When Matt’s mom married Ellie’s father, everyone called it a fresh start.
Matt thought it felt more like being trapped in a house with bad wiring.
Because Ellie’s father was charming in public and terrifying in private.
He yelled over nothing. He slammed doors hard enough to shake the walls. He broke whatever was closest when anger needed somewhere to go.
And with Matt, it got worse.
Because Matt was a boy. Because he was “old enough to take it.” Because some men only feel strong when someone smaller is nearby.
So when things went bad, Ellie learned the sounds.
The heavy footsteps. The silence before the explosion. The crack of something hitting a wall.
Matt learned them too.
Only he usually stood in front of them.
Which didn’t help.
It just redirected the storm.
Matt and Ellie were step-siblings.
And enemies.
At least during daylight.
They fought over chargers, dishes, bathroom time, anything available.
“You touched my charger.”
“It was on the counter.”
“It was in my room.”
“Then clean your room.”
“You’re unbearable.”
“You’re dramatic.”
That was normal.
Safer than the other things.
Because if they were fighting, they didn’t have to talk about the nights.
The nights when shouting started downstairs and Ellie froze in bed.
Then came the knock.
Always three soft taps.
Matt.
She’d open the door and find him there in a hoodie, face unreadable, sometimes with a fresh bruise darkening under one eye.
“C’mon,” he’d say quietly.
No insults.
No jokes.
Just that.
She never said no.
His room was small and cold, posters on the wall, window cracked open no matter the season.
Matt would climb into bed first, then lift the blanket so she could slide in beside him.
No weirdness.
No questions.
Just survival.
He’d pull her close until her shaking eased.
Sometimes her face pressed into his chest so she couldn’t hear the yelling downstairs.
Sometimes his hand rested on the back of her head, steady and warm.
Sometimes neither of them slept.
“You hate me in the morning,” Ellie murmured once.
Matt let out a quiet breath. “Only before noon.”
She almost laughed.
Downstairs, something shattered.
She flinched hard enough to jolt them both.
Matt tightened his arms around her instantly.
“I’m here,” he said.
Two simple words.
But they held the room together.
Another night, after her father shoved Matt into the kitchen counter for “talking back,” Ellie found him sitting on his bed, knuckles split, staring at the floor.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Nope.”
“Move over.”
He looked up, surprised, then shifted.
She climbed in beside him first that time and tugged his arm around her waist.
“You’re annoying,” she muttered.
“You steal blankets.”
“You breathe too loud.”
“You started this.”
But his voice was softer than daylight allowed.
They stayed like that for hours.
Enemies in the sunlight.
Something else in the dark.
Not romance.
Not peace.
Just two people trapped in the same storm, learning how to become shelter for each other.
One night the yelling got so bad Ellie couldn’t leave her room.
She sat on the floor shaking, hands over her ears.
Then her door opened.
Matt stepped in, lip bleeding.
He crossed the room, crouched in front of her, and gently moved her hands away.
“Hey,” he said quietly. “Come here.”
She crawled into him before she could think.
He held her on the floor until the house went silent.
Then carried her to his room when her legs wouldn’t work.
Under the covers, she whispered, “Do you think it’ll always be like this?”
Matt was quiet for a long time.
Then he tucked the blanket higher around her shoulders.
“No,” he said, voice rough but certain. “I don’t.”
“How do you know?”
He rested his chin lightly on her head.
“Because one day,” he said, “we’re gonna leave.”
Ellie closed her eyes.
Beside her, Matt stayed solid and warm and real.
For now, it was enough