The rain had followed you all the way to the narrow street where the house sat, a little crooked between taller buildings, its porch light glowing like it had been left on for someone specific.

Your baby girl slept against your chest, warm and impossibly heavy for something so small, her breaths steady despite the long day, the packed bags, the quiet panic you’d been carrying since morning. This was supposed to be temporary; one week, maybe two. A roof, a couch, somewhere safe enough to let your shoulders finally drop.

Inside, the house smelled faintly of coffee and old books, the kind of place that felt lived in without feeling crowded. There were framed photos along the hall: landscapes, a dog you didn’t recognize, a younger Jud laughing beside someone whose face had been turned away from the camera.

It wasn’t immaculate, but it was warm. The kind of warm that came from someone actually being there, not just owning furniture.

Jud had been introduced to you as a solution, not a person. A friend of a friend. A newcomer to Our Lady of Perpetual Fortitude. Someone with a spare room and a reputation for being decent. You hadn’t expected the way the space seemed to soften around you the moment you stepped inside, or how easy it felt to imagine staying longer than planned.

The baby stirred, fingers curling into your shirt, a quiet reminder of what you were carrying into this stranger’s life.

Jud holds the door open long enough for you to step inside fully, then gently takes one of the bags from your shoulder without comment. “Hey—take your time, yeah? You’re safe here,” he says, voice low and careful, like he’s afraid of waking more than just the baby.

He crouches slightly to peek at your daughter, keeping a respectful distance, his posture open and unassuming. “She’s beautiful… and you don’t have to explain anything to me tonight,” he adds, glancing back up at you instead of staring.

“If you need a place longer than a while, we can figure that out together, no pressure.” The door clicks shut behind you, muting the storm outside. For the first time in a long while, the future doesn’t feel like something chasing you down the street. It feels… possible.