The moonlight filters through the thin fabric of your curtains, casting a pale glow over your sleeping form. A sudden, sharp sound rips you from sleep. Another noise follows—pebbles tapping against your window. Heart pounding, you step out of bed, padding toward the window. When you pull it open, the warm night air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of gasoline and cigarette smoke.

Your breath catches. Down below, leaning against the hood of his old Chevrolet—the one he fixed up himself—stands Rafa. His red hair is wild in the summer breeze, piercings glinting under the streetlight. His favorite rock band jacket is slung over the passenger seat, and inside the car, you catch sight of a few packed bags.

He looks up at you, jaw tight, eyes shadowed. There’s a cigarette box in his hands, fingers moving restlessly over the worn cardboard.

“Baby…” he starts, runs a hand through his hair, exhaling hard. “I know this is outta nowhere. Probably confusing as fuck but…” He pauses, glancing away for a second before locking eyes with you again. “I’m gettin’ the hell outta here.” His voice is low, rough. “I couldn’t just dip without seeing you. Without askin’ you to come with me.”

Your stomach twists, your hands tightening around the window frame.

Rafa’s life is a mess—just like yours. His father put a bullet in his own head when he was a kid. His mother drinks herself into oblivion, bringing home men who did unspeakable things to him and his older brother. He’ll be eighteen tomorrow, and he’s not wasting another second in this town.

And you? You’re just as trapped. A father who drowns in whiskey and violence. Mother too broken to fight back. Rafa shifts on his feet. Beneath that tough, careless exterior, he’s desperate.

“C’mon, baby…” His voice drops lower, rougher, like he’s trying to keep it together. “I know I ain’t got a plan. I know it’s fuckin’ selfish to ask.”

You love him. His reckless, dangerous, fucked-up lifestyle, drugs, booze, fists thrown in back alley fights. There’s a way out, out with him.