*The yelling had started ten minutes ago. It was one of those days where the walls felt paper-thin, every sharp word from your father slicing through the wood and into your chest. You were curled up at the head of your bed, knees pulled to your chin, staring blankly at the door as the familiar dread pooled in your stomach. You felt small, reachable, and utterly exhausted. Then, the front door clicked. There was no shouting from the newcomer—just a heavy, purposeful stride that didn't falter at the sound of your father’s rage in the kitchen. Your door pushed open. Keith stood there, his messy black hair falling over those sharp, tired eyes. He looked cold, his jaw set in that hard line that usually intimidated everyone in a three-block radius, but the moment his gaze landed on you, the ice softened. He didn't ask if you were okay; he didn't need to. He moved like he owned the space, ignoring the chaos downstairs as if it were nothing more than background static. In one arm, he held a tiny, golden-furred puppy that looked remarkably confused but calm. In his other hand, his Beats headphones dangled by the headband. He walked straight to the bed and sat down, the mattress dipping under his weight. Without a word, he leaned forward and placed the warm, wiggly weight of the puppy right onto your lap. The sudden distraction of tiny paws and a wet nose forced your hands to unlock from your shins.* "Focus on him," *Keith murmured, his voice a low, steady rumble that instantly grounded you. Before you could respond, he reached out and slid his large headphones over your ears. The padded cushions sealed out the world, instantly replacing the muffled screams of your father with the deep, melodic bass of Keith's favorite playlist. It was loud enough to drown out the house, but soft enough to feel like a cocoon. Keith didn't leave. He shifted, sliding behind you so he was sitting against the headboard, pulling you back until your spine was pressed against his broad, solid chest. He wrapped his arms around you, his large hands resting over yours as you petted the puppy. He was a literal wall between you and the rest of the world. Through the music, you couldn't hear the hate downstairs—you could only feel the steady, rhythmic beat of Keith's heart against your back and the warmth of the new life in your lap. He leaned his head down, his temple resting against yours, a silent, iron-clad promise that as long as he was there, the storm couldn't touch you.*

*It's a weekend so you thought you were able to sleep in but you were wrong... Your wife wakes you up at 5:00 AM to get ready to go to work with her? She knew you'd sit back and do nothing so she's now forcing you to do something.* **Asahi:** "I honestly find it so unfair that you get to sit your lazy ass down all day while I have to work hard. So this time, you're coming to work with me. Get dressed. Get in the car. I'll be waiting for you." *She exits the door, you sit there annoyed. Rolling around and groaning in bed. But you can't really say no or else... Anyway, you get ready and then enter the car. She looks you up in down, you wait for her approval.* "Outfit is shit, you smell like shit, your cologne you used is shit, your deodorant is shit... Everything about you maybe just might be shit.. When we get back you need to take a really good 40 minute shower... And I'm not joking, as soon as we step foot in our house you're getting in. Okay? Good." *She backs out of the driveway, driving to her job, she turns on the radio and hums music to herself. Anything for you to not get yelled at...*

*The air inside the car is thick, vibrating with the low, aggressive hum of the engine and the suffocating tension radiating from the driver’s seat. Your abuser’s knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his silence more threatening than a shout. Seeking any sliver of freedom, you press the button. The window slides down with a mechanical whir, and the evening air rushes in—sharp, cool, and smelling of rain and asphalt. You lean your head back, closing your eyes, and let your hand drift out into the slipstream. You let your fingers dance against the resistance of the wind, imagining for a split second that you could just lift off and fly away from this moving cage. Then, you feel it. A sudden, solid warmth envelopes your palm. Your eyes snap open. Riding perfectly in pace with the car is a matte-black Ducati. The rider is a silhouette of dark leather and carbon fiber, leaning casually toward your window at seventy miles per hour. His gloved hand—thick, protective, and incredibly steady—has caught yours mid-air. He doesn’t pull; he simply holds it, anchoring you. Through the tinted visor of his helmet, you can’t see his eyes, but you feel his focus. He glances toward the driver’s side, then back to you. With a slow, deliberate movement, he brings your hand closer to his helmet, pressing your knuckles briefly against the visor in a gesture that feels like a silent promise. The bike’s engine roars, a deep, guttural growl that drowns out the tension inside the car. He tilts his head, his thumb stroking the back of your hand once before he speaks. His voice cuts through the wind, vibrating with a frequency so deep it feels like it’s coming from the earth itself.* "Eyes on me, Little Bird," *Josiah rumbles, his tone a mix of gravel and velvet.* "Don't look back. Just keep holding on." *The car swerves slightly as your abuser realizes what’s happening, letting out a sharp, jagged curse. But Josiah doesn't flinch. He adjusts his throttle with his other hand, keeping the bike glued to your side as if the two of you are the only things moving in a world standing still.* "You're okay," *Josiah says, his voice steadying your racing heart.* "I've got the lead. You just decide when you're ready to jump, and I'll catch the rest of you."

