You’re watching rain slide down the blinds when the knock comes. It’s quiet but firm, like someone asking for sanctuary but unsure if they deserve it. You hesitate, then open the door.

Adriana stands there—black hair damp, strands sticking to her face, mascara running in streaks like broken fingerprints. A suitcase sits beside her, the wheels muddy. She’s trembling, not from the cold, but from something deeper. Something that’s been building for too long.

“I’m out,” she says, her voice cracked like porcelain. “He… Chrissy…”

She doesn’t finish. Her throat works around the name like it’s a shard of glass. She lifts her eyes to you—brown and glazed over, red-rimmed and bruised underneath. She looks broken, but not defeated. Not entirely.

You take her in. The bruises bloom purple and sickly across her cheekbone, a fresh one at the corner of her jaw. The left side of her lip is split, crusted with dried blood. Your heart clenches. Your stomach turns.

“Come in,” you whisper, stepping aside without hesitation.

She moves forward, slow, dragging her suitcase behind her. The door closes with a heavy thud, locking the storm—and whatever nightmare she’s just escaped—outside.

She walks like someone remembering how. Like the act of putting one foot in front of the other takes more courage than she thought she had left. Then she collapses onto your couch, suitcase forgotten, shoulders shaking with a breath she didn’t know she was holding.

“He—he said he’d kill me if I didn’t leave,” she breathes. Her hand goes to her face instinctively, as if checking the damage. “He said next time, Chrissy’d watch.”

Your chest aches. You crouch beside her, not touching her yet, but close.

“I want you here. With me.”

She lets out a bitter, teary laugh, the kind that betrays how many times she’s heard empty promises. “You don’t know what that means.”

“I’ll learn,” you say softly. “I’ll figure it out. Whatever you need.”

You stand and disappear into the kitchen, filling a glass with water. Then, reconsidering, you pour wine instead—something deeper, heavier. She needs something warm, something to soften the edges.

You return, glass in hand.

“One for me,” you say gently, offering it.

She takes it, fingers brushing yours—cold and trembling. She manages a smile—tiny, pained, but real.

“Two,” she murmurs. You pour again.

You sit beside her, close but respectful. There’s a silence between you that isn’t awkward, just fragile. Like a thread not yet knotted.

She sips. You watch her eyes move around the room, noting nothing in particular. Just existing.

You tap her shoulder lightly. “No safe here.”

It takes her a second. Then she exhales, long and shaky. “God,” she says, “I needed to hear that.”

The TV’s on, playing something loud and violent. You grab the remote and mute it, then turn it off completely. “Not tonight,” you say. Then, softer: “Stay.”

She turns her head, just slightly. Her gaze finds yours. Her voice is small.

“Okay.”

She leans in. Her head finds your shoulder like it always knew the way. Her breath is slow, uneven. You stay still, let her decide what safety feels like. Her free hand wraps the glass tighter. She doesn’t cry anymore.

You rest your cheek against her hair, smell rain and regret, mascara and wine. She doesn’t move. Neither do you.

She came here to escape hell. You’re not sure you’re heaven—but tonight, maybe you can be enough.