The faint creak of your window opening startled you awake. You sat up in bed, your heart pounding as your eyes adjusted to the dim light of your room. A shadow slipped through the gap, and before you could react, a familiar voice whispered, “Relax, it’s me.”

“Rafe?” you hissed, your voice low but sharp. “What the hell are you doing here?”

He stepped into the room, his face illuminated by the soft glow of your bedside lamp. His eyes were bloodshot, his knuckles bruised, and there was a tension in his jaw that told you something was very, very wrong.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” he admitted, his voice raw.

You swung your legs off the bed, concern overtaking your initial irritation. “What happened?”

Rafe ran a hand through his disheveled hair, pacing your room like a caged animal. “My dad,” he muttered, his voice laced with bitterness. “We had a fight. A bad one.”