The Bronx was a beast of a borough, a sprawl of brick and concrete stitched together by elevated train tracks and the ceaseless growl of traffic.
It was late November 2024, two weeks after the night at the Rusty Anchor, and the air carried the bite of winter, sharp enough to sting Britney's cheeks as she climbed the rusted fire escape to Alton's apartment.
The building was a squat, gray six-story relic on East 167th Street, its facade pocked with graffiti and water stains, windows glowing yellow against the darkening sky.
She'd been here three times now, each visit a quiet rebellion against the chaos of her mother's place in Staten Island—a chaos she couldn't outrun but could at least dodge for a night or two.
Her boots clanged against the metal steps, the sound echoing off the alley below where a stray cat yowled over a tipped trash can.
She carried her sketchbook under her arm, her leather jacket zipped tight against the wind, and a backpack slung over one shoulder with a change of clothes and a toothbrush—small stakes in a game she hadn't meant to start playing.
Alton had given her the address after their second night at the bar, scrawled on a napkin with a smirk: "If you ever need a place to crash."
She hadn't planned to take him up on it, not at first, but then her mother had shattered a bottle against the kitchen wall last night, screaming about bills and betrayal, and Britney had bolted, the ferry ride to Manhattan blurring into a subway trip uptown.
She hadn't called ahead—didn't have his number—but she knew he'd be there. He always was.
The window to his apartment was cracked open, a sliver of warmth seeping out into the cold. She tapped the glass with her knuckles, a quick rap-rap, and waited.
A moment later, the curtain—really just a faded blue sheet—shifted, and Alton's face appeared, his hair mussed, his blue eyes brightening when he saw her.
He slid the window up, the frame groaning, and leaned out, his breath fogging in the chill.
"Thought you were a pigeon," he said, grinning. "Get in here."
She climbed through, her boots hitting the warped hardwood floor with a thud. The apartment was a shoebox—barely three hundred square feet, a single room with a mattress shoved against one wall, a card table by the window, and a kitchenette so small it was more sink than counter.
The walls were peeling, a sickly beige streaked with water damage, and the air smelled of coffee and old wood, undercut by the faint musk of Alton's clothes piled in a corner.
A space heater hummed near the mattress, casting a weak orange glow, and his guitar leaned against a milk crate stacked with thrift-store paperbacks—Kerouac, Bukowski, a dog-eared copy of The Catcher in the Rye.
It wasn't much, but it was his, carved out of a city that gave nothing for free.
"Rough night?" he asked, closing the window behind her.
He wore a faded black T-shirt and jeans, his feet bare, and there was a smudge of ink on his knuckles from scribbling lyrics earlier.
"Yeah," she said, dropping her bag by the table. "Mom's on one again. Didn't wanna deal."
She didn't elaborate—didn't need to. He'd heard the stories by now, pieced together over late-night talks at the bar or sprawled on this very floor: the vodka-fueled rants, the way her mother's voice could turn a room into a battlefield, the silence that followed when she passed out.
Alton got it, didn't push, just nodded like it was a language he spoke too.
"Stay as long as you want," he said, crossing to the kitchenette.
He filled a chipped mug with water from the tap and handed it to her, their fingers brushing—a habit now, small touches that anchored them.
"You hungry? I've got ramen. Or… ramen."
She smirked, taking the mug. "Fancy. Ramen's fine."
He cooked it on a hot plate balanced on the counter, the steam curling up as he stirred the noodles with a plastic fork.
They ate sitting cross-legged on the mattress, passing the pot back and forth, the broth salty and warm against the chill seeping through the walls.
It was quiet, comfortable, the kind of silence that didn't need filling—just the clink of the fork, the distant rumble of a train, the soft hiss of the heater.
Britney felt the knot in her chest loosen, just a little, the weight of Staten Island fading with every bite.
After, they sprawled out on the mattress, her sketchbook open between them. She drew while he strummed his guitar, picking out a slow, aimless melody that wove around her pencil scratches.
She sketched the room first—the slant of the window, the heater's glow, the way the shadows stretched long and thin across the floor.
Then she turned to him, capturing the curve of his wrist as he played, the tilt of his head, the scar above his eyebrow that she'd memorized by now.
He watched her work, his strumming slowing, his eyes soft.
"You're getting me down to the bone," he said, setting the guitar aside. "Nobody's ever looked at me like that."
"Like what?" she asked, her pencil pausing.
"Like you see everything." He leaned closer, his shoulder brushing hers, and she didn't pull away. "Most people don't bother."
She swallowed, her throat tight. "Maybe most people are blind."
He grinned, quick and crooked, and reached for a jar of cheap acrylics he kept on the milk crate—colors he'd scavenged from a street vendor months ago.
"C'mon," he said, popping the lid off a tube of red. "Let's make this place ours."
They painted the walls, dipping their fingers into the jars—red, blue, yellow, green—smearing streaks and swirls across the peeling beige.
She drew a bird, wings spread wide, its feathers bleeding into a sunset he painted with broad, reckless strokes.
He added a figure, stick-thin, strumming a guitar under a jagged skyline, and she laughed, smudging blue into his hair when he got too close.
It was messy, chaotic, a riot of color against the drabness, and it felt like freedom—like they were building something, even if it was just a dream on plaster.
Hours later, paint drying on their hands, they collapsed onto the mattress, the room glowing faintly in the heater's light.
