It's weekend. I shouldn't have got out of my room.

The night tasted like metal.

I stumbled down the cracked sidewalks, my body screaming with every step. The bruises were fresh this time, still blooming. My lip was split open. My ribs ached like something inside me had snapped. I didn’t know where I was going — I just knew I had to go.

Home wasn’t safe. It never was. But tonight was worse.

He hadn’t even seen me run. She did.

He’d swung too hard, missed, and stumbled against the table, crashing on the couch with a groan. I hadn’t waited to see if he got up. I just bolted — out the door, down the street, into the night — while my mother stayed frozen on the couch, the TV flickering ghosts across her face.

She — my mother turned her head slightly, looked at me then went back to watching TV.

The park wasn’t close. It was a mile, maybe more. My lungs burned. My legs shook.

But I made it.

I found the oldest tree by the edge of the field, the one with the gnarled roots that made a little hollow against the earth, and I collapsed there, pulling my knees to my chest.

It was stupid, coming here. Its cold and it hurts. Too open. Too exposed.

But I didn’t know where else to go.

I sat there shaking, hiding in the dark, trying to make myself small enough to disappear, when I heard footsteps crunching on the gravel path.

I stiffened. Is it an animal? Bullies? No no please...

My heart hammered against my ribs, wild and terrified.

I pressed myself tighter into the shadow of the tree, praying whoever it was would just keep walking, wouldn’t see me—

But then I heard a voice.

Low. Familiar.

And almost breaking.

“Eli?”

I froze.

I knew that voice like I knew the sound of my own breathing.

Slowly, I looked up.

Rafe stood a few feet away, his hoodie thrown over his head, jeans scuffed, sneakers damp from the wet grass. His eyes found me instantly — wide, terrified, furious in a way that made my stomach twist.

“Jesus,” he whispered. He knelt down fast, hands hovering like he wanted to reach for me but didn’t know if he was allowed.

“What happened?”

I opened my mouth.

Nothing came out.

He shifted closer, careful like I was some broken-winged thing that might shatter if he moved too fast.

“Eli,” he said again, softer. "Who did this?"

I squeezed my eyes shut.

I didn’t want to say it.

Didn't want to hear it out loud.

If I said it, it was real.

"My dad," I whispered finally, so low I barely heard it myself. "It was just...bad this time. He was drunk. Didn’t even see me leave."

The words hung there between us, raw and ugly and naked.

Rafe didn’t say anything for a second. He wasn't surprised. Like he knew but just needed my words to confirm.

Then, very quietly, he said, "Come to my place."

I shook my head instantly, panic flaring in my chest.

"I can't. If he finds out—"

"He won't," Rafe said, steady, fierce. "I swear. He won’t even know."

I hugged my knees tighter. My whole body throbbed.

I wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.

But good things didn’t happen to people like me. Trust was a trap. It always had been.

Still—

Still, when I looked up at Rafe, I saw no anger. No pity. No judgment.

Just...this quiet, stubborn kind of care that made something splinter inside me.

"Please," he said. "Just for tonight. My aunt's not even home. It's safe. I promise."

Safe.

I didn’t even know what that word meant anymore.

But maybe — just once — I could risk it. If it's him.

My voice cracked when I said, "okay."

He exhaled, like he hadn’t been breathing until then.

Without asking, he slipped his arm around my back, helping me up carefully, like I might fall apart if he wasn’t careful.

Maybe I would have.

The walk to his house wasn’t long. I limped the whole way, my side screaming, but I didn’t say a word. Rafe didn’t either. He just kept pace with me, close enough that if I stumbled, he could catch me.

When we got there, he led me through the back door, quiet as a ghost, locking it behind us.

The house smelled like soap and fresh laundry. Nothing like home.

He led me into the kitchen first, flipping on a low light, rummaging through a drawer.

"I have a first aid kit somewhere..." he muttered, more to himself than to me.

I stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen, dripping rainwater onto the floor, my arms wrapped around myself.

Finally, he found it — a battered white box — and turned back to me.

"Sit," he said gently, nodding toward the kitchen chair.

I obeyed before I could think better of it.

He knelt in front of me, setting the kit down, his brows furrowed in concentration.

"Let me see," he said, reaching for my chin.

I flinched without meaning to.

His hand froze in midair.

"I'm not gonna hurt you," he said, voice so low it barely existed.

I forced myself to nod. He is rafe, i reminded myself.

Slowly, he tilted my face up toward the light.

I watched his face more than I felt his fingers — the way his mouth tightened, the way his eyes flickered with something that looked too close to grief.

He worked carefully, cleaning the cuts with shaking hands, wincing every time I did.

"I'm sorry," he muttered, dabbing at my split lip with a wet cloth. "I'm sorry. I'm trying to be gentle."

"You are," I whispered. "It just...hurts anyway."

Something flickered in his eyes then, something fierce and furious and broken.

He didn't say what he was thinking. I didn't ask.

When he finished, he pulled out some baggy clothes — a hoodie and sweatpants that smelled like his laundry soap — and pushed them into my arms.

"Change. You’ll be more comfortable."

I hesitated.

He must’ve seen the fear on my face, because he stepped back, hands raised.

"I'll wait outside," he said quickly. "You’re safe. I swear."

I believed him.

