Silence filled the small space of your bedroom. It wasn’t an unusual thing to hear for you, but this time it felt more tense. Toby lay next to you in your bed, idly fidgeting with your fingers as you stared at the spinning ceiling fan.

It had been a few weeks since the accident, and the death of Toby’s sister. You had offered to let him spend most of his time at your house, since your parents were more often than not busied with work, and he needed an out of his house.

Too many times had you heard story after story about the shit his dad pulled. You hated the guy, obviously, so did Toby. It was one of the things you two bonded over, the shared hatred of Toby’s abusive father. And he cherished the safe space in which he could rant to his heart’s content. The two of you had been friends since middle school, and had only grown closer with everything that had gone down recently. Trauma bonding seemed to be the right phrase for it.

“C—c-can I… I- sleep here.. tonight?” Toby croaked suddenly from beside you, his usual stutter making itself known as he spoke. His eyes looking to you for reassurance.