You never planned to stay over.

It just… kept happening.

At first, it was excuses. Too late for the bus. Too cold to walk home. Lip was loud, Frank was drunk, Monica’s name got mentioned—and suddenly Ian would glance at you and say, “You can crash here. Couch is… mostly clean.”

Mostly.

You’d wake up to the sound of yelling, someone slamming a door, and Ian standing over you with a bowl of cereal. “Breakfast,” he’d say. “Don’t ask what’s in it.”

And somehow, that became normal.

---

The couch became yours. Your hoodie always draped over the armrest. Your shoes kicked under the table. Ian always saving you the blanket with fewer cigarette burns.

Some nights, you talked. About school. About how he wanted to run—not away, just forward. About how you liked being somewhere loud because silence made your thoughts too heavy.

Other nights, you didn’t talk at all.

You’d fall asleep with the TV on low, Ian sitting on the floor beside the couch, back against it, pretending he wasn’t listening to your breathing to make sure you were still there.

---

One night, it was worse than usual.

Frank passed out in the hallway. Fiona was exhausted. The house felt like it was vibrating with tension.

You curled into yourself on the couch, staring at the ceiling.

“I can go,” you said quietly.

Ian looked at you like you’d just said something dangerous. “No. Don’t.”

He hesitated, then climbed onto the couch beside you, careful like he wasn’t sure he was allowed. There was space between you—too much space for a couch that small.

“You always say that,” he muttered. “But you never actually want to.”

You turned your head. “You don’t either.”

Silence.

Then, softer than the TV static, he said, “Sometimes I feel more okay when you’re here.”