11. CJ
CJ
A week has passed since Deck and I talked in my office. A dull pressure settles beneath my ribs, the kind that doesn’t fade no matter how many times I breathe through it.
Eli has agreed to stay with me for as long as he wants, and I’m grateful for it.
The thought of him leaving, of disappearing to wherever he’d planned to go, twists something inside me. My stomach tightens. The idea of him gone hits harder than it should, sharp enough to make my breath catch.
I want him here. With me.
Close enough that I know he’s safe.
I’m sitting in my office reading the same report for the tenth time, but my mind keeps drifting back to this morning. To Eli. He had another nightmare last night.
His screams had torn me out of sleep, raw and jagged, the kind that hit straight in the chest. My pulse spiked so hard it rattled my teeth. I’d heard his nightmares before, weeks of them, but this one was different. This one sounded like something breaking.
I stood outside his bedroom, listening to him cry behind the door.
I knew the pattern by now, knew he’d fall into silence eventually, knew he hated being woken from it.
But knowing didn’t make it easier. Every part of me wanted to go in, shake him awake, pull him out of whatever hell had its hands on him.
I wanted to tell him he was safe, that he wasn’t alone, that I wasn’t going anywhere.
But wanting and acting aren’t the same thing.
Knowing Adrian was in Campbell River made every scream feel like a physical alarm bell.
My hand hovered over the doorknob, fingers trembling with the urge to cross a line I wasn’t sure he’d let me cross.
Not because it was our first week, because it wasn’t.
Because the longer he stayed, the harder it became to pretend I didn’t feel this…
pull. And if I went in now, I wasn’t sure I could hide it.
So I forced myself to step back. To turn around. To walk away from the door even though every instinct screamed at me not to.
I lay in bed staring into the dark, listening to his screams echo down the hallway long after they’d stopped. And the worst part wasn’t that I couldn’t help him.
It was that I wanted to, more than I should.
My chest ached with every echo. I couldn’t shut it out. Couldn’t stop replaying it.
A knock on the door cuts through the memory, and I glance up from the report I’ve been pretending to read for the last twenty minutes.
“Come in.”
The door opens slowly. Eli peeks around it. “Hey.”
My pulse does something stupid. “Hey.”
His fingers tighten around the door handle. The movement is small, but it hits me like a warning. He’s nervous. Always nervous.
“I was wondering, um,” He hesitates, eyes flicking away. “Um, is that your bike outside?”
I blink. “My bike?”
“The black one,” he says.
A smile tugs at my mouth before I can stop it. “The Harley? Yeah. That’s mine.” His face brightens at the confirmation.
Eli steps fully into the office. “It’s beautiful.”
I lean back in my chair. “You’re talking about the bike, right?” I add lightly.
His ears go red. “Yes.”
The sight pulls something warm through my chest, unexpected and sharp.
I grin. “Good answer.”
He rolls his eyes, but a small smile tugs at his mouth. “What year?”
I raise a brow. “You know bikes?”
“Not much,” he adds quickly, too quickly, like the words slip out before he can stop them. “But enough to recognize a Fat Boy.”
His shoulders tense, like he’s bracing for impact. It makes my jaw tighten.
I stand. “Come on.”
His eyes widen. “What?”
“You want to see it?”
He glances down, then back up, caught between caution and something brighter. Excitement wins.
“Really?”
I grab my keys. “Really.”
A few minutes later, we’re standing beside the bike. The mid-morning sun catches the black paint and chrome, turning it almost liquid. Eli circles it slowly, reverently, like he’s approaching something sacred.
His fingers hover over the handlebars, but he doesn’t touch them. Like he’s afraid he’ll break it just by existing near it.
“You can touch it,” I say quietly.
His hand jerks back immediately. His eyes drop to the ground like he’s been corrected without words.
“Sorry,” he mumbles fast. “I didn’t mean to…”
The apology is too quick, too practiced. It hits me like a bruise.
“Eli.”
He looks up, cautious. Guarded.
“You don’t need permission,” I say, softer than I mean it to come out.
He swallows as though the words hurt. Like they don’t fit inside him yet.
He reaches out again and brushes his fingers across the seat. A small smile forms. Real. Unguarded.
Fuck.
“She’s gorgeous,” he says softly.
“She?” I ask.