The walls were a mural now, a testament to their defiance, and Britney felt a pang of something she couldn't name—hope, maybe, or something closer to ache.
She rolled onto her side, facing him, their knees touching under the thin blanket he'd dragged over them.
"Tell me about LA," she said, her voice low.
He'd mentioned it before, his plan to escape, but she wanted to hear it again, wanted to borrow his dream for a night.
He propped his head on his hand, his hair falling into his eyes.
"Warm. Sunny. Streets that don't feel like they're choking you. I'd get a shitty apartment, play gigs, maybe make a record someday. No more winters, no more running."
He paused, his gaze softening. "You'd like it. All that light—it'd be good for your art."
She snorted, but it was half-hearted. "I'd just fuck it up. I'm not built for happy."
"Bullshit," he said, fierce. "You're built for whatever you want. You're just scared to want it."
Her chest tightened, his words cutting too close. She looked away, at the bird on the wall, its wings frozen mid-flight.
"Maybe," she muttered. "But I don't leave people behind. Mom's a wreck, but she's mine. You get that?"
He nodded, slow, his hand finding hers under the blanket. "Yeah. I get it. Doesn't mean you're stuck."
They lay there, hands tangled, the city humming beyond the window—a siren wailing, a car horn blaring, the faint clatter of the 4 train rattling past.
She wanted to believe him, wanted to imagine a life where she could run too, but the weight of her mother, of Staten Island, pressed down like gravity.
She squeezed his hand instead, a silent thanks, and he squeezed back.
The next night, she came again, sneaking out after her mother passed out on the couch, the TV flickering blue across her slack face.
Alton was waiting, the window open, and they fell into a rhythm—ramen, painting, music, drawing.
They wrote a song together, her scribbling lyrics in the margins of her sketchbook while he plucked chords, his voice weaving her words into something alive.
"We're ghosts in the wire, sparks in the rain, burning too fast to feel the pain…"
It was theirs, rough and unpolished, but it felt like a heartbeat.
Days turned into a week, then two, her visits stretching longer each time. She'd leave her mother notes—At Tara's, back tomorrow—lies that went unchallenged, and crash with Alton, the mattress becoming their island.
They'd talk until dawn, voices soft, sharing secrets they'd never told anyone else. She told him about the time she'd found her mother unconscious in the bathtub, the water cold, and how she'd dragged her out, sobbing, at thirteen.
He told her about the night his father broke his arm, how he'd run to a park and slept under a slide, the stars his only witness.
They bared their scars, physical and not, and it stitched them closer, thread by thread.
But the cracks were there, small at first, hairline fractures in their sanctuary.
One night, she caught him texting someone—a girl from a gig, he said, just booking a slot—and jealousy flared, hot and irrational.
"Who's she?" she demanded, her voice sharp, arms crossed tight.
"Nobody," he said, tossing the phone onto the mattress. "A drummer. Chill, Brit."
"Don't tell me to chill," she snapped, pacing the tiny room. "You're always talking about leaving, and now you're texting some chick—"
"Jesus, it's not like that." He stood, frustration creasing his face. "You think I'd ditch you? After this?"
He gestured at the walls, their mural, their world.
She stopped, breathing hard, her hands clenched. "I don't know what you'd do. People leave."
"Not me," he said, softer now, stepping closer. "Not you."
She wanted to believe him, but the fear gnawed—a fear older than him, rooted in her father's absence, her mother's collapse.
She let him pull her into a hug, his arms strong around her, but the doubt lingered, a shadow on the paint.
Another night, he withdrew, quiet and distant, staring at the ceiling while she drew.
"What's wrong?" she asked, her pencil stilling.
"Nothing," he said, too quick, his voice flat. "Just tired."
"Bullshit," she echoed him, tossing the sketchbook aside. "Talk to me."
He sighed, rubbing his face. "Had a fight with my boss at the diner. Might lose the job. It's fine."
"It's not fine," she said, shifting closer. "You need that money."
"I'll figure it out," he muttered, turning away, and she felt the wall go up—his pride, his need to carry it alone.
She pushed, he pulled, and they argued, voices rising until he stormed to the window, staring out at the dark.
She left that night, slamming the door behind her, but she was back the next, neither of them apologizing, just falling into each other's arms like nothing had happened.
The sanctuary held, fragile but fierce, a bubble against the world. They painted over their fights with new colors—purple vines curling around the bird, a moon over the skyline—each stroke a promise to keep going.
She drew him sleeping one morning, his face soft, unguarded, and slipped the sketch under his pillow, a secret gift.
He wrote her a song, humming it while she dozed, his voice a lifeline: "You're the fire I can't tame, the echo of my name…"
By mid-December, the apartment was theirs—a chaos of art and sound, a refuge built from nothing.
They slept tangled together, her head on his chest, his heartbeat steady under her ear. She'd wake to his fingers tracing her spine, his breath warm on her neck, and for the first time, she felt safe—not whole, not fixed, but safe.
He'd kiss her awake, slow and deep, and they'd lie there, the city waking beyond the walls, pretending time didn't exist.
But time did exist, and it was counting down. She didn't know it yet—didn't see the shadow creeping closer—but the cracks were widening, the weight of their dreams pressing against the seams.
Alton coughed sometimes, a dry rasp he brushed off as a cold, and she'd catch him wincing, hiding it behind a grin.
She'd ask, he'd deflect, and they'd paint over it, sing over it, love over it.
The sanctuary held, for now. But it was glass, and glass always breaks.