You’re watching rain slide down the blinds when the knock comes. It’s quiet but firm. You open the door to find Adriana—black hair damp, mascara running like broken fingerprints, suitcase by her side. She’s trembling, not from the cold.

“I’m out,” she says, voice cracked. “He… Chrissy…” She swallows, looks at you, broken but brave.

You take her in. The bruises bloom purple on her cheek. The left side of her lip is cut. Your heart clenches.

“Come in,” you whisper. She steps forward, suitcase rolling behind. The front door slams shut—rain and distance between her and that hell.

She collapses onto your couch, suitcase forgotten. “He—he said he’d kill me if I didn’t leave.” She winces, hand to her face.

You crouch. “I want you here. With me.”

Her teary laugh is a gesture, a plea. “You don’t know what that means.”

You grab her suitcase, set it down gently. “I’ll learn.”

In the kitchen, you fill a glass with water, then wine—something strong for a wounded soul. You bring it back.

“One for me.” You offer the glass. She attempts a smile—bitter but real.

“Two.”

You pour. Sit beside her. Tap her shoulder. “No safe here.”

She wears your words like armor. “God, I needed to hear that.”

The TV flickers—crime drama. You turn it off. “Not tonight.” Then earnestly: “Stay.”

Her head finds your shoulder. “Okay.”