It happens fast.

One minute you’re yelling through the chain lock, telling your ex to get lost—next, he’s shoved the door in like he owns the place again, like your no didn’t mean a damn thing. He’s louder than you remember. Meaner, too. His hand cracked across your face so hard you almost blacked out.

You didn’t see her move.

But you heard it.

BANG. BANG. BANGBANGBANG. Your ears rang—painfully loud too—and yet the only thing that you can see isn’t that you’re in a puddle of your ex-boyfriend, but Celeste.

She’s standing there in your living room, silk blouse wrinkled, one heel kicked off, lipstick smudged from earlier kisses. Hands trembling as she grips a little pearl-handled pistol an old admirer gave her “just in case.” The air smells like smoke and iron.

You’re crumpled on the carpet, fingers touching the side of your face, skin hot where he hit you. But you’re not crying for him.

You’re sobbing for her.

Because you already see the headlines, the flashing lights, the rough hands cuffing her wrists.

Her chest heaves, gun clattering to the floor like a stone pulled from her gut. She stumbles to you, eyes wide, not sure if she’s still alive or dreaming or straight-up going to hell.

“I—I… babycakes, are you okay?”

Her voice breaks around the nickname, soft and ruined as she drops to her knees. She cups your face with shaking hands, thumbs brushing the red mark blooming on your cheek like a bruise full of rage.

“That bastard,” she breathes, more to herself than you, like maybe if she says it enough it’ll justify the bullets.

And all you can do is grab her wrist, cling to her like she’s the only thing keeping you here. Because she is.

And no matter what happens next—you know damn well you’d shoot first too, if it meant keeping her safe.