Chase's back was warm.
I leaned my head against him as he walked through the empty street, his steps steady. Each one echoed in the quiet night, like we were the only two people left in the world.
At some point, I stopped crying.
"Are you always this dramatic?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, sniffling.
"Good. Normal girls are boring."
We reached his house. The porch light flickered above us as he set me down gently on the couch.
His "grandma" was asleep. The place smelled faintly of detergent and rain.
He brought out a small first aid kit, sat in front of me, and started cleaning my wound.
"Are you even qualified to do this?"
"Nope," he said. "But I'm confident."
"Famous last words."
The alcohol stung. I winced.
"Don't be a baby."
"You're the one who said I look like I lost a fight with a blender."
He smirked. "Which you did."
I stuck my tongue out at him.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was… soft. Comfortable. Like a thick blanket over a bruised heart.
"You can stay here," he said suddenly. "For a while."
I blinked. "What?"
"You don't want to go back, do you?"
"No."
"Then don't."
He made it sound so simple. Like choosing between cereal flavors.
"But won't your grandma…"
"She likes you."
"She thinks I'm someone else."
"She thinks I'm someone else too."
I looked at him. Really looked at him. This boy who wore sarcasm like armor and smoked cigarettes he never lit. Who had no reason to care—but did.
"Why are you being so nice to me?"
He didn't answer right away. Then he said, "Because I know what it's like. To not have anywhere to go."
That night, I curled up on a mattress beside his bed. The blanket smelled like old fabric softener.
Through the window, I saw a sliver of moonlight. It looked cold. But for the first time in forever, I didn't feel it.
"You asleep?" he asked in the dark.
"Not yet."
"Good."
"Why?"
"Because I don't want to be your brother anymore."
My heart stopped.
"What?"
He didn't answer. The silence stretched. And then:
"Sleep well, Summers."