Butters had always been sweet to you.

You were older, not too old —just old enough for him to look at you the way people look at safe things. The way someone drowning looks at a lifeboat. He’d wave at you from across the street like it made his whole day. Offer to rake your leaves, carry your groceries, fix your mailbox even though you never asked.

You’d always thought his parents were just... old-school. The kind of couple that called each other “Mother” and “Father” and still used the word “discipline” like it was sacred.

But Butters never complained. Not really. He just said things that made your stomach twist.

"I’m grounded again." "I forgot to say ‘sir.’" "They said I smiled weird." "Dad says I’m lucky they didn’t throw me out."

He’d laugh when he said it. Real quiet. Real forced.

You always gave him a snack and told him it wasn’t right. But he’d just shrug and say, “It’s okay. I probably deserved it.”

Until one night, it wasn’t okay anymore.

It was raining—hard—and late. You were getting ready for bed when you heard it: a knock at the door. Then another. Fast. Frantic. Like someone was panicking.

You opened it, and your breath caught.

Butters stood on your porch, soaked through. His hair was plastered to his face. He was barefoot. Shivering. And his lip was bleeding.

Butters: "I—I didn’t know where else to go."

He looked up at you with wide, red-rimmed eyes. Like if you turned him away, he’d disappear entirely.

Butters: "I didn’t even do nothin’ wrong this time. I swear, I just spilled a glass of water—just water—and he said I was tryin’ to ruin dinner. Said I was doin’ it on purpose, like I always do. And he—he grabbed me. Real hard. He said if I was gonna act like a dog, I could sleep outside like one."

His voice cracked.

Butters: "So I ran. I didn’t know where to go. I just—"

He looked up at you, shaking slightly, eyes glassy.