7 days passed.
They should have been ordinary—filled with meetings, documents, polite conversations, numbers that rose and fell like tides Ellios had long learned to navigate. And yet, beneath the structure of his routine, something was off balance.
Hastur refused to leave his thoughts.
It was not obsession, Ellios told himself. Not infatuation. It was simply… an interruption. A crack in the wall he had spent his entire life building. The memory of a voice near his ear, a hand steady at his waist, a gaze that did not calculate or weigh him like currency.
That was all.
And yet.
He found himself distracted at work, staring too long at his phone without realizing it, fingers hovering uselessly over reports. Judy noticed, of course—she always did. She had an uncanny ability to sense when his tension crossed from professional strain into something deeper.
"You've been clenching your jaw all week," she said gently as they left the office that evening. "You'll grind your teeth down to dust at this rate."
Ellios managed a tired smile. "Occupational hazard."
Judy hesitated, then said, "Why don't you get a massage? Somewhere quiet. No expectations. You need to loosen up."
He considered refusing out of habit. But his shoulders ached, his head throbbed, and his thoughts were knotted too tightly around a man he should not even remember.
"…That might help," he admitted.
The massage room was dim, warm, scented faintly with oils and something floral. Soft music hummed in the background. Ellios lay face-down on the table, arms resting at his sides, eyes closed.
For the first few minutes, everything was normal. Professional. Skilled hands worked tension out of his back, slow and practiced, easing muscles he hadn't realized were locked.
He exhaled. At least he can breathe easily now.
Then something changed.
The hands paused. And changed to another pair of hands.
The pressure altered—less clinical, more deliberate. Fingertips lingered longer than necessary, tracing paths that were not part of any massage routine he recognized.
Ellios's eyes opened.
Before he could turn, a familiar voice spoke softly.
"Ellios."
He froze.
Judy's hands resumed their movement, but now they were warmer, slower. When he turned his head slightly, he saw her reflection in the dim mirror: no uniform, no clipboard. She wore a dress—tasteful, but undeniably chosen for effect. Her hair was loose, her expression tight with nervous resolve.
His chest constricted.
"…Judy," he said carefully. "What are you doing?"
She swallowed. "I thought… you've been so stressed. And I know you won't ever say anything. So I thought—if I didn't give you a chance, I'd regret it forever."
Her hands moved from his shoulders to his sides, thumbs brushing the edge of his ribs. Not crude. Not aggressive. But intimate enough to make the air feel heavy.
Ellios closed his eyes.
He knew her feelings. Had always known. She had never pressured him, never crossed a line before. If there were any woman in his life who deserved honesty, it was her.
She was a woman who stood by his side all this time. She was sent to be a spy and monitor him daily but instead she became a friend.
Although the feelings she harbored are more than friendship he can't reciprocate them.
And that was exactly why this hurt.
He lay there, heart pounding, mind racing.
If I let this continue, I will be lying to her.
Not just with words—but with his body. And it won't be fair for either Judy or him.
Her hand drifted from his stomach toward his waist, tentative but hopeful, as if waiting for his signal for her to continue.
That was when he spoke.
"Judy," he said, more firmly this time. "Stop."
Her hand stilled.
Silence fell thick between them.
She withdrew slowly, stepping back until he could turn fully and see her. Her face was pale, eyes shining—not with anger, but with raw vulnerability. As if every ounce of courage she had gathered now stood exposed.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I shouldn't have— I just thought—"
Ellios sat up, wrapping a towel around himself, unable to meet her gaze.
"You didn't do anything wrong," he said quietly.
She looked at him for a long moment, tears threatening but unshed.
Ellios stood, heart heavy. "I'm sorry."
He left the room before the silence could crush them both.
The hallway outside was cool, empty—until he stepped forward too quickly and collided with someone solid.
"Whoa—"
A man's hands caught his shoulders, steadying him.
Ellios looked up—and froze.
"Dan?" he said, stunned.
The man blinked in surprise, then broke into a crooked smile. "Well, I'll be damned. What a surprise to meet you here. Guess we keep running into each other."
Dan looked healthier than the last time Ellios had seen him. No bruises. No fear in his eyes. He wore clean clothes, posture relaxed, as if the weight of survival had been lifted from his spine.
"You… you're alright," Ellios said, relief slipping into his voice.
"Yeah," Dan replied. "Thanks to you. And him."
Ellios's breath caught. "…Hastur."
Dan nodded. "He took me in. Care for me. Gave me a job. A place. Didn't ask for anything back." Dan smiled but inside he lamented that job was his on his good days, before that crazy guy popped out of nowhere and took it for himself.
Ellios looked away, his chest tightening. Of course he had.
"…I'm glad," Ellios said softly. "You deserve that."
Dan studied him, expression turning curious. "You don't look glad."
Ellios let out a quiet laugh. "You're observant."
Dan hesitated, then said, "He talks about you sometimes."
Ellios's heart skipped. "He does?"
"Not much," Dan said. "But when he does, it's… different."
Ellios swallowed.
"I should go," he said finally. Slowly Ellios turned to leave.