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Haley didn’t bother calling out when she got home. The house answered in its usual way anyway, quiet and warm and faintly smelling like detergent, like something safe. Her backpack slipped from her shoulder to the floor by the stairs with a soft thud, but she didn’t stop to pick it up. She didn’t stop for anything. Not even to kick off her shoes properly. She just shoved them off halfway and left them skewed against the wall, already halfway down the hall before they’d finished sliding.
He hadn’t been at school.
That sat heavy in her chest all day, like something sharp and lodged just under her ribs. It wasn’t new. It wasn’t even surprising. But it never got easier, that empty desk, that too-casual shrug from the teacher when attendance was called, like it didn’t matter, like he was just another kid skipping class.
Haley knew better.
Her pace picked up. The hallway seemed longer than usual, like it was stretching just to make her wait.
Her hand hit the doorknob harder than she meant it to, and for a split second she braced herself, breath caught high in her throat.
Then she pushed the door open.
And there he was.
On the windowsill, just like always.
She’d left the window cracked that morning, even though it was still a little too cold, even though her mom had told her not to. She always left it open, just enough. Just in case.
Aaron was hunched forward, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing in particular. The late afternoon light cut across him in thin stripes through the blinds, catching on the edges of his face, the angles that were sharper today, harder. His lip was split, dried blood at the corner. There were shadows blooming under his eye, deep and ugly, and his shirt hung wrong on one side, like he was trying not to move his shoulder.
For a second, Haley just stood there.
Not because she didn’t know what to do. She always knew what to do.
But because seeing it never got easier either.
His head lifted at the sound of the door, and their eyes met. His expression shifted almost immediately, something small and careful settling over his face, like he was trying to smooth everything down before she could see too much.
"Hey," he said, like it was normal. Like he’d just been waiting for her after school like any other day.
He even tried a smile.
It didn’t work.
Haley crossed the room before he could say anything else. She didn’t slow down, didn’t hesitate, didn’t give him the chance to pull away or make some stupid excuse. Her arms went around him hard, almost knocking the breath out of him, and she didn’t care.
For a second, he went completely still.
Like he didn’t know what to do with it.
Then he exhaled.
It wasn’t loud, but she felt it. Felt the way it left him all at once, like he’d been holding it in all day, like he hadn’t realized he was allowed to let it go. His arms came up slower, careful, like everything hurt, and then they were around her too, not as tight, but steady.
He leaned into her.
Actually leaned.
His forehead dropped against her shoulder, and his weight shifted just enough that she had to adjust her stance to hold him properly. He was warm and shaking just a little, and Haley tightened her grip without thinking, one hand coming up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his hair.
"It’s okay," she murmured, even though she didn’t know what okay meant here. Even though it wasn’t okay.
He didn’t answer.
But he didn’t pull away either.
They stayed like that longer than they probably should have, standing in the middle of her room, the world outside the window moving on like nothing had happened. Eventually, Haley pulled back just enough to look at him, her hands still on his arms.
Up close, it was worse.
She sucked in a quiet breath.
"Aaron…"
"I’m fine," he said immediately, too quickly.
She raised an eyebrow.
He hesitated. Then, just a little, he smiled again, smaller this time. "Mostly fine."
"Yeah, okay," she said, flat. "Sit down."
He didn’t argue. That was how she knew it was bad.
Haley guided him back onto the windowsill, careful of his shoulder, and he lowered himself down with a small wince he clearly tried to hide. She noticed anyway. She noticed everything when it came to him.
"I’ll be right back," she said, already turning toward the door.
"You don’t have to—"
"I know," she cut him off. "I want to."
He didn’t follow her. He never did.
By the time she came back with the first aid kit, he was sitting the same way, but his head was tilted back against the window frame now, eyes half-closed like he was trying to rest without actually letting himself fall asleep.
"Hey," she said softly.
His eyes opened immediately.
"I wasn’t—"
"I know," she said again, gentler this time. She set the kit down beside him and climbed up onto the sill next to him, tucking one leg underneath her. "Let me see."
He shifted a little, turning toward her. Up close, the damage was impossible to ignore. The bruise under his eye had already started to darken, and there were smaller ones along his jaw, his collarbone, peeking out from under his shirt.
Haley’s jaw tightened.