He shrugs. “Vehicles are women.”
A laugh slips out of me before I can stop it. “Who taught you that?”
For half a second, his smile falters. “Dad.”
A cold ripple moves through me. That wasn’t just a slip. That was a wound.
I watch as his whole body goes still, like something inside him is now locked away. Hidden from me.
His jaw is tight, and his eyes are down, looking at the ground, and his feet shuffle.
“My neighbor,” he corrects quietly.
Deck’s voice echoes in my head. He’ll talk when he’s ready.
“So your neighbor liked bikes?” I ask, keeping my tone even.
Relief flickers across Eli’s face, small but real.
“Yeah,” he nods. “A lot.”
He starts circling the bike again, steadier now.
“I used to help him clean them,” he says.
Pause.
“He had three.”
A distant smile tugs at him. Like he’s looking somewhere else entirely.
“He’d let me watch while he worked.”
I lean against the bike. “How old were you?”
The question slips out before I can stop it.
Eli shrugs. “Twelve.”
Then he freezes. Eyes dropping again. His breath stutters. His shoulders curl inward, like he’s trying to disappear.
“Twelve?” I ask, quieter this time.
His shoulders tense. “Maybe younger.”
Another slip. Another thing he didn’t mean to give away. I let it pass.
“You ever ride one?”
The tension breaks a little.
“No.” A short laugh escapes him. “He wouldn’t let me touch them.”
Something dark flickers across his face, gone before I can catch it fully.
“Too dangerous?” I ask, still leaning against the bike.
A strange look crosses his face. “Something like that.”
The answer sits wrong, not for what he says, but for what he doesn’t.
Silence settles between us, and it’s easy this time.
Eli leans against the bike beside me. Heat crawls up my neck. He’s close enough that I can feel the warmth of him. Catch the faint scent of his shampoo. Close enough that my thoughts start misfiring.
“So,” he says too quickly. “Tell me about the military.”
I laugh. “There it is.”
“What?”
“You do this, you know.”
His brow furrows. “Do what?”
“Every time the conversation gets near you, you redirect it back to me.”
His eyes widen slightly. “I don’t.”
“You absolutely do.”
His mouth opens. Closes. Opens again, “I…”
I grin. “Eli.”
His shoulders drop in surrender. “Maybe a little,” he admits, a small smile breaking through.
“A lot.”
“A little.”
“A lot.”
He laughs as we argue. The sound hits me square in the chest, sharp and warm.
I want to hear it again. And standing here beside him, I finally understand what Deck meant.
Maybe I don’t need to fix him, or need all the answers.
Maybe what he needs isn’t saving; He just needs somewhere safe to breathe.
The thought settles deep, heavy and certain. I want to be that place.
I can give him that. I want to be that.
Eli tilts his head. “What?”
I realize I’ve been staring again. “Nothing.”
His smile softens, “Liar.”
I just smile, the decision already settling into place. “Can you wait here a minute? I left something inside.”
He nods, and I turn, moving fast. I cut back into the building and head straight to Deck’s desk, where I know he keeps a spare helmet. I grab it, then head to my office, grabbing my jacket, wallet, and phone. On the way back, I snag Eli’s jacket and phone.
When I step outside again, I stop dead in my tracks.
Eli leans against the Harley with the mountains and forest behind him framing him as if he is a piece of art.
His face is tilted to the sun, enjoying the heat; His eyes are closed, and a small smile is on his face.
His snakebite piercings glint in the sun, his body soft as he leans against the bike.
My breath catches. The reality of how stunning he is slams into me like a truck.
He beautiful. Not in a way I can easily file away as a thought; It’s something more immediate than that, and I feel my body react to this man leaning on my bike.
I realize then I need to see him on my bike.
To feel him behind me. Heat floods my chest. Wanting him feels reckless, dangerous, impossible to ignore.
He opens his eyes and gives me a small smile, his eyebrow lifting at the helmets in my hand.
I clear my throat, “Let’s go for a ride.”
* * *
The bike vibrates beneath us as we leave Campbell River behind and head down Gold River Highway. Eli presses firmly against my back, his grip tight around my waist as we pull away.
As the miles roll by, I feel him begin to loosen. His hold eases, his body settling against mine with an instinctive familiarity that makes my pulse spike. The way he moves with the bike, the ease in his corners, the way he climbed on without hesitation, isn’t just luck. It’s muscle memory.
