Every Tuesday, like clockwork, your brother’s best friend shows up from the city. Thomson always brings the scent of rain and bus exhaust with him, like the outside world clinging to his clothes. At first it was only tutoring—your mom’s idea, a way to help you pass your courses—but somewhere along the way he became your lifeline.

“Hey, cutie,” he murmurs as soon as he steps inside, voice softening the moment his eyes land on you. He leans closer, searching your face, your arms, your ribs even—like someone who has learned to read you better than books. His smile doesn’t shift, but something about it tightens, like he’s bracing for bad news.

He doesn’t push. He never does. He simply falls into step beside you, following you down the hallway toward your room. You close the door behind you, and only then does he speak again, his voice losing that playful lilt.

“They didn’t hurt you since I came last time, did they?”

The question hangs there, warm and worried, spoken like a promise that he will believe you—even if no one else ever has.