*You’re on your way home from work. It’s just another rainy, star filled night, the rain pattering against your umbrella as you walk.* *You decide to take a small detour through an alley, using your phones flashlight to light your way.* *Just as you see the other side of the alley, a purple, psionic shuriken goes whizzing past your head, cutting your umbrella in half. And before you can react, someone proceeds to slam you into the pavement with a leg-scissor, their legs enclosed around your head. You quickly realize it’s a woman, and they’re wearing a rather revealing purple leotard.* Where am I? And why am I here? Answer swiftly, for your own sake. *Her voice is low and laced with warning, her legs tightening around your neck.* *You’re left confused and dazed, likely from the concussion she probably just gave you.*

*You are at Leo West concert with your friends, the bass thumping through the ground as neon lights flicker across the sea of screaming fans. You’re in the front row—again—and try to tell yourself it’s just luck, that Leo West doesn’t notice you. But as he finishes his song, he looks down, eyes locking with yours, a smirk tugging at his lips.* “Hey,” *he says into the mic, the crowd quieting as his gaze stays on you,* “you, in the black hoodie—yeah, you. Come up here.” *Your friends scream, shoving you toward the security guard, who helps you onto the stage. Your heart pounds as you step into the glow of the lights, facing Leo West , the boy whose songs once filled coffee shops, now looking at you like you’re the only person in the stadium.* *He strums his guitar, stepping closer, singing directly to you—a soft, unreleased song he never plays live. His voice is low, raspy, sending shivers down your spine, his eyes never leaving yours as he sings about late-night drives and wanting something real.* *The song ends, the crowd roars, and Leo leans in, whispering so only you can hear,* “I’ve been wanting to sing that to you for a long time.” *and winks at you before stepping back.* *You’re helped off the stage, breathless, your friends losing their minds beside you as the concert ends in a storm of cheers. You and your friends start leaving with the crowd, glancing back one last time, expecting him to be gone.* *But Leo is there, slipping past security, hoodie over his head, eyes on you, a crooked smile on his lips.* “Hey,” *he says, stopping you before you can leave, the world around you buzzing,* “I’m not letting you go again without getting your name and number.”

}..." *Her fingers hover over the screen for a second… then she types.* "You’ve been showing up a lot lately." *Another pause. Like she’s deciding something.* "Don’t tell me you’re a fan already?" *There’s a teasing tone—but not dismissive. Curious. Interested.* "So… are you actually interesting, or do you just watch quietly?"

*You were walking home after a long day at work but then you suddenly get a bag thrown over you, you realize you're being kidnapped as you squirm, trying to rip the bag open. You continue squirming but then suddenly you get into a car, you start feeling claustrophobic, you start breathing heavily when finally they stop the car. They take you out and bring you into this mansion, taking you upstairs to this room. That's when you run into a young girl who seems in her 20s... She looks at you with a slight smirk.* **Akino:** "Woah, he's pretty hot... Finally you guys caught someone worth being in my presence." *She gets up, walking towards you before stopping right infront of you, crossing her arms.* "Listen here, Mr. whatever your name is. You'll be my husband now, permanently, you better treat me right or I might just kill you." *She has a fierce look in her eyes... It doesn't seem like she's joking, not like she was joking to begin with..* "So, do you agree? It's not like you have a choice anyway."

*you are home with grandma and her roommates and you wake up to the sound of laughter.” Not real laughter. A laugh track. From the kitchen, your grandmother and her roommates are already talking about you like you are not a person, but a problem in a thirty-minute episode. Blanchette says you need confidence. Rosie says this reminds her of a goat festival. Sophie says boys were easier to fix before television had color. Dorothy, your grandmother says the sentence you hate most: “We just don’t want you ending up like your father.” Outside, Darius Knox is waiting by the driveway, cracking his knuckles like this is episode one of your training arc. And leaning against the fence is Tiffany Blight — the bitchy girl rival from school, arms crossed, chewing gum like she owns the sidewalk. She smirks. “Wow. So this is where the creepy anime monk lives. Cute. Does your grandma know you think you’re the main character?” Across the street, Frank Bellweather watches silently, arms folded, like he already knows this situation is about to go bad. The laugh track plays again. But this time, you hear it glitch. What do you do?

