The air in the room was thick enough to choke on.
A moment of stillness—then the sounds resumed, animalistic and shameless.
As if I didn't exist.
Sometimes I wonder—why me? Why did I get a father like this? Or are all men in this world just like him?
The disgusting scene before me wasn't the first time. Not even close.
I yanked my test paper out from under a tangle of lingerie and fled the house.
The sky was almost black. It looked like rain. My stomach turned as I leaned against the cold wall, dry-heaving.
I couldn't throw up. I hadn't eaten dinner.
When I was little, I used to envy kids holding their parents' hands into McDonald's.
Now that I'm older, I should be numb to the filth I see at home.
But I'm not.
When the sky opens and rain pours down, I still crouch by the sidewalk and cry like the world has spit me out.
I scream at the empty streets, like if I yelled loud enough, they might finally stop.
That's when a shadow fell over me.
I looked up.
Chase Donovan stood in front of me, holding an umbrella. In his eyes, the sea churned beneath the night sky.
He reached out his hand.
"Stop crying, Summers. I'll take you away," he said.
...
Chase's place was tucked behind a long alley.
The yard was old, but clean and well kept. Raindrops tapped against the banana leaves. The swing creaked in the wind.
A warm light glowed above the front door.
"You're back, Chase," an old voice greeted us as the door creaked open.
I had the sudden urge to run, but Chase lightly gripped my wrist.
He nodded, pulled me inside with him, and didn't let go.
The house was bigger than I expected, but old.
Everything inside seemed touched by time—faded wallpaper, creaky wood floors, and a cloth-draped TV.
An old woman in a wheelchair looked up at me with a warm, wrinkled smile.
"Chase, you found your sister," she said softly.
Sister?
I blinked, confused. Chase froze too—but only for a second. Then he gently nudged me forward with a perfectly calm face.
"Yeah, Grandma," he said. "I found her."
I opened my mouth to correct her, but Chase gave me a look. A quiet one that said: Play along.
The old woman reached up with trembling hands and cupped my face.
"Beautiful child," she murmured. "So much like you used to be."
Her palms were warm. Kind. My throat clenched.
Maybe it had just been too long... too long since an adult touched me like that.
She turned my face gently from side to side as if memorizing it, as if storing the shape of me somewhere deep inside her.
I didn't know what to say.
Later, in his room, I finally asked, "Your grandma... she has dementia?"
Chase nodded, casually.
"She probably thinks you're my sister who ran away years ago."
I studied him, narrowing my eyes. "She's not actually your grandma, is she?"
He gave me a sideways look.
...So she mistook me for her granddaughter. And him—for her grandson.
The rain kept tapping the windows. His room was quiet. A bed, a desk... and weirdly, not a single book.
He sat on the bed, arms loosely resting on his knees.
When Chase looked at people quietly like that, it was hard to believe he belonged to the same chaotic streets I met him on.
His gaze wasn't sharp. It was calm. Careful.
And when he looked at me that way, it made me nervous.
I coughed, turning to his desk.
I pulled out my crumpled worksheet from my pocket. It was still salvageable.
"Doing homework already?" he asked from behind me.
"What, surprised?"
"Not really."
He leaned down behind me, his voice warm at my ear.
"So this is what it takes to be ninth in the grade? Impressive."
His breath brushed my skin, and I shivered.
His long fingers traced the edge of the paper.
"You even understand these questions?"
"Do you?" I shot back.
He didn't answer. Just smiled.
"They're harder than what we get at our school," he admitted.
...So he was still in school.
"Why bother with questions this hard?"
"I'm training for the competition."
"Competition?"
"If I win, I can get early admission to a top university. That's my only shot out of that hellhole I live in."
I looked at him, and for once, he wasn't teasing.
He just listened.