The room was silent.

Not just quiet—but thick, padded, like the air itself was holding its breath.

My fingertips hovered just beside the curtain. Fluorescent light bled faintly around the edge, casting a lime-green glow across my knuckles. I swallowed. I had waited for this moment longer than I could admit, even to myself. Every post. Every interview. Every knowing flex of his bare arch on screen. The teasing tone of his captions, as if he knew exactly what they did to people like me.

I tugged the curtain aside.

And there he was.

The iron lung stood like some alien relic, electric green and humming faintly. It was larger than I expected, clinical yet... absurd. The screen above was black. Dormant. Unreadable. Like a dead eye.

But I wasn’t looking at the screen.

I was staring at the only part of him visible — two bare feet, protruding from the centre hatch, cushioned in green rubber seals like offerings to the gods. Perfectly framed. Toes limp, heels resting gently together, soft arches exposed. They were motionless, for now. But the sight stole the breath from my lungs.

Was it really him?

I stepped forward like I was approaching an altar. My knees felt wrong. Weak. I had fantasised about this moment through a hundred midnight scrolls. And now here he was, folded inside a steel chamber, silent, helpless, presented. Tied? Restrained? Sealed? God only knew what happened inside that capsule. But I knew what mattered: those feet were mine now.

And still... the screen. I needed to see him. To know.

With a trembling hand, I reached up and flicked the old analogue switch beneath the monitor. A soft bzzt and then—

The screen flickered to life. Grainy. Monochrome green. Like CCTV from another world. And there he was.

Cruz Beckham. His face pressed against the padded frame of the interior headrest, lips parted mid-gasp. Wide, panicked eyes darted. He couldn’t see me—only the camera lens just inches in front of him. A voice tried to escape him, you could tell. But in there, sealed so tightly, no sound could reach the world outside. He was mouthing something. Calling out. Breathless. Bewildered. Terrified.

And yet... beautiful.

His hair was damp against his brow. A bead of sweat clung to the tip of his nose. It was real. This was real. I was here, with him, and he was inside.

My gaze dropped back to the feet.

The lighting bathed them in alien green, highlighting every curve, every crease. The toes curled slightly, even at rest, like they were made for tension. The soles were impossibly smooth—tender even before touch. It was true what they said. He took care of them. Moisturised. Posed. Paraded them like trophies on album covers, in pap shots, in stories. Feet that begged for worship. For punishment.

I dropped to my knees.

My chest thudded. My breath hitched. I didn’t want to rush. I needed this to last.

Gently... slowly... I reached out.

My index finger hovered just over his left sole. I could feel the heat coming off him. Warm. Human. Vulnerable. My hand was shaking as I lowered it. I wanted to press. To scratch. To devour. But I started with a whisper.

The pad of my finger touched the centre of his arch.

The reaction was instant.

The foot jerked like it had been hit with a jolt of electricity. His toes flexed and clenched, splaying wildly. The other foot twitched in sympathy, trying to pull back into the lung but finding no purchase. Inside the screen, Cruz's face contorted—mouth gaping wide as if he’d just been stabbed. A desperate, silent scream. His cheeks flared red. He thrashed against unseen restraints, and I could almost hear the laugh building inside him, swelling behind his sealed chest.

He was ticklish. Unbearably. Unthinkably. Deliciously.

I exhaled a breath I hadn’t realised I was holding.

These weren’t just feet. These were his. And they were perfect. Soft as petals. Skin like satin. Every toe told a story. Every crease in his arch was like sheet music. I could play him. I could make him sing.

And no one could hear him.

My finger traced a slow spiral across the ball of his foot and I watched him lose it inside the tube. He was screaming. Laughing. Begging. His nose scrunched, lips trembling with the soundless violence of it all. The camera caught everything. His humiliation. His disbelief. His raw, ticklish torment.

I sat back on my heels, staring at the screen.

This wasn’t a dream.

Cruz Beckham was trapped in the lung.

And I had barely begun.