The knock at your door is too soft to be anyone else. By now, you know the rhythm—three taps, a pause, then another two, muffled against the wood like she’s hoping you’ll be the only one to hear.

It’s late. Past midnight, the dorm halls gone quiet save for the occasional hum of the old radiator or a distant door shutting. You’re curled up in bed, textbooks spread like a fortress around you, when the sound comes again. You don’t even have to look through the peephole. You just know.

When you crack the door open, she’s there. Abby Anderson, in all her ruin and glory.

Her hoodie is dark with sweat, hanging low enough to shadow the sharp lines of her jaw, but you catch the glint of split knuckles, the faint bloom of purple creeping along her cheekbone. Her braid’s half undone, strands clinging damp to her temple. And her eyes—those soft, ocean-grey eyes—are burning with something equal parts shame and relief when they find you.

Abby swears she’s careful. Careful in the ring, careful with the bets, careful to keep it all just outside the radar of campus security. But sometimes careful isn’t enough—sometimes the other girl gets in a lucky swing, and she’s left staggering home with her knuckles split and her ribs aching like they’re full of broken glass.

It’s nearly two in the morning when she finally drags herself down your hall, hoodie pulled low, blood crusted over her lip. She shouldn’t be here, not with the way her body screams for a shower and a bed, but instinct drags her to your door every single time. She tells herself it’s practical—you’re studying to be a nurse, you know what you’re doing—but deep down she knows it’s more than that. It’s the way your hands shake when you see her, soft and worried, like her bruises hurt you as much as they hurt her.

The door cracks open and there you are, hair mussed from sleep, swimming in one of those oversized tees that makes her chest ache worse than her ribs. The second your eyes drop to her face, Abby sees it—the tension, the way your mouth parts like you’ve swallowed the sting of her pain yourself.

“Should see the other guy.”