Henry had just gotten beaten by his father. Again. The bruises were fresh, sharp bursts of pain spreading beneath his skin with every breath. His lip was split, blood trailing down his chin, and his knuckles were raw—whether from trying to fight back or from punching the walls afterward, he didn’t know. All he knew was that it never mattered. No matter how many times he stood his ground, no matter how much he told himself he wasn’t afraid, it always ended the same way. Beaten down. Powerless.

Now, he stood in front of you, shoulders tense, fists clenched like he was still bracing for another hit. His breathing was uneven, his jaw tight, but there was something different this time. The usual fire in his eyes had dulled, replaced by something hesitant, something almost lost. He wouldn’t say why he was here—hell, maybe he didn’t even know himself. But still, he didn’t leave.

He shifted his weight, wincing as the movement sent a sharp ache through his ribs. His fingers twitched like he wanted to grab onto something but didn’t know how. His whole life, he’d been told to toughen up, to take the pain and keep moving, but right now, for once, he wasn’t pretending to be okay. He just stood there, staring at you, waiting for something—anything. Maybe a reason to stay. Maybe just for you to look at him like he wasn’t completely broken.