Eli's POV

The house was too quiet when I got home. Not peaceful, quiet, not the kind you could breathe into. It was the kind that made my lungs tighten, like the walls were holding their breath, waiting for something to happen. Waiting for him to come home.

I hovered in the entryway for too long. Backpack slung over one shoulder, shoes still on. The front door clicked shut behind me, too loud in the silence. The air was stale, tinged with old cigarette smoke and the faint scent of something fried hours ago and left to harden on the stove. The TV wasn't on. No music from my mom's room. Just stillness and dread.

I didn't want to go in further, but I had to. I had to try.

I found her in the kitchen, sitting at the table in her ratty robe, one leg curled under her, flipping through her phone like the world didn't exist outside that screen. She didn't even look up when I cleared my throat.

"Mom?"

Her nails tapped the phone screen twice before she glanced at me. The look she gave me was dry, tired, already annoyed. "What?"

She is drunk. When she is drunk, she gets worse. I almost backed out right then. My voice almost gave up on me. But I thought of Rafe. The way his voice sounded when he said it was his birthday. Like it didn't matter. Like he didn't expect it to be anything. I thought of his bruised knuckles, the way he'd still reached for my hand yesterday. The way his fingers had stayed there, laced with mine, like I wasn't something broken.

I swallowed hard. "I—I need to go to my friend's place. We have an assignment due tomorrow and we—uh—we're supposed to work on it together tonight."

She scoffed, like I'd told her I was heading to space. "You never had friends before. Now suddenly you've got homework buddies?"

I stayed quiet. I hate it. I like it better when she is sober— all quiet. That was safest. She hated being answered back.

Her eyes flicked back to her phone. "Whatever. Just don't come back whining when your father gets home and finds out."

I froze. My hands went clammy. She didn't look up again, didn't see the way I suddenly couldn't breathe. My dad. He'd be back tonight. Of course he would. He always came home eventually, like a storm that blew in with broken glass and shattered rules.

But if I didn't go now... if I let this moment pass... Rafe would spend his birthday alone.

I stood there another moment. Then I nodded, even though she wasn't looking. "Thanks."

She didn't answer. Not a word, not even a sound. Just silence again, her thumb scrolling across the screen like she hadn't even heard me.

I walked out of that kitchen feeling like I was walking a tightrope, every step a lie stitched into my skin. My legs trembled. My fingers wouldn't stop twitching. I didn't even go to my room. I couldn't risk running into my father's shadow if he'd already come back.

Instead, I slipped out the front door and shut it quietly behind me, as if I could somehow avoid fate hearing me leave.

The walk to Rafe's house felt longer than it should have. Not in distance, but in weight. Every sound behind me made me flinch. Every passing car, every barking dog made me think someone was coming to drag me back. But I didn't stop.

The streets were dull and gray beneath the orange wash of sunset. Streetlights blinked on like tired eyes, and I kept my hands jammed into the pockets of my hoodie, shoulders hunched like maybe I could fold myself smaller, disappear into the dusk.

I didn't have a gift. I'd tried to think of something, anything, but the truth was I didn't even have money for a card. But he'd asked.

He'd looked at me with that quiet, patient smile and said, "Come over tonight." Like it wasn't a big deal. Like he wasn't offering me a kind of safety I didn't even know how to accept.

So I came.

When I reached the faded front gate of his house, I stopped. My hand hovered over the bell. I stared at the peeling paint, the overgrown patch of weeds in the yard, and wondered if I was allowed to walk into something that felt this close to comfort.

Then I pressed the bell.

Rafe –

I don't know why I keep checking the clock like it'll speed things up. It's just after five, and I'm already pacing the floor near the front window, pretending not to. The street outside is quiet, painted gold and grey under the low sunset. I've never felt this stupidly nervous over someone coming over before—especially not someone I already know.

But this is different. It's Eli.

It still surprises me that he said yes.

I half expected him to flake, or text last minute that something came up. And I wouldn't have blamed him. I know how tightly wound he is at home. But when he said "okay" in that soft voice of his earlier, cheeks pink, eyes a little wide—something inside me settled. A warmth, stubborn and sure.

