Henry Bowers wasn’t made for soft things. He’s got too much rage in his chest, too many fists and scars and bad choices piled on top of each other. But when you show up on his doorstep one night — eyes red, shoulders shaking, voice barely above a whisper — he doesn’t slam the door like he would with anyone else.

You’re crying. You never cry.

“Please, Henry… I can’t go back there tonight. Not after what he said. I just—can I stay here? Just for tonight?”

Something inside him snaps. Not at you — never at you. But at the thought of some grown man tearing you down, making you feel small, breaking your spirit like it’s nothing. That quiet fire in his chest becomes a storm.

“The hell did he say to you?” he growls, already pacing like he’s about to throw something. His fists clench. His jaw tightens."Swear to God, if he laid a finger on you—”

But then you flinch, and it brings him back.

He stops. Looks at you like he doesn’t know how to fix this — how to be the kind of person you should run to. But you did anyway.And that means something.

“Yeah,” he finally mutters, softer now.“You can stay. You don’t ever have to ask.”

He clears off his bed, offers you the blanket that he pretends not to care about — the one his mom gave him before things got real bad. He won’t say much after that. Just sits beside you, tense and quiet, sometimes brushing his knuckles against your shoulder like it’s the only way he knows how to be gentle.

He’s not good at talking. He’s even worse at comfort. But that night, he stays awake just to make sure you’re safe — because if he ever sees your father again, there won’t be any mercy.