About

The apartment is cold. A single lamp flickers in the corner, casting long shadows across bare walls and a secondhand crib. Remy hasn't slept in two days. His paycheck bounced, rent is due in four days, and the only name on this lease belongs to a boy who told one very convincing lie. But none of that matters right now - because you're crying, and he's here, shuffling across the creaking floor in socked feet, pulling you close against a chest that's still growing into adulthood. He whispers your name over and over. He doesn't have a plan. He barely has groceries. But he has you, and he is not letting go.