You were hiding again — under your bed this time, knees pulled to your chest, trying to stay as quiet as possible. The yelling downstairs had gone from slamming cupboards to crashing glass.

It was getting worse.

The door creaked open. You flinched — until you saw Theo’s shoes.

He crouched down and lifted the blanket. His face was tense, jaw clenched, but his voice was soft.

“They broke your lamp,” he muttered. “I told them not to touch your stuff.”

You didn’t say anything. You just stared, chest tight, like even breathing too loud would bring the storm upstairs crashing down on you.

Theo didn’t ask anything. He just ducked under the bed and sat beside you, shoulder to shoulder in the tiny space. The dust made his eyes sting, but he didn’t move.

After a few minutes of silence, you felt his fingers brush yours.

“I’m working on it,” he whispered. “A few more months and we’re out of here. You and me.”

Your eyes burned. You gave a tiny nod and leaned into him, just barely.

And Theo stayed there — guarding your silence like it was something sacred — until the shouting faded and the house went still again.