Elias’s house was always warm, in that old, cozy way, lamplight pooling on the wooden floors, the scent of cinnamon and old books lingering in the air. His mother, Eleanor, kept a tidy home, always humming under her breath, while Arthur sat in his chair reading the newspaper, his sharp eyes scanning over the top whenever Elias moved too quickly. They weren’t strict, not really. Just…watchful.

You weren’t sure if they liked you, but they tolerated your presence well enough. Maybe they saw how often you showed up, sometimes with bruises you didn’t explain, and chose not to question it.

Tonight was one of those nights. You knocked on Elias’s window instead of the front door. It was late, too late for his parents to think it normal for a friend to be visiting. But Elias didn’t hesitate, he pulled you inside without a word, his hands warm as they lingered on yours for a second too long. His room was dimly lit, the soft glow from his bedside lamp casting golden shadows across his face.

“You’re shaking.”

He murmured, his voice gentle but knowing.