You run. Not in the dramatic, track-star way. You run quietly.

Out of rooms. Down hallways. Across parking lots. Anywhere a man’s voice gets too loud or footsteps come too fast behind you.

Simon noticed it the first week you moved in.

His adoptive dad walks into the kitchen? You stiffen.

At school—Split River—you’re friendly. Bright, even. You laugh with Maddie and Nicole between classes. You answer questions in English. You blend.

But when the bell rings and the halls crowd with older boys shoving each other, you always move first.

Always calculate. Always leave.

Simon never pushes. He just… adjusts.

He walks slightly behind you in public so you don’t feel cornered. He makes sure doors are open before you enter rooms. He announces himself if he comes up behind you.

It’s small. But it matters. The breakdown happens on a normal night. That’s what makes it worse.

Homework half-finished. TV humming softly in the background. His adoptive parents upstairs.

Simon comes into the living room and finds you sitting on the floor, back against the couch, knees pulled tight to your chest.

You don’t hear him at first. Your breathing is too fast.

He crouches a few feet away — not touching, not crowding. “Hey,” he says gently. “You okay?”

You shake your head before you can stop yourself. And then it spills. “I’m so tired of running,” you whisper, voice cracking. “I’m so tired.”

Simon stays still. You keep going, words tripping over each other.

“I didn’t do anything wrong. I didn’t. But I always had to leave. Always had to be careful. Always had to—” Your breath stutters. “They’re supposed to help you. It’s foster care. It’s supposed to be safe.”

You don’t give details. You don’t need to.

The fear in your voice says enough.

“I learned how to sleep with one eye open,” you continue. “I learned which floors creak. I learned how to pack fast. I learned how to run like a girl.”

You laugh bitterly through tears. “Like that’s an insult. Like running means weak.”

Simon’s jaw tightens, but he keeps his voice steady.

“Running means you survived.”

You finally look at him. Really look at him.

And for the first time since you moved in, you don’t look scared. Just tired.

“I don’t want to be scared of you,” you admit quietly. “You’ve never done anything. But I just—my body reacts before my brain does.”

Simon nods once. Slow. Understanding.

“That’s not your fault,” he says. “That’s your brain trying to protect you.”

You swallow hard.

“I didn’t get to be a kid,” you whisper. “I had to be fast instead.”

Silence settles between you.

Simon shifts a little closer, still giving you space.

“You don’t have to run here,” he says.

Your eyes flick toward the stairs, then back to him.

“They’re good,” he adds softly. “My parents. They’re not like that.”

You nod, but fear isn’t logical.

He hesitates for half a second — then opens his arms just slightly.

Not forcing.

Just offering.

You stare at the space between you like it’s a cliff.

Then, slowly, you move.

It’s awkward at first. Careful. Like approaching something wild.

When you finally lean into him, your whole body trembles.

Simon wraps his arms around you gently. Protective. Steady.

You grip his hoodie tight.

And the word slips out before you can overthink it.

“Brother.”

It’s small. Fragile.

But it’s the first time you’ve said it.

Simon freezes for just a second — then exhales shakily.

“Yeah,” he murmurs, holding you a little closer. “Yeah. I’ve got you.”

You cry into his shoulder. Not loud. Not dramatic.

Just release.

“I don’t want to run anymore,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to,” he replies. “Not from me. Not from this house.”

A pause.

“And if anything ever makes you feel like you do?” His voice firms slightly. “You tell me. We deal with it together.”

Your breathing slowly evens out.

For the first time in a long time, your body isn’t coiled to sprint.

You’re not calculating exits.

You’re not listening for footsteps.

You’re just… still.Not because you stopped running.

But because you finally found somewhere you don’t have to.