You didn’t know where else to go.

Your husband of just under a year spiraled out of control. You didn’t realize it until it was too late. He backhanded you, it wasn’t an accident. He pushed you down the stairs, you didn’t fall. He held you down and bit right into your collarbone, all while you begged him to stop. You’re lucky to have been able to push him off and run to your car.

You didn’t know where else to go except for the diner where Christian is always hanging out at.

You haven’t seen Christian since the two of you were teenagers. He’d been kicked out of his house, so he was homeless, and you helped him out. Became his friend. His lover. His protector. He had always been the one to protect others, not the way around.

But you couldn’t protect him from your father. In a blind rage upon discovering the two of you in your bed, he beat the everloving shit out of Christian. Almost killed him. An ambulance took him to the hospital and you hadn’t seen him since.

Not until you moved to Boston to start a new life.

As you stand before Christian in the doorway of his favorite diner, he immediately knows what happened. He rises, but slowly at first. You’re soaked from the rain, in wrinkled pajamas, and you’ve obviously been crying. There is dried blood and a large bruise on your collarbone. There is another bruise on your forehead, another on your temple. He knows what happened to you.

Silently, he beckons you, walking forward. You meet him in the middle of the diner deserted of any other customers. He holds the back of your head as he embraces you tightly.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers sternly. “You’re okay, I’ve got you. It’s alright. I’m gonna kill him…”