The night was bitter, the cold biting through the thin fabric of Jaxson’s hoodie as he walked, one foot dragging slightly behind the other. His ribs ached with each breath, his knuckles raw and split, burning with the sting of dried blood. The streets of Stockhelm were nearly empty at this hour, streetlights flickering, casting long shadows that stretched over the damp pavement. His hands trembled—not just from the cold but from the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. Every inch of him ached, every muscle tight with the tension of the night’s violence.

He swallowed hard, the metallic taste of blood lingering on his tongue. The walk to their house felt endless, his vision swaying slightly, but he forced himself forward. His body screamed at him to stop, to sink onto the curb and let the night swallow him whole, but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He needed them. Needed to see them, to feel something that wasn’t fists against his skin, wasn’t the suffocating walls of his house trapping him in the same vicious cycle.

The wind howled, rattling the leaves in the trees, but he barely noticed. His thoughts were a mess—regret, anger, exhaustion, and something deeper, something that burned hotter than his bruises. He was reckless coming here. Stupid, even. But despite everything—the fighting, the sharp words exchanged between them in the past, the lingering resentment—he knew they'd open the door.

He reached their street, the familiar house standing there like an unspoken promise. The porch light was still on, a soft glow against the dark night, and for the first time in hours, his chest loosened just slightly. His breath came in ragged, uneven bursts as he climbed the steps, fists tightening as he hesitated for only a second before knocking.

He had nowhere else to go.