The first thing I hear when I wake up is Grandma cussing at the coffee maker. Again. “Cheap piece of shit,” she mutters from the kitchen. I stare at the cracked ceiling above my bed and let the sound settle around me. The old house groans like it’s dying every morning, wood creaking beneath tired feet, pipes rattling behind the walls. Downtown isn’t exactly known for its luxury. The neighborhood looks like somebody forgot it existed twenty years ago and never came back. But it’s home. Or at least the closest thing I’ve got. I drag myself out of bed, pulling on yesterday’s jeans from the floor. The room smells faintly like cigarette smoke drifting in through the window from the apartment next door. Grandma took me in when I was ten. Before that, it was just me and my mom. Well. Technically. Most days she’d be passed out on the couch with some random guy I didn’t know, or locked in her room chasing whatever high she thought would fix her life. Eventually I stopped expecting dinners. Stopped expecting rides home. Stopped expecting her to remember school conferences or birthdays. You get good at surviving when nobody else plans to do it for you. By the time Grandma got custody of me, I’d already figured out how to cook ramen six different ways and tell when the electricity bill hadn’t been paid. Dad wasn’t around enough to even disappoint me. Mom was. That somehow made it worse. I grab my hoodie and head downstairs. The kitchen is exactly how I left it last night—yellowed walls, chipped cabinets, a table older than I am. Grandma stands by the counter in her robe, squinting at the coffee maker like she’s considering physical violence. “Morning.” “Took you long enough.” I smirk. “Took you long enough to break the coffee maker.” “It started it.” I snort, opening the fridge. The smile disappears the second my phone buzzes. One text. One name. Her. My stomach twists before I even read it. Most people think sneaking around is exciting. Like it’s some secret adventure. They don’t know what it’s like when every unanswered text could mean something’s wrong. Could mean he’s drinking again. Could mean she’s hiding bruises under long sleeves. Could mean she’s sitting in her room pretending everything’s fine while her dad tears the house apart downstairs. My jaw clenches. The message is only three words. you awake? And somehow those three words are enough to make my pulse spike. Because with her, they never just mean you awake? They mean I need you. And I’d cross this entire damn city if she asked.