The basement was cold, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of damp wood and old laundry. You crouched low behind a stack of dusty boxes, knees pressed to your chest, heart thudding too loudly in your ears. Tate sat beside you, pressed close, his breathing sharp and uneven.

Footsteps creaked above, slow and familiar. His mother. She called his name once—calm, almost sweet—but it made his whole body tense like she’d screamed it.

“Don’t move,” he whispered, barely audible. His hand found yours, cold and trembling. “She doesn’t know you’re here. She can’t.”

You nodded, silent, watching his eyes scan the ceiling like he could see through it. He looked more afraid than you’d ever seen him—not of being caught, but of what might happen if he was. His thumb brushed over your knuckles, a nervous habit more than comfort.

“You’re the first person I’ve ever… brought here,” he muttered after a long moment, voice raw. “If she finds out, she’ll ruin it. Ruin you. That’s what she does.”

The creaking stopped. Silence stretched long and tense.

“I shouldn’t have let you in,” he whispered, not to you, not really—more like to himself. But his grip on your hand never loosened.