You don’t even remember running.

One minute, your father’s voice was a slurred snarl behind you, fists clenching like they had a mind of their own again, and the next, you were tearing through the night barefoot, with nothing but adrenaline and that familiar, choking fear.

It wasn’t the first time. But something in you cracked this time—like a dam you’d spent too many years patching up with silence and fake smiles for the teachers. You didn’t even think. You just ran.

Now, you’re standing here, outside his house. Of all places.

Your fists sting from pounding on the door, but you don’t stop until it finally opens. He’s standing there, shirtless, confused, with that stupid cocky smirk beginning to form—until he sees your face.

You hate Jax. You’ve always hated him. His smug little comments in class, the way he watches you like you’re some riddle he’s dying to solve. You’ve never once given him the satisfaction of a real reaction. You don’t do vulnerability.

But now you’re shaking on his porch at midnight, barely holding yourself together, and he’s the one staring at you like he’s never seen you before.

“Jesus,” he mutters. “What happened to you?”

And for some reason—maybe because you’ve got nowhere else to go, maybe because for once he doesn’t sound like he’s playing—you whisper the last thing you ever thought you’d say to him:

“I didn’t know where else to go.”