The doorbell rings.

I freeze for half a second. Then I lunge for the door like a total idiot and swing it open.

Eli's there.

He's wearing the same hoodie from earlier, navy blue, a little too big for him. The sleeves are tugged halfway over his hands like he's trying to hide inside them. His eyes flick up to meet mine and then quickly dart to the side.

"Hey," he says.

His voice is quiet. Always quiet. But there's something else tonight. Hesitation. Maybe nerves. Maybe guilt. Maybe both.

"Hey," I reply, stepping aside. "Come in."

He hesitates for only a second before he steps past me. He smells faintly like laundry detergent and something sharp and cold. Like night air. His shoes make almost no sound on the floor, and he stands there awkwardly in the entrance, fingers twisting in the cuffs of his sleeves.

I close the door behind him and try to act casual.

"You made it."

He nods once. "Yeah. My... my mom said it was fine." His voice hitches slightly, like it cost him something to say even that. "I told her we had to work on a project."

His mouth twists after that, almost like he regrets the lie. His shoulders are curled in, tight.

Breaks my heart that he has to lie just to go out. I don't ask about his dad.

Instead, I nod toward the kitchen. "Come on. I was thinking we could cook something simple? Nothing fancy. Unless you're secretly a five-star chef and I've just never known."

He snorts softly, just once. "I can make toast."

"Damn. That's already better than me."

That gets the faintest curve at the corner of his lips. Not quite a smile, but something. It feels like winning.

I led him into the kitchen. The counter has a few groceries I picked up on the way home—pasta, canned sauce, garlic bread, and some mozzarella because I thought we might try layering it all into some messy baked dish. I wasn't sure what he'd like. But I figured carbs and cheese were a safe bet.

He eyes the ingredients like it's a test.

"I know it's basic," I add, scratching the back of my neck. "But, you know. Birthday food."

He looks up, startled. "Right. Your birthday."

I raise an eyebrow. "Did you forget already? I told you, remember? At lunch."

"No, I—" His face goes red, fast. "I didn't forget. I just— I didn't get you anything. I mean, I didn't bring a gift or— I didn't even think—"

"Eli," I say gently.

He stops. Still pink, still flustered. His hands are clenched in his sleeves now like he's trying to wring the anxiety out of them.

"You being here is the gift."

His eyes widen slightly.

I mean it. I don't say things I don't mean. Not with him. Especially not with him.

"I'm serious," I add. "I thought I'd spend today alone. I usually do. But you're here. That means more than you think."

His mouth opens, then closes again. And for a long second, he just looks at me like he doesn't know how to process that. Like I've spoken a language he's never heard.

Then, softly, almost too quietly to hear, he says, "Happy birthday, Rafe." I try to not notice the slight pink on his cheeks.

I love this. It hits harder than it should. The weight of it. The honesty.

I smile. "Thanks."

We end up cooking together. If you can call it that.

Eli insists on boiling the pasta so I don't overcook it. I handle the sauce and toast the garlic bread. We fumble through layering everything into a dish that vaguely resembles baked pasta, then set it in the oven and wait. At one point, I try to wipe sauce off his cheek with my thumb, and he nearly jumps out of his skin. But he doesn't flinch away from my touch.

My heart fluttered. My heart got faster.

We eat at the small dining table, plates balanced on our laps, because the table's cluttered with books and mail and a broken remote I keep forgetting to fix. Eli doesn't say much at first, but he eats slowly, carefully, like he's trying to make it last.

"Do you like it?" I ask.

He nods. "It's good."

"You sure?"

"You do better than toast."

I grin. "High praise."

He doesn't look at me when he smiles. But I catch it anyway.

We finish dinner, rinse the plates, and stack them in the sink. I'm not even thinking about dessert or anything else. I just glance at him, and it hits me again—how surreal this is. How strange and quiet and good it feels, having him here.

I nod toward the hallway. "Wanna go to my room?"

I didn't meant to make it sound so suspicious. God! Why am I so bad this. He hesitates.

"Just to sit," I say quickly. "We can just talk. Or not talk. Whatever."

He nods slowly. "Okay."