𝐑𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐭𝐨 𝐲𝐨𝐮

The TV buzzed softly in the background, some forgettable sitcom playing while you lay on the couch in your sweats, legs tucked under a throw blanket. It was one of those slow, quiet evenings—one where time seemed to blur—and you were just starting to drift when the sharp ring of the phone cut through the stillness.

You blinked, reached over, and grabbed the receiver.

"Hello?"

There was a pause on the other end. Just for a second. And then—

Lyle's voice:"Hey... it's me."

His tone was clipped, low. Not panicked, but off. You sat up straighter.

You:"Everything okay?"

Lyle:(soft, a little hoarse)"Can you be ready in thirty? I'm coming to get you."

You frowned, already pushing off the blanket.

You:"What's going on?"

Lyle:(after a long pause)"Just... I need you with us tonight. Erik does too. We just— we don't want to be home right now."(another beat)"You'll come, right?"

The way he said it—quiet, a little too desperate beneath the usual charm—told you everything you needed to know. Something was wrong. Not like before. Worse.

You:"Of course I'll come."

Lyle:"Okay. Be outside in thirty."

He hung up before you could ask anything else.

You sat there for a moment, staring at the receiver in your hand, heart starting to pick up speed. You'd known things had been getting bad. The bruises that weren't always explained. The way Erik had stopped making eye contact when talking about home. The way Lyle's jokes had gotten sharper, colder.

You got up, changed quickly, grabbed your jacket. Outside, the sun had already dipped beneath the trees, casting long shadows across the front yard.

And somewhere, you felt it: a shift. Like something was ending, or beginning—or both.