I was sitting on Kaden's bed, knees tucked to my chest, scrolling aimlessly on my phone with the volume all the way down.
The house was too quiet.
Mom was working the night shift. Kaden was at that stupid party he and Callum were supposed to go to. I didn't ask why Callum hadn't gone. I didn't ask anything anymore.
But I kept checking the time.
And then—tap, scrape, rattle—I heard it.
The sound of someone fumbling with the window screen.
I froze.
Then I heard him whisper my brother's name like it hurt to say: "Kaden…"
I was already moving before I could think.
I pushed open the window, heart in my throat.
And there he was—Callum. Half-collapsed against the frame, one hand pressed to his side, blood on his lip, dirt on his clothes. His eyes found mine, and he flinched—like seeing me hurt worse than whatever had already happened.
"Callum," I breathed. "Oh my God—"
"I didn't know where else to go."
"Come in. Please, come in."
He climbed through the window in slow, painful movements. I caught his arm, helped him in, steadied him. His weight sagged against me for half a second, and then he dropped onto the edge of Kaden's bed, breathing hard, eyes squeezed shut.
His hoodie was ripped at the shoulder. There was a cut on his cheekbone that looked fresh, and raw, and way too familiar.
I didn't ask what happened.
I didn't have to ask.
It was his dad.
I knew it like you know thunder is coming when the wind shifts. I'd seen enough bruises. Heard enough late-night whispers through the walls. And there was a certain kind of silence Callum wore when he'd been hurt by someone who was supposed to protect him.
That silence was all over him now.
"I thought you were going to the party with Kaden," I said, because I needed to say something.
He gave a soft, bitter laugh. "Yeah. Me too."
I knelt in front of him and opened the drawer in Kaden's desk, pulling out the first aid kit we kept there, just in case.
"Lift your shirt," I said quietly.
He hesitated.
"I won't freak out," I promised. "Just let me help."
He exhaled slowly and pulled the hem of his hoodie up.
The bruise across his ribs was ugly—deep purple, blooming out across his skin like something poisonous. I bit the inside of my cheek so hard it almost bled.
I cleaned the cut on his face. Dabbed antibiotic ointment on his temple. My hands were shaking, but I didn't stop.
Callum watched me the whole time. His eyes never left mine.
"I shouldn't have come here," he whispered.
"Yes, you should've."
"You're fourteen."
"And you're bleeding."
We sat in that quiet space—me kneeling on the floor, him slumped on the bed—and neither of us had to say the name.
His dad.
I didn't ask why he went back. Why he thought this time might be different. Because I knew what it meant to still hope, even when it hurt. Especially when it hurt.
"I waited for Kaden," I said softly. "But I'm glad it was me."
His jaw tightened. "I didn't want you to see me like this."
"I always see you," I said. "Even when you think I don't."
That made his eyes flicker. Something behind them cracked, and I saw it. That exhausted kind of vulnerability no one else got to see.
He reached for my hand, tentative, like he was asking permission just by touching me.
I didn't pull away.
He leaned forward like he was going to say something more—but then he winced, breath catching in his throat, and the pain pulled him back.
"Lie down," I said gently. "You need rest."
He nodded, and I helped him ease back onto the bed. He grimaced with every movement, but he didn't complain.
I sat beside him, back against the headboard, knees to my chest, close enough that our shoulders almost touched.
"I'll stay," I whispered. "Just until you fall asleep."
He didn't speak.
But a moment later, he reached out and took my hand again.
And this time, he didn't let go.