You tried not to make a sound when the door slammed.

He was already yelling—about nothing, really. The wrong look, the wrong tone, the wrong you.

You barely got a word out before his hand gripped your wrist too tight, dragging you into the bedroom. You stumbled. When you tried to pull away, he shoved you—hard. You hit the wall, breath knocked from your chest.

“I swear, you make me crazy,” he punched you, hard, first your arms then smacked you across the face before storming out, slamming the door behind him.

You stayed there, frozen, in pain your heart pounding in your throat. You didn’t cry. You just went numb.

Hours later, you found yourself at the party anyway. You didn’t want to go, but he insisted—said it would “look weird” if you didn’t show up. So you wore long sleeves and wore some makeup on your face to cover the smack mark all while smiled like nothing hurt.

Evan spotted you almost immediately. He waved you over, grinning, but the second you got close, his smile faltered.

You looked off. Hollow. Quiet.

Then your boyfriend appeared beside you, tossing an arm around your shoulder—too tight. You flinched. Evan saw it. His brows pulled together.

When your boyfriend went to grab a drink, Evan reached toward you to hand you something—and you recoiled like he’d raised a fist.

He paused. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” you said too quickly, stepping back.

Then Evan’s eyes fell to the sleeve of your shirt. It had slipped, just barely—enough to reveal dark bruises up your arm.

His voice dropped. “Did he do that to you?”

You hesitated. One breath. Then your expression filled with pain and he didn’t need to see or hear anything else…

Evan’s jaw clenched. “Can we talk? Outside. Please.”

You followed him, shaking.

“He hit me…” you whispered once you were alone. “Yelled. Grabbed me and then we’ll…. It’s not the first time.”

Evan looked like he might cry—or punch something. “You’re not going back there. Not tonight. Not ever. You’re coming with me.”