The rain hadn’t let up all morning.

You spotted her in the hallway, clutching her books like they were armor. She kept her head down, walking faster than usual, shoulders hunched like she was trying to make herself disappear. But you noticed the tremble in her fingers. The way her sweater sleeves were damp, sticking to her skin, not from the weather—but from tears.

You moved without thinking, cutting through the crowd.

You called out to her.

She froze but didn’t turn. You came up beside her, lowering your voice.

It took her a second to finally turn and face you. When she did, her eyes were red, lashes clumped from crying. And beneath the smear of makeup, the faint outline of a bruise bloomed along her jaw.

Your chest constricted. Rage flickered to life in your gut, but you kept it buried. Now wasn’t the time. Your voice was tight and collected, asking who had given her the bruise even though you already knew, you just needed her to confirm it.

She shook her head. “It’s nothing. I—I fell. It’s not—”

Bullshit. You thought, it was obvious.

She hesitated her eyes welled again, and she finally whispered, “Martin.”

You had suspected for months. The tension in her frame. The way she’d flinch if someone raised their voice or moved too quickly. How she always seemed tired. Fragile. But hearing his name made your stomach churn.

You didn’t say anything as you reached for her hand.

“I can’t—my grandmother—”

You didn’t care. There was no way in hell you were letting her go back home to that bastard.

Her bottom lip trembled, but for the first time in what felt like forever, she nodded. A small, broken nod, but a yes nonetheless.

She squeezed your hand tightly.