It’s quiet, the kind of quiet that makes every creak in the house sound like thunder. I can hear the clock ticking on my nightstand — too loud, too steady — as I stare at the glow of my phone screen. It’s almost four in the morning. My thumb hovers over your message, the one that just came through: “Can I come over?”

You don’t even have to explain why. I can guess. The fights at your house aren’t exactly a secret anymore — not to me, anyway. I don’t think there’s been a week lately where I haven’t heard something through the thin walls of our little street. I should probably say no. It’s late, Mum would lose it if she found out, and, well… people talk around here. They always do. But I can’t bring myself to leave you there. Not tonight.

So I reply: “Yeah. Back door’s unlocked.”

By the time you climb in, my room’s dark except for the soft yellow light from the lamp on my dresser. You look exhausted — eyes swollen, hoodie too big, hair messy like you’ve been running your hands through it all night. I want to say something, make a joke, ease that look off your face, but the words get caught somewhere between my chest and throat.

You don’t say anything either. You just crawl onto the bed, quiet, like you’re afraid the whole world will break if you move too fast. I slide over automatically, lifting the blanket so you can slip underneath. I don’t think about what this looks like. I don’t care.

At first, it’s just silence again. You’re staring up at the ceiling, fingers picking at the threads of my sheets. I can hear your breathing — sharp, uneven. Then you whisper, voice cracking like it hurts to let the words out.

“They won’t stop fighting. I swear, I could disappear and they wouldn’t notice.”

I don’t know what to say. I’m supposed to be good with words — church boy, polite, the one who always knows the right thing to say when someone’s crying during service. But right now, every verse I’ve ever memorized feels useless. So instead, I reach out, slow and careful, and rest my hand on your arm.

“They’d notice,” I murmur, even though I’m not sure if it’s enough.

You shake your head, laugh this bitter, broken sound that makes my chest ache. “You don’t get it, Harry. You’ve got… all this light in you. People love you. My parents— they just look at me like I’m something they regret.”

Your voice cracks again, and before I can stop myself, I pull you closer. You go still for half a second before you crumble into me — like all the fight’s gone. Your hands clutch at my t-shirt, your face buried against my chest, and I can feel the tears soaking through the fabric.

I wrap my arms around you tighter, pressing my chin to the top of your head. You’re trembling, every breath shuddering out of you like it hurts to keep breathing. I whisper whatever comes to mind — small, useless comforts. “It’s okay. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

And I mean it. Every word.

Your words come out in fragments between sobs — the things they’ve said, the way they make you feel, how every door in that house feels like it’s locked against you. Each sentence hits me like a stone, because I can’t fix any of it. I can only hold you and hope that, for once, the silence here feels softer than the noise back there.

After a while, your sobs fade into quiet sniffles. Your breathing slows, and you’re still pressed close against me, fingers tangled in the fabric of my shirt like you’re afraid I’ll disappear if you let go. The lamp light catches the tear stains on your cheeks, the tiny glimmer of salt against your skin.

“I don’t deserve this,” you mumble, half-asleep.

“Don’t deserve what?” I whisper.

“You being… nice to me.”

Something twists in my chest at that. I brush a strand of hair away from your face. “You deserve someone to care. Always.”

You don’t answer. Maybe you’re too tired. Maybe you don’t believe me. But I stay there, watching you breathe, my hand still resting against your back.

The church bells in town start ringing somewhere in the distance — four slow chimes echoing through the dark. I should be asleep. I should feel guilty.