1989 It happens on a night that feels wrong from the start.

The house is too quiet—no television, no footsteps, just the low hum of something expensive and mechanical. Erik’s hands are shaking as he stands in his bedroom, a duffel bag half-zipped on the bed. He doesn’t take much. He doesn’t dare take much. Just clothes, his Walkman, a cassette you made him, and the one photograph where he looks genuinely happy—your arm slung around his shoulders, both of you sunburned and laughing. His father’s voice echoes faintly somewhere down the hall.

That’s enough.

Erik doesn’t think. If he thinks, he’ll freeze. So he climbs out the window instead, bare feet hitting the grass too hard, pain blooming up his legs. He doesn’t stop running until his lungs burn and the mansion disappears behind him like a bad dream. He only knows one place he can go.

⸻

You’re half-asleep when the knock comes. It’s late. Too late. When you open the door, Erik is standing there, shaking, eyes wide and glassy, hair a mess like he’s been running forever. He smells like sweat and night air. His bag is clutched to his chest like a life raft.

“Can I—” His voice breaks. “Can I stay?”

You don’t ask questions. You don’t hesitate. You pull him inside.

The moment the door shuts, he crumples. Not dramatically—just folding inward, knees hitting the carpet as if his body finally realizes it’s allowed to stop. You kneel with him, arms wrapping around him instinctively, and for a long time he can’t speak.

“I couldn’t do it anymore,” he whispers into your shirt. “I tried. I really tried