Suddenly, I’m hyper-aware of every point of contact: the heat of his body, the weight of him against my back, his thighs holding steady against mine.
Then his hand moves, settling on my thigh.
He doesn’t grip hard; he just rests it there.
I cover his fingers with my own, and instead of pulling back, his fingers curl into mine.
A quiet wave of relief settles deep in my chest. With his hand resting under mine, his chest pressed to my back, and his chin near my shoulder, we ride.
The road blurs into forest and mountain, and for the first time in longer than I care to admit, everything inside me goes quiet.
We pull into the Elk River car park and kill the engine. I suggest the suspension bridge as it is an easy track, nothing demanding. We walk down the stairs together, voices low, people passing us without attention.
When we reach the bridge, Eli stops, taking it all in. “This is beautiful.”
We move to the middle of the bridge. Eli leans his forearms on the railing, staring out over the valley while the river roars far below.
For a long time, neither of us speaks.
“I’ve never done this before,” he says, breaking the silence.
I glance at him. “Never been on a suspension bridge?”
His lips twitch slightly. “Everything.”
The word hangs there.
“The trip. The bike. Just…” He shrugs faintly. “…being.”
I don’t interrupt. I just watch him as his gaze drops to the river.
“Being allowed to exist without permission.”
Something in my chest tightens at that. I don’t have an answer that fits that, so I step closer and lean on the railing beside him.
Below us, the river cuts through stone that’s been here longer than either of us can imagine. Eli shifts subtly, then leans into my shoulder.
“The river’s funny,” I say.
He glances at me but doesn’t respond. I tip my chin toward the water.
“Those rocks have spent thousands of years trying to tell it where to go. Push it left. Push it right. Keep it in line.”
His eyes follow mine downward.
“But water doesn’t listen,” I continue. “It finds pressure points. Weak spots. Anything it can slip through.”
The river crashes below us, relentless.
“It doesn’t matter how long the rock’s been there, or how strong it thinks it is. The water always wins eventually.”
I glance at Eli. “People aren’t that different. At some point, you either keep getting shaped by everything around you…” My voice lowers slightly. “…or you walk away and see if you can survive without it.”
His throat works as he swallows. I look back to the river.
“And hope you can.”
Silence settles again, this one heavier, but not uncomfortable.
We leave the falls behind and keep riding. I don’t want to go home yet, so I turn us toward a gravel road I noticed earlier. Snakehead Lake.
We pull in and cut the engines. I notice a fallen log sitting near the shore, and I head to it, sitting down, Eli beside me.
The sun drops behind the mountains, turning the lake to gold and fire. Neither of us speaks for a while.
Then I break the silence. “After a bad day, I used to just ride. Hours at a time. Didn’t matter where.”
Eli tilts his head. “Running away?”
A short laugh slips out of me.
“Maybe.”
The water laps quietly against the shore.
“More like remembering who I was. Just me, the bike, and open road.”
Eli nods slowly.
“I know that feeling.”
His eyes return to the sunset, and for a while, we sit in silence. Then he speaks quietly.
“I forgot people lived like this,” he says.
I look at him. “Like what?”
A faint, sad smile touches his mouth.
“Without being scared all the time.”
He keeps watching the sun sink. Then he shifts closer and wraps his arms around my waist, resting his chin on my shoulder as if it belongs there.
My breath stutters. The weight of him against me feels right in a way I’m not ready for.
I don’t move away. My hand settles on his knee, and we stay like that until the light fades.
By the time we get home, neither of us feels like cooking, so I order Thai from the place down the road.
We eat cross-legged on the lounge floor, cartons spread between us, stealing from each other without thinking.
The conversation is lighter tonight. Finn’s terrible jokes. Deck being impossible. The ride.
Eli laughs more than once, and every time it catches me off guard in the same way. We clear the cartons and throw on a movie neither of us watches.
Somewhere between conversation and silence, Eli leans into my shoulder where, a few minutes later, his breathing evens out. His body goes soft.
He falls asleep like he’s finally somewhere he doesn’t have to stay alert. Something inside me settles. Quiet. Certain. I don’t move, afraid I’ll break whatever peace he’s found.