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Thorne waited patiently through it all, though his stomach dropped when Shiloh talked about his mother, his father. He paused, watching, wondering how to respond, what to say. His jaw worked, and he pressed his tongue to the roof of his mouth. I'm sorry was a default that counselors and teachers alike said, superficial and overused. It didn't help the situation. It didn't make anything better.

So he didn't say it, because there had to be something better for him to say. Something better for him to offer, to give if he could.

He tilted his pencil in his hand, eyes flickering to Shiloh. "I..." he trailed off and started again. "When I was eleven, my mother died." He sat forward, keeping eye contact with Shiloh, his expression masked, soft. He struggled for the words, thinking of his violent episode in Lucas's apartment, the way he'd been terrified. It made his hands shake now, but Shiloh - this kid he barely knew - was opening up to him about a world he'd probably never shared with anyone else.

"My father had been a drunk before. He'd been abusive. I took the brunt of it for my brother, Tenzing, because he was young and stupid, and I just wanted him to get out." Thorne smiled. It was hard. "That's all I wanted. When she died, there was nothing to hold back even a fraction of what he did to me. My teachers - counselors even - saw the bruises and turned a blind eye."

He paused. And then he forged ahead. "I didn't think I cared that I wanted to be alive, to be something, anything, to someone. You grow up with enough people telling you what you are and you begin to believe it." He looked up at Shiloh and said, "I would care. Not because of pity, or concern, or some shallow need to play the savior. But I care, because I've been somewhere just as dark." His eyes half-lidded, he said, "You matter. And you should know that. Even if they don't treat you that way, even if it doesn't feel that way. You matter. And there's a better place out there for you."

He smiled and leaned back again, placing the pencil against his lips. "It matters to me," he said finally. And then he tilted his head and said, "Alright. Let's draw. Remember. Back door."

And then he looked down and continued to turn the sketch into something more concrete, wondering if maybe - maybe he could scale the wall Shiloh carried with him. Maybe.

Thorne had never stopped listening.

Even when they'd lapsed to silence, the older man waited for breaths that held too long, went too short. Wondering if they'd reached the end of their conversation today. It was strange that a kid that had tried to steal from him had ended up here, and that Thorne was the crazy guy that let him. But it felt right, as some things in Ashdown - Lucas, Ry, Millie, - did, so he let it be.

But then - then Shiloh spoke again, and Thorne felt his heart ache.

He waited - barely still - but he waited until the other tapered off, his pen worrying between his fingers, his mouth parted into a deep and nervous breath. Thorne waited until he could speak without sounding like a storm, speak without thinking that he would ask where Shiloh's dad solely to deliver ******** justice for the terrible things this kid must have seen, must have felt, at someone elses hands.

"Shiloh. Shiloh, you don't have to apologize. This..." Thorne put down his sketchbook and turned to the other, jaw working tightly for words, "I know. I know it ******** sucks. I know."

Thorne wanted to hug Shiloh. He wanted to close the distance and make the kid realize he was safe, that he didn't have to apologize for speaking out loud. But he also knew that he was still just a stranger. He wouldn't make Shiloh afraid of him, the way he had been afraid of everyone when he'd been younger. When touch still made him weak and scared.

He wanted to swear, but how unprofessional would that be? Instead, Thorne raked a hand through his hair and got up, moving across the room for a second to rummage around in one of his bags. When he returned to the couch, there was a silver key ring glinting on his index finger, and a key attached as well.

"This is yours," he said softly, "if you want it. 210 Fox Way, alright? Windows always open. I know - I know it's the biggest cliche in the world, I know it doesn't sound true or right or anything... but things will get better. But - but sometimes they won't. Sometimes everything just goes on. And it gets better or it doesn't. And sometimes it feels unbearable. I know. I've been there, and sometimes I still am. And that's when you lean on others." Thorne paused. "And that's what this is."

He closed his eyes, sucking in a breath. Every part of him was wound with the animal need to protect this kid, so deep and violent that it nearly made him double over. Nearly made it impossible to breathe. He didn't want Shiloh to go back there. He would do anything, if only he could.

"There's an extra bedroom, and enough room for twins, yeah?" Thorne tilted his head at Shiloh, leaning forward so that his elbows rested on the inside of his thighs, the flash of scars showing. "If you feel like giving up, if it gets too much, if its too heavy to bear, come to me. If for any reason you need a ride somewhere, just a safe haven, just a person to listen - you know where to find me."

Thorne sucked in a sharp breath and looked up at the eighteen year old.

"There's a difference between running away and saving yourself," he said quietly, "But that's not a line I can draw for you. That's something... that's a divide you have to choose for yourself. But I'll be here. For anything you need. I'll be here."

It was all he could give. And it still didn't feel like it was enough.