"What happened?" she asked, keeping her voice as even as she could.
Aaron didn’t even pause.
"I fell down the stairs."
She stared at him.
For a second, there was silence. Then she huffed out a breath, shaking her head as she reached for the antiseptic.
"Wow," she said. "You should probably work on that if you’re actually planning to be a lawyer someday."
He blinked, caught off guard. "What?"
"That was terrible," she continued, dabbing gently at his lip. "Like, actually embarrassing. I’ve heard better lies from my little cousin."
"I didn’t—ow," he flinched as she pressed a little too hard.
"Sorry," she muttered, though her hands softened immediately. "But seriously, Aaron. Stairs? That’s what you went with?"
"It’s a classic," he said, a hint of amusement slipping through despite himself.
"It’s a cliché," she corrected.
He huffed out a quiet laugh, then winced again, which only made her roll her eyes.
"Don’t laugh. You’re falling apart."
"I’m not—"
"You are," she said, not unkindly. "Sit still."
He did.
She worked in silence for a minute, cleaning the cut on his lip, brushing her fingers lightly along his jaw to check for anything worse. Every now and then, he’d flinch or suck in a breath, and every time, her movements would slow, more careful, more precise.
When she reached his shoulder, he tensed.
Haley paused, looking up at him.
"Aaron."
"It’s fine," he said again, softer this time.
She didn’t believe him.
"Let me see," she said.
There was a moment where he looked like he might argue. Then his shoulders slumped just a little, and he nodded.
"Okay."
She helped him ease his shirt off one side, careful not to pull too much. The bruise there was already spreading, deep and angry, and Haley felt something twist painfully in her chest.
She didn’t say anything.
She just reached out, her touch light as she checked the area, making sure nothing felt wrong in a way that would mean more than just bruising.
"I think it’s not broken," she murmured after a second.
"Yeah," he said. "I figured."
She wrapped it anyway, just in case. Just to feel like she was helping.
When she was done, she hesitated for a moment, then leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek, just beside the bruise.
There was a brief, startled pause.
Aaron blinked, looking at her.
"…That didn’t hurt," he said.
"It’s called healing," she replied, completely serious.
He huffed out another quiet laugh, softer this time, and somehow, he looked a little less tense.
A little less like he was bracing for something.
She packed the kit away and set it aside, then shifted to sit beside him properly on the windowsill. The space was small, but they made it work, shoulders brushing.
After a second, she leaned her head gently against his good shoulder.
He stilled for a moment.
Then relaxed.
His hand found hers without really thinking about it, fingers slipping between hers, fitting like they always did. Haley squeezed lightly, and he squeezed back.
They sat like that for a while.
The room was quiet, the kind of quiet that didn’t feel empty.
After a bit, Haley spoke.
"How’s the application? For the boarding school?"
Aaron exhaled slowly, his thumb tracing absent patterns over the back of her hand.
"It’s… going," he said. "I talked to the counselor yesterday. She said my grades are good enough. I just need to finish the essay."
"You will," Haley said immediately.
He smiled faintly. "Yeah."
There was a pause.
"If I get in," he added, quieter now, "it’ll be next year."
Haley nodded against his shoulder.
"That’s good."
"I’ll be gone," he said.
"I know."
Another pause.
"I’m going to miss you," he admitted.
Something in her chest tightened, but she didn’t pull away.
"I’m going to miss you too," she said. "A lot."
His grip on her hand tightened slightly.
"But," she continued, lifting her head just enough to look at him, "you have to go."
He looked back at her, searching.
"You can’t stay here, Aaron," she said, her voice softer but steady. "I’d like you to make it to adulthood."
He let out a small breath, something between a laugh and something else.
"Yeah," he said.
"And with your dad…" she trailed off, then shook her head. "You need to be somewhere else. Somewhere safe."
He didn’t argue.
Because he knew she was right.
"We’ll keep in touch," she added, a little more firmly now. "Letters. Calls. Whatever. You’re not getting rid of me that easily."
That earned a real smile.
"I wouldn’t try," he said.
"Good."
They fell quiet again, fingers still intertwined, the light outside shifting slowly toward evening.
After a while, Aaron leaned his head lightly against hers.
He finally felt like he could breathe without it hurting.