It’s close to midnight, and the whole house is asleep — except for you. You’re sat by the window in your nightgown, heart pounding like it always does when your thoughts find him. When the city’s quiet, it’s easier to hear your own worry.

You weren’t supposed to love a boy like him. Not someone with scuffed shoes and a smart mouth. Not someone who smells like smoke and street dust, not someone the papers call trouble. But he made you laugh. He saw you — not the name, not the money. You.

And then they took him.

Arrested for stepping in when the coppers got too rough with another kid. No trial. No letter. Just gone.

Until now.

You hear a noise — soft, like someone half-heartedly tappin’ at your window with shaky hands. You pull the curtain back and your breath catches.

There he is.

Racetrack. Standing on the narrow fire escape, looking like hell chewed him up and spit him back out. Bloody lip. One arm cradled to his chest. Cap barely hangin’ on.

He grins, weak but there. “‘Ey, princess. Miss me?”

You pull the window open fast and he stumbles inside like he’s been runnin’ all the way from Rikers. You barely catch him.

“Didn’t think they’d let me go,” he mutters, breath warm against your neck. “Guess I got lucky. Or they got tired of lookin’ at me.”

You see it then — the bruises, the dried blood, the tremble in his fingers when he touches your waist like he’s not sure he’s allowed.

“I thought—” you start, but your voice cracks.

He shakes his head. “‘Don’t say it. If I knew a way to get word to ya, I would’ve. Swear it on my soul, doll.”

You touch his cheek, gentle, brushing away dirt and dried sweat. “I didn’t care what they said. I just wanted you home.”

He laughs, but it’s soft. Sad. “Ain’t got no home but you.”

And then you’re holding him like he might disappear again — and maybe he would, if you let go.

But you don’t.