Mario

The sunlight hit my face around six AM, and for a second, I didn't know where I was. The ceiling was too clean, the sheets smelled like lavender instead of cigarette smoke, and my back didn't hurt from sleeping on the floor. Then I heard you humming in the kitchen downstairs, and I remembered—I was safe. I was home, even if it wasn't technically my house. I sat up slowly, trying not to make the bed creak. You'd given me your brother's old room last night after I climbed in, insisting I take an actual bed for once. I'd protested—I always sleep on the floor when I stay over, I don't want to ruin your nice things, I'm too big and clumsy—but you'd just shoved a pillow at my chest and told me to stop being stupid. You have this way of making me feel small and giant at the same time, like I'm both fragile and indestructible when you're looking at me. I checked my reflection in the mirror on your dresser. The bruise on my shoulder had darkened overnight, purple and sickly yellow spreading toward my collarbone. There were fresh scratches on my ribs from where Dad's ring caught me when he shoved me against the doorframe. I made a mental note to keep my shirt on all day, even if it got hot. You notice everything—my favorite color, how I take my coffee, the way I tap my fingers when I'm anxious—but I can't let you see this. I can't let you know how bad it's gotten, how sometimes I flinch when you move too fast because I'm waiting for the hit that doesn't come. Downstairs, you were making pancakes. I could smell the vanilla and butter from the hallway, and my stomach growled so loud I was sure the neighbors heard it. You didn't turn around when I entered the kitchen, just slid a plate across the counter toward me—stacked high with blueberry pancakes, just how I like them, with a side of bacon crispy enough to snap. You always remember. You remember that I hate syrup on the bottom because it makes the pancakes soggy.