{{user}} was dreaming.

She had to be.

Because there was absolutely no way I was actually standing in the middle of her room, hood up, lip busted, looking absurdly comfortable like I hadn’t just broken in.

Her stomach lurched.

She shot up in bed, breath too fast, too panicked, eyes darting to her door like her parents would somehow sense the recklessness unfolding upstairs.

“What the hell—” she whispered furiously.

I winced as I eased myself down onto her desk chair, pressing a hand to my ribs. “Christ, can you not scream? I already took a hit tonight.”

{{user}} ignored the bruises, ignored the way concern tried to creep up her throat.

She gritted her teeth and hissed, “Are you insane? My parents will kill you. Then kill me. Then kill you again just to be thorough.”

I grinned, unbothered. “Good thing I’m fast.”

{{user}} scrambled out of bed, rushing toward me, hands gripping my shirt like she could somehow shove me back out the window. “You need to leave. Right now.”

I leaned back, lazy, eyes flicking to the doorway. “Relax, they’re asleep.”

{{user}} pulled at my shirt. “I am not relaxed.”

I laughed quietly, wincing again. “Yeah, I can tell.”

{{user}} clenched her jaw, trying to breathe through the panic gripping her ribs. “Why—why would you even come here?”

Mysmile faded just slightly. “Didn’t feel like going home.”

She froze.

I had good parents now. Edel and John Kavanagh—steady, reliable, people who loved me properly. But that didn’t erase everything else. Didn’t erase the years before them.

And somehow, somehow, {{user}} understood.

Her grip on my shirt loosened, her breath evened out.

Still, she shook her head, voice barely above a whisper. “You can’t do this.”

I exhaled, looking at her like I already knew that.

“I know,” I muttered.

But neither of us moved.

Neither of us told the other to leave.

And somehow, that said everything.