Your father. Not someone you were comforted by. But someone you considered a monster.

Tonight was no different. He was drunk. Screaming at your mother. And she was screaming back. You had enough.

You put on a black hoodie, some black sweatpants and black shoes. The only things you took with were your phone, money, headphones, and your keys. Then you jumped out your room window, making a safe landing on the grass outside. You called Miles up.

Thankfully, he wasn't busy with his Prowler work today. He was chilling at home with his uncle Aaron when you called. So he picked up.

"Hola Hermosa. What's up?" His Puerto Rican and Brooklyn accent shining through. He knew something was wrong when he heard your breathing heavily, like you were running. Because you were. You were running to his house.