Trust didn't arrive all at once.
It slipped in quietly, like everything else in my life. Unannounced. Uncertain. Almost easy to miss.
I noticed Elias more after that day in the library. Not because he suddenly appeared everywhere, but because my mind started looking for him. I would enter a hallway and feel a strange disappointment when I didn't see him leaning against the lockers, arms crossed, eyes unreadable. I would sit in class and wonder if he was somewhere nearby, existing just out of reach.
It unsettled me how natural it felt.
We didn't talk much at first. Not really. Sometimes we crossed paths between classes. Sometimes he walked past me with a small nod, like we shared something private that didn't need words. Other times, he would slow his pace to match mine, walking beside me without crowding my space.
He never touched me.
That mattered more than I realized.
Most people didn't understand distance. They stepped too close. Spoke too loudly. Made jokes that felt sharp instead of funny. Elias didn't do any of that. He spoke softly, like he was careful with his words, like he knew they could break something if he wasn't.
"Did you finish the book?" he asked one afternoon as we stood outside the library.
I hesitated. "Yeah."
"Did you like it?"
I shrugged. "It was… nice."
He smiled faintly. "You say that when something affects you more than you want to admit."
My face warmed. "You don't know that."
"I do," he said calmly. "You press your lips together when you're lying."
I should have been uncomfortable. The fact that he noticed things like that should have scared me.
Instead, it made my chest ache in a way I didn't understand.
No one ever paid attention to me like that. Not without laughing. Not without turning it into something embarrassing. Elias noticed quietly, like it was normal. Like I was worth observing.
We started sitting together during free periods. Not every time. Just sometimes. He never assumed. Always asked with his eyes first, waiting for me to nod or shift aside before sitting down.
That made me feel safe.
I told myself that over and over again.
Safe.
I told him small things at first. That I liked the library because it was quiet. That I hated loud places. That I walked home alone most days because Cassie had cheer practice or plans with Duke.
He listened. Really listened. He didn't interrupt or offer solutions or tell me I should feel differently. He just absorbed my words like they mattered.
"You shouldn't have to walk alone," he said once, his voice neutral.
"I'm used to it," I replied quickly.
He looked at me then, really looked at me, and something unreadable crossed his face. "Being used to something doesn't mean it's good for you."
I didn't know how to respond to that.
No one had ever framed it that way before.
At home, I caught myself thinking about him more than I should. My house was quiet, as always. My parents were working late again. I ate dinner alone, scrolling through my phone, wondering what Elias was doing. Whether he was thinking about me too.
That thought made my stomach twist.
It felt dangerous to want that.
At school, I noticed things I hadn't before. How his gaze lingered when someone laughed too loudly near me. How he subtly positioned himself between me and crowds. How his jaw tightened when a boy from my literature class smiled at me in passing.
I told myself it meant nothing.
I told myself I was imagining it.
But when Elias walked me part of the way home one afternoon, my heart raced the entire time. Not because he scared me, but because being beside him felt… grounding. Like the world quieted when he was there.
"You don't have to," I said, breaking the silence.
"I know," he replied. "I want to."
No one had ever said that to me before.
When we reached the corner where I usually turned, I hesitated. My feet slowed without permission. I didn't want the moment to end.
Elias noticed.
He always noticed.
"Tomorrow," he said softly.
It wasn't a question.
I nodded anyway.
That night, lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling and thought about the way his voice lowered when he spoke to me. The way he never rushed. Never demanded. Never made me feel small.
For the first time in a long time, I didn't feel invisible.
I felt chosen.
And even as a small, quiet voice in my head whispered that things this gentle could still be dangerous, I pushed it aside.
Because feeling seen felt too good to question.
And because a part of me, the part that had always believed I was unlovable, wanted desperately to believe that maybe I was wrong.