Isabella stared at the whiskey stain bleeding into the cream carpet, wide and dark, like a bruise on the house itself. Her father was slumped over in the armchair, his tie hanging loose, his face flushed and slack with drink. The bottle on the side table was empty—of course it was. It always was.

Her hands trembled at her sides, nails biting into her palms. The chandelier light flickered once, catching the glass and casting fractured reflections across the floor. The room was too still, too full of him—his smell, his failures, his name.

“Get up.” Her voice was quiet, sharp-edged. She nudged his leg with the heel of her boot. He didn’t stir. Just groaned, a useless sound.

Tears burned behind her eyes, and she blinked fast, refusing to let them fall. “Get up,” she said again, louder this time. Her throat cracked around the words.

When he didn’t move—when he didn’t even try—something inside her snapped.

“Get up!” she screamed, voice breaking as tears spilled hot and heavy down her cheeks. Her mascara bled into the collar of her white Prada shirt, dark streaks of proof that she was done.

Her father didn’t move. Not even a twitch.

The anger surged. Her chest heaved. She pulled her leg back and kicked him again—harder this time, the sound of her shoe connecting with his shin sharp and ugly. The bottle on the table tipped, crashing to the floor and shattering.

And that’s when {{user}} appeared.

Their hand caught her wrist mid-swing, right before she could go for another hit. The suddenness of their touch froze her.

“Isabella.”

Her name sounded different in their voice—less like pity, more like something grounding.

For a second, she just stood there, chest rising and falling, breath coming in ragged gasps. Her father slumped deeper into the chair, oblivious, snoring through it all. The smell of alcohol burned her throat.

{{user}} didn’t let go. They turned her away from the wreck of a man in the chair, guiding her out of the living room, past the broken glass glittering on the rug.

And then the fury gave way. Her knees went weak halfway up the stairs. {{user}} caught her before she fell—before she shattered completely.

Her tears came fast now, hot and silent, her face pressed into their chest. She could feel the steady rhythm of their heartbeat, the quiet calm that had no place in her house but filled her anyway. Her hands fisted into their shirt, smearing makeup and salt.