Chapter 2: Chapter Two: Can I Hold Onto Your Clothes?

Stan Wallace got up and walked out, carrying his clothes. The hallway was too narrow, so I had to press myself against the wall to let him pass. The sudden proximity allowed me to feel the warmth and scent of his body clearly and directly.

I lowered my head slightly, my fingers involuntarily tightening.

He doesn't like me, nor does he like my mother. This is normal; people don't like disasters and burdens. It's already a sign of great manners that he doesn't show disgust or rejection towards us, not to mention letting me stay in his room.

If possible, I wouldn't want to come back here either. I dream of escaping this life.

Even though our goals are aligned, when he casually told me to keep my distance, my heart still ached.

Stan Wallace closed the door behind him as he left.

His room was off-limits to my stepfather, who feared him. This obvious fear made me feel safe.

I picked up the T-shirt Stan Wallace had carelessly thrown on the bed, folded it, and placed it on the windowsill. I could wash it for him tomorrow. I also tidied up a few scattered architectural design drafts.

Almost all of his clothes were black and white, just like the oppressive atmosphere in this house. Therefore, the pink box in the plastic bag stood out, making it hard to ignore.

Suddenly, I remembered the day after the college entrance exam, when I passed by his workplace and saw a very pretty girl confessing to him. She even invited him to her birthday party.

This gift must be for her.

Stan Wallace is always popular, and at twenty-one, it's about time he started dating.

I crumpled the draft paper in my hand, and with a few brittle sounds, I looked around Stan Wallace's room.

This is his home, but he has very few belongings here. His clothes are stored in a suitcase under the bed, and his past design drawings are neatly folded and packed in boxes, as if he's ready to leave at any moment.

The door behind me suddenly creaked, and I instinctively hunched my shoulders. Turning around, I met Stan Wallace's gaze, and the tension in me immediately dissipated.

"Brother."

Stan Wallace returned quickly, his short hair still dripping wet. He wiped himself down hastily with a towel, and a few drops of water soaked through the collar of his white T-shirt.

"Sleep on the bed?" he asked briefly, his face expressionless, knowing that I would be staying in his room again tonight.

I shook my head and pointed to the single-person lazy sofa by the window, as usual.

"Okay." Stan Wallace responded, locking the door before walking to the bed. When he saw the gift he had carelessly thrown on the bed, he paused, as if he had forgotten its existence.

I didn't dare to look at him too much, avoiding giving him the impression that I was prying into his life. I tried to minimize my presence to avoid annoying him. After he settled on the bed, I curled up in the lazy sofa.

My left arm was bruised from my stepfather's grip, and I had rubbed it raw earlier. Now it stung painfully. I shifted to a more comfortable position, facing Stan Wallace, looking at his broad back.

Soon, the sound of slippers shuffling on the floor came from the doorway. My stepfather hadn't given up yet.

In the past, he had hidden his lecherous thoughts well, doing disgusting things in secret but never actually laying a hand on me.

His sudden change in behavior was because I was leaving, and because after midnight, I would turn eighteen, officially an adult.

It turns out that even those who attempt to commit crimes weigh the severity of their actions.

Since my stepfather had already set his mind on it, every day until university starts, this house would be dangerous. I have never hated growing up and dreaded the morning as much as I do now.

And the only person I can rely on right now is Stan Wallace.

"Brother," I called softly.

Stan Wallace seemed to be asleep, always looking exhausted. His voice was hoarse when he responded, "What?"

I wanted to ask for his help, hoping he would take me with him before the university started. But then I remembered he was in a relationship, and having a non-related girl like me around would be bothersome.

So, I changed the subject and asked softly, "Can I hold onto your shirt?"

Stan Wallace was silent for a moment, then moved his body slightly towards me.

I carefully held onto a corner of his shirt, gripping it tightly without making him feel restrained. This made me feel incredibly safe.

Thinking back, all the moments of 'peace' in these three years were given to me by Stan Wallace.

I am grateful and should repay him, but he wants me not to come back.

Leaning against the armrest of the sofa, I closed my eyes and said softly, "Brother, I will work hard to earn money and take Mom away. I won't come back."

I might have been imagining it, but the fabric connecting me to Stan Wallace seemed to tighten. Afraid of constricting him, I extended my hand a bit further onto the bed.

I have no attachment to this house, and all my fears are in this room, except for Stan Wallace and his room.

"But I will miss you. Can I visit you at work when I'm a bit older?"

As sleepiness overcame me, my hand lost strength, and I stubbornly reached forward, feeling as if I was touching his back. "I won't disturb your work, I promise. Brother... can I?"

After I finished speaking, the room fell silent. Just when I thought he wouldn't answer and had fallen asleep, I heard Stan Wallace say softly, "Don't come back."