleaned.
He threw out the wine bottles, emptied the ashtrays, opened every window. He washed the glasses in the sink. Picked up clothes from the floor. Wiped away days of dust and neglect.
It wasn't just for Elliot.
It was for himself, too.
A way to do something. To say: we're still alive. We still matter.
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When Elliot stirred hours later, Julian was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, brow furrowed over a pan of soft scrambled eggs and butter-toasted sourdough.
He turned when he heard the soft shuffle of feet.
Elliot stood in the hallway — pale, wrecked, shirt hanging off one shoulder, hair a wild mess.
And in his eyes: shame.
Julian didn't speak right away. Just nodded toward the bathroom.
"Go shower. I left clean towels on the hook. Toothbrush's still in the drawer."
Elliot hesitated. "You… stayed."
Julian looked down at the pan, voice low. "Yeah."
Elliot didn't move. "Why?"
Julian set the spatula down, turned to face him fully. "Because loving someone doesn't mean abandoning them at their worst. It means helping them get better. If they're willing."
A pause.
Elliot's voice was raw. "I don't know how."
Julian nodded. "Then let me help you figure it out."
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That afternoon, Elliot sat in bed with damp hair, wearing clean clothes and holding a plate of Julian's cooking — food he barely tasted, but finished out of quiet gratitude.
Afterward, Julian sat beside him, not touching. Not pressing. Just there.
"I called someone," Julian said. "A therapist. Discreet. Specialized in trauma and control dynamics."
Elliot's throat tightened. "For me?"
Julian nodded. "For us. If you want it."
A long pause.
Then, quietly: "I do."
---
The days that followed were slow.
Elliot didn't return to the office.
He took time off. Julian covered what he could — without asking for praise, without expecting thanks.
They didn't fall back into bed. Not yet. The rope stayed tucked away. The blindfold untouched.
Instead, they learned each other again. With words.
Elliot started therapy. Twice a week. Julian would wait for him in the café across the street, reading quietly. Sometimes when Elliot came out, he'd look lost.
Julian always stood up first.
Held his hand without needing to say a word.
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One night, Elliot came to the living room barefoot, clutching a blanket, hair damp from another long shower.
Julian was on the couch, sipping tea, curled in his hoodie.
Elliot sat beside him. Then slowly — cautiously — laid his head on Julian's chest.
"I don't know if I deserve this," he whispered.
Julian stroked his hair. "Maybe you don't."
A pause.
"But I love you anyway. And that means we rebuild. Slowly. On my terms. With respect."
Elliot nodded. "I want that."
And for the first time in weeks…
Julian smiled.
---
Their intimacy returned in pieces.
A touch here. A kiss there. A hand lingering too long over a scarred wrist.
They talked — really talked — about boundaries. About trust. About what Elliot's control had been hiding, and what Julian truly needed when he surrendered.
Not punishment. Not power.
Safety. Intimacy. Devotion.
And bit by bit… Elliot gave him that.
Not with rope. Not with orders.
But with honesty.