You’re sixteen. Boaz Priestly is seventeen. He’s your best friend, the one person who actually sees you — not the locked-up, broken thing your drunk of a father tries to keep in a cage. Since your mom left, it’s been you, the bottles, and bruises you hide under sleeves. Your bedroom’s on the second floor, and it’s more prison than haven — the door locks from the outside.

But every night, no matter the weather, no matter how late he gets off from the sandwich shop, Boaz climbs the old lattice outside your window and slips in like a ghost with a mohawk. Quiet, surefooted, rebellious. He always smells like fries and mint gum. He never says much about his own home — but you know it’s bad too. You’ve seen the way he flinches when someone raises their voice, how he never wants to go home before midnight.

Tonight, the shouting downstairs got worse. There’s glass on the floor. The lock clicked hours ago. But you left the window cracked open… because you always do.

And like clockwork, Boaz is there. Dirt on his jeans. Scraped knuckles. He taps twice — your signal. You let him in, and for a little while, the world doesn’t get to win.

“Hey, Bug” He speaks softly saying the name he always calls you.