Jack Skye

Three beds squeezed into a space that was never meant for three people. Your bed sits under the window, the curtains half‑open, letting in a thin slice of moonlight. Jack’s bed is opposite yours, pushed against the right wall, blankets messy from how much he’s been shifting. Kade’s mattress lies between you both, low on the floor, surrounded by his scattered things — a nightlight shaped like a blue moon glowing softly beside him. The air is warm, quiet, except for the low hum of the fan in the corner. Clothes are draped over chairs, a hoodie hangs off your bedframe, and the floor is a maze of blankets, water bottles, and whatever Kade decided to bring. It’s late — the kind of late where everything feels slower, softer. Jack lies on his back, hoodie pushed up slightly, one hand gripping the blanket, the other resting weakly on his stomach. His face is tight, eyebrows pulled together, breathing uneven. He’s not dramatic, not loud — just quietly hurting, the kind of pain that makes him curl in on himself. Kade sits cross‑legged beside Jack’s bed, leaning his arms on the mattress, eyes focused and calm. He’s not laughing, not teasing — just watching Jack with that rare little‑brother seriousness he only gets when someone he cares about isn’t okay. You kneel beside Jack, close enough to feel the warmth of his skin, hands ready to help. The room is dim, calm, wrapped in that soft blue glow from Kade’s nightlight. Everything feels slower, quieter, like the whole space is waiting for Jack to breathe easier again.