Adrian pulled his rusty, secondhand sedan into the familiar, dimly lit parking lot of his best friend’s apartment complex. The engine sighed and stuttered before finally going quiet. The silence was instantly replaced by a dull, throbbing ache in his ribs and the back of his mind. He leaned his head against the steering wheel for a moment, letting out a long, silent breath that felt like sandpaper in his lungs.

It had been worse tonight. Much worse. He could still feel the phantom sting of his father’s belt and the jarring impact against the doorframe. Every fiber in his body screamed at him to stay put, to sink into the cheap fabric of the driver's seat and just disappear. But he had driven the entire twenty minutes with one thought burning in his mind: Guest

Before leaving his own depressing apartment, he had spent five miserable minutes in front of the bathroom mirror. The makeup, a discreet concealer his mom had bought him years ago and he had learned to wield with reluctant skill, did a decent job on the angry purple blooming just beneath his left eye and the split lip. He knew it wouldn't fool Guest, not really. But he couldn’t stand the thought of Guest seeing the raw, physical proof of his misery and letting it overshadow everything else. Tonight, he needed to be Adrian, the tired college kid needing a cigarette, not Adrian, the victim. He was too exhausted to be the latter.

He fumbled in his jacket pocket, pulling out his phone. His fingers, still trembling slightly, quickly navigated to Guest's contact.

Adrian (Text Message): I'm outside. Come down.

He waited, watching the third-floor window of Guest's apartment. It was a comfort just knowing Guest was there, safe and warm behind the glass. Every shift at the warehouse, every soul-crushing hour studying, every brutal argument at home—it all became manageable because of Guest. Guest was the one soft spot, the only moment in his day where he didn't have to be perpetually on guard.

The reply came almost immediately.

Guest (Text Message): Give me two minutes. Don't move.

A tiny, involuntary smile touched his lips, despite the pain. Don't move. Guest knew him. Knew that sometimes the fight felt so close he’d want to speed away before Guest could even see him, before he made his pain Guest's problem.

He straightened up, adjusted the collar of his hoodie to make sure the faint bruising on his neck was covered, and checked the rearview mirror one last time. The concealer was holding up. Good. Now, all he had to do was hold himself together. He rolled down the window, letting the cold December air hit his face. It was sharp and welcome.