The first thing I noticed when I woke up was warmth.

Not the fake, too-hot, scratchy kind from my cheap blanket at home.
This was different.

Softer.
Steady.

I blinked my eyes open, slow and bleary, heart already pounding in my chest before I even knew why.
For a second, I couldn’t remember where I was — panic clawing up my throat — but then the smell hit me.

Smoke. Rain. Rafe.

Right, I ran away from home last night. And ran into him.

The weight of the blanket over me made me feel warm. PAnd the quiet hum of the TV still on, filling the room with soft, flickering light.

I twisted my head, heart hammering.

Rafe was there.

Asleep.

Curled up on the other side of the bed, one arm thrown over his stomach, his head tilted toward me like even in sleep he couldn’t pull too far away.

His face was soft in sleep — no scowl, no careful sharpness — just...young…and maybe cute-

I stayed still.
Barely breathed.

My ribs ached. My lip throbbed. Everything hurt.
But under all the fear and soreness, something else stirred, something tiny and dangerous:

Hope.

I squeezed my eyes shut against it, pressing my forehead into the blanket.

Don't be stupid, I told myself. Don't want too much.

Wanting always made it worse.

But still — I stayed.

I stayed tucked under the blanket. I stayed close enough that I could hear Rafe breathing.

And the longer I lay there, the more real it felt.
Not a dream.
Not something that would be ripped away the second I reached for it.

Real.

I must've shifted, or breathed too loud, because suddenly Rafe stirred.

I froze, heart spiking.

His eyes blinked open, heavy with sleep, and for a second he just stared at me like he couldn't quite figure out what he was seeing.

Then — soft, broken —
"Hey."

My throat closed up.

"Sorry," I whispered. "I didn't mean to—"

"Don't," he cut in, voice rough with sleep. He pushed himself up on one elbow, looking down at me like I was something worth protecting.
Like I wasn't a problem.
Like I wasn't a burden.

"You didn’t do anything wrong."

The words hit harder than any slap.

I swallowed thickly, staring at the crumpled blanket between us.

He shifted closer, slow and easy, giving me time to pull away if I needed.
I didn’t.

"You hungry?" he asked eventually, voice still low and a little hoarse. "I can make something."

I shook my head. "I'm okay."

He studied me a second longer, then sat all the way up, running a hand through his hair, making it stick up even worse.

"You are scared?" he asked, even softer this time.

I hesitated.

And then — because it was Rafe, and because he was the only person who ever asked like he really wanted the answer — I nodded.

A small, broken nod.

"I get it," he said quietly. "I’m scared for you too."

I blinked at him, startled.

He shrugged, like it wasn’t a big deal. Like it was just truth.

"I’m not gonna let him hurt you," he added, voice turning fierce at the edges. "Not if I can help it. You’re not alone, okay?"

I stared at him, this boy with bruised knuckles and tired eyes, offering me something I didn’t even know how to ask for.

I didn't know what to say.

So I just nodded again, small and shaking.

He gave me a small smile. His fingers made their way on my head and tangled between my hair . My eyes widened. My insides felt tingly.

He took his hand back instantly, scratching his neck slightly “Um…I'll cook something for you”

He stretched and stood instantly, his t-shirt rumpled, hair sticking up in every direction. He looked so normal. So warm. So safe….and his bedhead is funny. I had to bite my lips to stop my smile.

I also sat at the edge of his bed. He looked at me then shuffled out of the room. I followed him with him light steps till the kitchen. “I'll help-” before I could continue, he dragged a chair beside the kitchen counter. “Just sit and…relax. Alright?” I gave him a hesitating nod but sat down.

I watched him him shuffle into the kitchen. Every second that passed made my chest tighter. Each tick of the clock another reminder.

He might be awake by now.

My father.

I tried to push the thought down, but it clawed up anyway. Minutes went by and i was lost in my mind.

I jumped when a plate clinked against the counter.

"Sorry," Rafe called. "Didn’t mean to scare you."

I forced a breath through my teeth. "You didn’t. I’m fine."

He didn’t call me out on the lie. Just kept going, quietly pulling down two mismatched mugs, sliding bread into the toaster.

The calm in his small kitchen was deafening. Like the world was holding its breath. Or maybe that was just me.

He made scrambled eggs. Burnt the toast a little. Spilled some juice.

But I sat at his table anyway, hoodie sleeves pulled over my hands, heart racing like I was about to be dragged outside and shot.

I barely touched my food. My stomach was in knots. My leg bounced under the table.

Rafe noticed.

He always noticed.

“You okay?” he asked gently, nudging the juice closer.

I nodded too quickly. “I just— I have to go. I have to—”

“Eli.”

My name in his voice stopped everything.

“I get it,” he said. “But... maybe you don’t have to go back. Not today. Just—stay. One more day. It’s Sunday. He might not even—”

“I have to,” I cut in, too sharp. My fork clattered against the plate. “If he finds out I’m gone—”

“He won’t.”

“You don’t know that!”

My voice cracked.

Rafe went still.

And then, slower this time, quieter, “I know you’re scared. I would be too. But I won’t let anything happen to you.”

I stared at him, eyes burning. “You can’t promise that.”

He didn’t try to argue. Didn’t lie to me. Just said, “Maybe not. But I can try.”

I looked down at my plate. The eggs had gone cold.

“I shouldn’t have come,” I whispered. “He’ll be mad.”

Rafe reached across the table, rested his hand on mine.

“Then be mad at me,” he said. “Blame me. I don’t care. Just—don’t keep running back into the fire like you deserve it.”

I couldn’t look at him. If I did, I might fall apart.

So instead, I stood. Quickly. Too fast. “I have to go.”

“Eli—”

“Thank you. For... last night. For everything. But I need to be home before he notices. I just— I have to.”

Rafe stood too, lips pressed in a tight line, like there were a hundred things he wanted to say and none of them would make it better.

He walked me to the door anyway.

And when I turned to leave, he caught my wrist — not to stop me, just to feel me there. He suddenly pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Your phone no.?”

I took his phone in my shaky hands and typed in my no. And gave it back.

“Text me when you get in,” he said. “Please.”

I nodded. My throat hurt too much to speak.

And then I left. Hoodie too big on me, heart too loud in my ears, and fear crawling over every inch of my skin like it always did.

But this time, there was something else tangled in the fear.

The feel of his hand on mine.
The sound of his voice.
That impossible word:

Stay.