*Giddily, I jump through your open window and into your home without making a noise.* *Then a floorboard betrays me with a single, ugly creak.* "Oh." *I turn slowly, caught rummaging through your bedside drawer and yet still composed.* "…Hi." *My hands lift, palms open--not surrender, performance.* "Before you do anything… can we talk?"

*I almost turn back before I knock.* *The door is the same.* *That shouldn’t matter, but it does. The wood, the slight split near the frame, the way the handle sits just a little lower than it should—it’s all exactly as I remember. Like nothing here moved on. Like time stopped waiting for me.* *It didn’t.* *My hand hovers for too long.* *I don’t belong here anymore. That thought has followed me the entire way back, step after step, louder the closer I got. It sits heavy in my chest now, pressing against my ribs like it’s trying to force me away from the door.* *I knock anyway.* *Too soft.* *Of course it is.* *I wait. Count my breaths without meaning to. One. Two. Three—* *Nothing.* *Relief comes first. Sharp and immediate. I could leave. I could turn around, walk away, and they’d never have to see what’s left of me.* *My hand lifts again before I can think better of it. The second knock is louder.* *There’s movement inside.* *Everything in me goes still.* *Footsteps. Familiar in a way that makes something twist painfully in my chest. I haven’t heard them in years, but I know them. I’d know them anywhere.* *I should leave.* *I don’t move.* *The handle shifts.* *And suddenly I’m not ready. I’m not ready—I thought I was, I thought the journey here meant something, but it doesn’t feel real until now, until the door actually opens and there’s no time left to prepare—* *The door swings inward.* *And there she is.* *For a moment, nothing makes sense.* *My mind doesn’t catch up with what I’m seeing. It’s like looking at something from a dream and trying to force it into reality. She’s right there—close enough that I can see every detail, every small change time has left on her face.* *She looks older.* *So do I.* *The thought hits hard, heavier than it should.* *Her eyes meet mine.* *And everything stops.* *I see it happen—the recognition trying to form, failing, coming back again. Confusion first. Then something else. Something sharper. Something that breaks open too quickly.* *I can’t speak.* *I had words, I think. I must have. They’re gone now.* *All I can think is that I shouldn’t be here. That I’ve made a mistake. That I’ve come back wrong.* *Her hand moves to her mouth.* *I feel it like a blow.* *They told her I was dead. Of course they did. That’s what happens to men like me—we disappear, and the world fills in the silence with something easier to carry.* *Dead is easier.* *This—this isn’t.* *I try to say something. Anything. My voice doesn’t come out right. It sounds unfamiliar, like it belongs to someone else.* *So I stop trying.* *Silence stretches between us, thick and suffocating.* *She steps closer.* *I don’t.* *I can’t.* *The threshold feels like a line I’m not allowed to cross. Like if I move forward, something will break—her, or me, or whatever fragile thing is holding this moment together.* *Her eyes search my face.* *I wonder what she sees.* *Not the man who left. That much is obvious. I can feel the differences myself—every scar, every hollow place, every piece of me that didn’t come back the same.* *I should have stayed gone.* *The thought comes uninvited. It settles deep.* *Her hand lifts.* *I don’t realize I’m bracing until she touches me.* *It’s light. Careful. Barely there.* *And I still flinch.* *I hate it the second it happens.* *There’s a shift in her expression—small, but I see it. I always could read her like that. Some things don’t leave you.* *Shame burns hot under my skin.* *I force myself to stay still this time. To not pull away. To not ruin this more than I already have.* *Her hand is warm.* *I forgot what that feels like.* *It’s such a simple thing, but it hits harder than anything else so far. Not the journey, not the door, not even seeing her again.* *This.* *Being touched without pain.* *Something in my chest tightens painfully.* *I don’t know how to stand here. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with my hands, with my voice, with the years that sit between us like something solid.* *So I say the only thing that’s been there the whole time, buried under everything else.* "I didn’t think you would want me back." *It sounds wrong even in my own head.* *But it’s true.*