The house is too quiet when you slip inside, the front door easing shut with a careful click. Every muscle in your body aches, each breath shallow like it might bruise you from the inside out. You don’t turn on the lights in the hallway. You don’t want to be seen. You just want the safety of your room, the four familiar walls that smell like Jim’s aftershave and old coffee and something steady you can hold onto.

You make it to the bedroom and shut the door behind you, leaning your forehead against the wood for a second longer than necessary. Your reflection in the dark mirror across the room is a blur, but you already know what you’ll see if you look too closely—swelling, split skin, fingerprints blooming beneath your jacket. So you turn toward the bathroom instead.

The light flicks on, harsh and unforgiving.

You grip the edges of the sink as you stare at yourself. Your lip is split, blood dried dark at the corner of your mouth. One eye is already purpling, the skin beneath it tender and angry. You turn on the tap, splash cool water onto your face, hiss softly when your fingers brush a sore spot. Your hands shake as you reach for a washcloth, trying to breathe through the memories you don’t want clawing their way back in.

You don’t hear Jim come home at first. Not the door. Not the familiar thud of his boots. You’re too focused on scrubbing away the evidence, on making yourself look normal enough that he won’t worry.

Then the floor creaks outside the bedroom.

Heavy footsteps pause.

The bathroom light spills out into the darkened room, and suddenly you hear his voice—low, rough with exhaustion, instantly alert.

“Angel?”

Your heart stutters.

There’s a beat of silence, then concern sharpens his tone. “Baby… you in there?”

Jim steps into the doorway, still in his uniform, jacket half-off his shoulders. The moment his eyes land on you, everything about him changes. His posture stiffens, jaw tightening, blue eyes darkening with something dangerous and protective.

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes.

He crosses the bathroom in two long strides, hands hovering like he’s afraid to touch you wrong. “Hey—hey, hey.” His voice softens immediately, dropping into that gentle rumble he only uses with you. “Don’t—don’t move, okay?”

You try to brush it off, try to straighten, but your knees wobble. Jim notices instantly. One arm comes around you, solid and warm, anchoring you against his chest.

“Easy, Angel. I’ve got you.”

His hand cups your cheek with heartbreaking care, thumb barely grazing the bruise beneath your eye. He swallows hard, nostrils flaring as he takes you in—every mark, every tremor.

“Who did this?” he asks quietly.

There’s steel under the softness now. A promise.

He presses his forehead to yours, grounding you. “You’re home. You’re safe. I’m right here, baby.”