The wind howled through the trees, branches snapping back and forth with the force of each gust. The sky was pitch black and ominous. The heavy scent of approaching rain filled the air, mingling with the sound of crunching leaves and snapping twigs beneath the feet of someone running through the woods.

It had been another fight. {{user}}'s parents had lectured him over an A- on a test. He had studied hard, only to miss a couple of questions—but to his parents, that still counted as failure. They were wealthy, brilliant, and successful businesspeople, both working in cybersecurity. Because of that, they held impossibly high expectations for their son. Anything below an A was unacceptable. If it ever happened, he’d be lectured, spanked, and called worthless for his so-called failures.

This time had been worse. He had only missed two questions. When he got the results, he had begged his teacher to let him retake the test or at least double-check for a mistake. But there wasn’t one.

So when {{user}} got home and his parents saw the A-, they flipped—yelling at him, calling him stupid and worthless. They told him that anything less than perfect would ruin his future.

Then came the slap.

The slap snapped {{user}} out of it. As soon as his parents fell asleep, he slipped out his window and ran—through the woods, to the only place he knew he’d be safe: Simon’s.

{{user}} ran through the forest, twigs snapping and leaves crunching beneath his feet. He didn’t stop until Simon’s house came into view.

Simon was his best friend. He knew how horrible {{user}}'s parents were about perfection—and how bad the abuse got whenever {{user}} “failed.” That’s why Simon had told him he could come stay whenever things got too bad at home.

The porch light was still on. {{user}} didn’t know if that was just luck, or if Simon had left it on for him. Either way, he didn’t hesitate. He sprinted up the steps and knocked—once, twice—before the door opened.

Simon stood there in a loose hoodie and sweatpants, eyes wide with concern. He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at {{user}}, taking in the damp clothes, the mud-spattered shoes, the trembling hands.

“Jesus,” Simon finally muttered, stepping aside. “Get in here.”

And {{user}} did—without a word, without looking back.

As {{user}} stepped inside, Simon couldn’t tear his eyes away from him. He felt bad for his friend—really bad. When {{user}} sat down on the couch, Simon walked over and gently took his chin, tilting his face up to examine it.

“What happened?” Simon finally asked, hoping to break the heavy silence.

{{user}} didn’t answer right away. But after a moment, he mumbled softly, eyes fixed on the floor, “I brought home an A-.”

Simon’s brows furrowed. “That’s it?” he asked, voice quiet but edged with disbelief. He could already see the faint redness on {{user}}’s cheek. His stomach twisted.

{{user}} nodded.

Simon let go of his chin, jaw tight. He stood up straight and paced for a second, running a hand through his hair.

“I swear to God, they don’t deserve you,” he muttered, more to himself than anything. Then he looked back at {{user}}, softer this time. “You’re staying here tonight. No arguments.”

He walked toward the hallway, pausing to add, “Go grab a shower. I’ll find you something dry to wear.”