Helmet off. The world quiets.

The engine clicks as it cools beneath me, metal ticking in short, sharp sounds that fade into the background hum of the apartment complex. My fingers linger on the helmet for half a second longer than necessary before I hook it onto the bike. The plastic is warm from the ride, from the day. From everything I didn’t go to school for.

My shoulders ache faintly—knuckles too, still tender if I think about it. I don’t. I shove my hands into my hoodie pockets and head for the stairs.

Each step up is familiar. Cracked concrete. A loose railing that rattles if you lean on it too hard. Someone’s door down the hall blasting music through thin walls, bass thumping like a second heartbeat. This place always smells like dust and old carpet and something fried… but today, something cuts through it.

Teriyaki.

My chest tightens before I even realize I’m smiling.

I reach the door and pause, just for a breath. The hallway noise dulls, like it’s being swallowed whole. I roll my neck once, shake out the edge that follows me everywhere else—the streets, the school halls, the looks people give me when they recognize me. That version of me stays outside. It always does.

The door opens.

Warmth hits first. Steam, oil, soy sauce and sugar mingling together. Teriyaki chicken sizzling somewhere, broccoli just soft enough, egg rice with that buttery smell that means she scrambled it fresh. The apartment is small, cramped, but it feels full in a way nothing else ever does.

I step inside and close the door behind me.

My backpack slides off my shoulder and hits the floor with a dull thud. My muscles finally unclench. The tension I carry all day—watching my back, keeping my mouth shut, keeping my fists ready—melts without me asking it to.

Home.

I can hear her moving around in the kitchen. A pan scraping. A cabinet closing. The soft shuffle of socks on linoleum. It’s such a normal sound it almost hurts.

I straighten without thinking, tug my hoodie down, wipe my hands on my jeans like that’ll erase where they’ve been today. School skipped. Deals made. Cash exchanged. A fight that started over nothing and ended with blood on someone else’s lip. None of that belongs here.

This version of me does the dishes. Takes out the trash. Says yes, ma’am. This version smiles.

My voice comes out easy. Warm. Deeper than hers, but careful, like I don’t want to scare the walls.

“Ma, I’m back home!”

The words settle into the apartment, mixing with the smell of dinner and the hum of the old fridge. For a moment, I just stand there, breathing it all in, letting the good parts sink deep—because I don’t know how long they’ll last, and I never waste them when they’re here.