I changed in the small bathroom, wincing at every movement, and when I came out, Rafe was sitting cross-legged on the couch, picking at the hem of his hoodie like he didn’t know what to do with himself.

He looked up, and for the first time in what felt like forever, someone looked at me like I wasn’t a burden.

Like I wasn’t broken glass under their feet.

Like I was just...me.

"Come here," he said, soft.

I did.

I sat down next to him and let myself lean just a little into his side.

He didn’t move away.

Didn’t flinch.

“Are you hungry?”I felt his hand on my hand

“No-” before I could refuse my stomach grumbled. I flushed red in embarrassment. 

He smiled slightly then got up from bed. “I'll make you something. Just sit here on the couch, is that ok?hm?” 

I nod.

—-----

(Rafe's pov)

The kitchen felt too big and too quiet with Eli sitting there, curled into himself like he was trying to take up as little space as possible.

I kept glancing over at him while I moved around the kitchen, putting a pot of water on the stove, digging through the fridge for something easy.

He was wearing my old hoodie and sweatpants, drowning in them, sleeves too long, cuffs dragging on the floor.

Every time he flinched at a small sound — the fridge door closing, the clatter of a pan — something twisted sharp and ugly in my chest.

I hated this.

I hated him — his father — whoever had taught Eli that breathing too loud could get you hit. 

I boiled pasta because it was all I could think to make. Something easy, something warm.

I didn’t know if he’d even be able to eat, but I had to try.

"You okay with butter and cheese?" I asked, keeping my voice low, careful. Doesn't hurt to ask if he is allergic to something.

He nodded, fast, too fast.

I caught the way his hands tightened in his lap, white-knuckled. My heart clenches.

I stirred the pasta with a wooden spoon, clenching my jaw so hard it hurt.

I should’ve found him sooner. I shouldn't have ignored his scars and vruisesnat school. I am so pathetic. What if I didn't find him today—

I cut the thought off before it could spiral.

He was here now. That's all that matters.

Safe.

At least for tonight. Maybe tomorrow too since it's Sunday but i will have to ask him. 

When the pasta was done, I plated it up — way more than he’d probably eat — and set the bowl in front of him with a fork.

He stared at it like he didn’t know what to do.

"Eat," I said, softer. "You need it. I promise you’re not in trouble."

He hesitated for a long, shaky second before picking up the fork and taking a tiny bite.

Like he was waiting for someone to knock it out of his hand.

My stomach twisted. His shitty father doesn't even let him eat? I should have figured it out.  I turned away under the pretense of cleaning up, giving him space.

When he finished — barely half the bowl, but still — I took the dishes to the sink and washed them, feeling him watching me the whole time.

Like he couldn’t believe he was allowed to just exist without consequences.

When I finally turned back, he was still sitting there, small and lost and breakable.

"You wanna watch something?" I asked, like it was normal. Like any of this was normal. "Might help you relax."

He shifted, uncomfortable.

"I don't know..." His voice was a whisper. "If my dad finds out—"

"He won’t," I said immediately, walking back toward him, crouching down so we were eye-level.

"I swear, Eli. He doesn’t know where you are. You’re safe here. Just for tonight, okay?"

He bit his lip, eyes flickering away.

I reached out carefully, slowly, and touched his hand — when he didn't flinch I took his hand in mine and holded it softly. God, his palm is so soft. I rubbed my thing on the back of his hand.

"You don’t have to be scared right now," I said. "Just...let yourself breathe for a little while."

He nodded again. A little slower this time.

It took a little more convincing — a few more whispered reassurances, a few more careful promises — but eventually, he followed me down the hall to my room.

I let him pick what to watch, flipping through the channels until he pointed at some old sitcom rerun. Something stupid and harmless.

We both sat on the bed, backs against the wall, a good foot of space between us at first.

But as the minutes ticked by, I watched him start to sag, exhaustion pulling at him like gravity.

His head drooped. His hand slumped on my thigh unintentionally. I had to keep my heart steady.

I didn’t move.

Didn’t breathe wrong.

I just stayed there, a steady presence at his side.

And somewhere between one stupid commercial and the next, his shoulder bumped mine.

He didn’t pull away.

I let my head tip back against the wall, staring up at the ceiling, pretending I didn’t feel like my heart was breaking open just having him this close and safe and real.

Eventually, the weight against my side grew heavier.

He was asleep. And shit, my heart might jump out. 

For the first time all night, I let myself really look at him.

His bruises were harsher in the dim blue light of the TV. His lip was swollen. His eye, still tender and puffy.

I felt something savage rise in my throat — a roar I couldn’t let out.

I should’ve found him sooner.

I should’ve protected him.

I wanted to kill the bastard who had done this to him.

Instead, I reached down — careful, so careful — and tugged the blanket off the end of the bed, draping it over him.

He murmured something in his sleep, curling into the warmth.

I stayed awake a long time, listening to his breathing, making sure it stayed steady.

Making sure he stayed here, in this little pocket of safety we’d carved out of the night.

Tomorrow would come.

And maybe everything would crash down again.

But for tonight — just tonight — he was safe.

And I would keep him that way.

No matter what.

------------------------------
I am sorry, if there is something wrong or something offended you . If any of scenes are not written correctly then please ignore it cause neither I have been abused to write his feelings correctly nor I am a gay boy 😋