He relapses...

Inigo’s shoulders hitch. Another tear slips free. He keeps his eyes locked on the floor, lips pressed so tight the color has gone out of them. The collar looks suddenly too tight. You catch the shift before Kyle does. The boy isn’t opening up anymore. He’s starting to shut down. The same stubborn fear you saw earlier is sliding back into place, and if Kyle keeps pressing the same way it’s going to lock solid.

You step in.

“Kyle.” Your voice is quiet but firm enough to cut through. “Hold up a second.”

Kyle glances at you, one eyebrow raised. For a moment you think he might push back. Then he eases his hand off Inigo’s neck and takes a half-step back, giving you the space.

You crouch so you’re closer to Inigo’s level. The camera’s red light is already recording. You keep your tone easy, almost like you’re just talking.

“You’re not failing anything, Inigo. You’re just standing at the edge of something you didn’t plan for. That’s different.” You let the words sit. “Earlier you asked if God was being cruel. I don’t think He is. Sometimes the path just looks nothing like the one you thought you were walking. Fighting it only makes it worse.”

Inigo’s breath stutters. His dark eyes flick up to yours for the first time in a while. There’s still fear there, but underneath it something smaller has started to move.

You keep going, slower. “Serving isn’t the opposite of faith. Not if it’s honest. Not if you stop pretending the hunger isn’t already there.” You tip your head toward the camera. “They’re going to see whatever you decide to show them. You can keep lying, or you can say the true thing once and let the rest of it get easier.”

The comparison to Alan rises without warning. With Alan everything had been heat and curiosity from the first touch—two people already wanting each other, figuring out how well they fit. This is colder work. You’re not chasing pleasure for its own sake. You’re trying to hand a terrified boy a way to live with what he already is. The difference sits heavy behind your ribs.

Inigo’s mouth opens. Closes. His gaze drops again, but this time it lands on his own lap. The thin fabric of his pants is dark at the front, a clear wet spot spreading where the head of his cock presses against it. He stares at it like he’s only just noticed. His hands twitch at his sides, then curl into fists. The physical evidence is right there, contradicting every denial he’s been clinging to. You see the exact moment the fight inside him tips. His shoulders drop a fraction. When he speaks, the words come out thin and scraped, almost like he’s giving up the last piece of ground he had left.

“I watched them,” he whispers. “Men like me. Both ends. And I… I came. More than once. I hated that I came.” A fresh tear tracks down his cheek. “But I still watched again the next night.”

The admission lands soft and final. You feel Kyle shift behind you. His eyes have followed Inigo’s gaze to the wet spot. Something decisive settles in his expression. He steps back in, voice quieter but no longer purely gentle.

“Look at that,” he says, nodding toward the dark patch. “Your body’s already telling the truth. You’ve been hard since we started talking about it.” He glances at you, then back to Inigo. “Talking only gets you so far. Sometimes a boy needs to feel what he’s been watching before he can stop fighting it.”

Kyle’s hand returns to the back of Inigo’s neck, lighter this time. “We’re going to show the camera—and you—what that actually feels like. Both ends. Slow. No one’s rushing you past what you can take.”

He looks at you once, a short nod of invitation.