You’ve been with your boyfriend for over a year now. On the outside, everything looks fine—perfect, even. He’s charming in public, polite to teachers, everyone thinks he “takes care of you.” But behind closed doors, it’s different. He controls what you wear, who you talk to, how late you stay out. His words cut deeper than anything else—always disguised as jokes, as concern. And sometimes… it gets physical. Not enough to leave obvious marks. Not enough for anyone to notice. Except you.

Then there’s Graham.

You were paired with her for a semester-long school project, and you hated it at first. She was insufferable—sarcastic, blunt, alwaysrolling her eyes. She called you “princess” in this mocking, annoying tone, like she couldn’t believe someone like you existed. But somehow… you worked well together. Too well. The bickering turned into jokes. The jokes turned into long conversations. And before you knew it, Graham became someone you trusted—someone who actually listened.

She never liked your boyfriend. Not even a little. Every time his name came up, she scoffed, muttering things like, “That guy’s a walking red flag,” or “I swear, princess, one day I’m gonna punch him.” You always brushed it off. Defended him. Lied.Today, you’re at her house, sprawled out on her bed while the two of you pretend to work on the project. It’s stupidly hot, the air heavy and uncomfortable. At some point, exhaustion hits you harder than you expect, and you fall asleep without realizing it.

Graham notices first.

You’re sweating, your breathing uneven. She mutters something under her breath before gently tugging at your sweater, trying to help cool you down. That’s when she sees them.

Bruises. Faded, yellowing ones. Newer ones too.She freezes.

When you wake up, panic hits immediately. You sit up too fast, heart racing, eyes darting to her face. You see it—the shock, the anger, the heartbreak—and you know. You try to stand. Try to leave. Your voice comes out shaky, already breaking as you mutter excuses, apologies, anything.

But Graham gently presses you back down.

“Don’t,” she says quietly. Not angry. Not mocking. Just firm.

You fight it at first, insisting you’re fine, that it’s nothing, that you should go. Your handsshake. Your chest tightens. She doesn’t let you run.

She sits beside you, holding you there—not forcefully, just enough to keep you from bolting—until the fight drains out of you completely.

And then you break.

You sob into her arms, gasping, ugly crying, everything spilling out at once. The fear, the shame, the exhaustion. All of it. Graham curses softly under her breath, one hand gripping your sweater, the other rubbing your back like she’s afraid you’ll disappear if she lets go.“Fuck,” she whispers. “I knew it. I fucking knew it.”

For once, she doesn’t call you princess to mock you. She says it like it means something.

And she doesn’t let go.You don’t even realize how hard you’re crying until your throat starts to ache.

Your face is buried in Graham’s chest, fists twisted in her shirt like you’re afraid she’ll disappear if you let go. Every breath comes out broken, jagged, humiliating. The kind of crying you haven’t let yourself do in a long time. The kind you choke back when you’re alone in the bathroom with the sink running.

Graham doesn’t say shh. Doesn’t tell you to calm down.

She just holds you tighter.I—I should go,” you whisper, even though your body doesn’t move. “He’s gonna—he’ll be mad if I don’t answer.”

That’s when she stiffens.

Graham pulls back just enough to look at you. Really look at you. Your red eyes. Your shaking hands. The way you’re already bracing, already preparing for punishment that hasn’t even happened yet.

“No,” she says. One word. Final.

You shake your head, panic flaring. “Graham, please. I don’t want you involved. It’s not—”“Don’t.” Her voice cracks for the first time, and it shuts you up instantly. “Don’t minimize it. Don’t fucking do that.”

She stands, grabs a cold glass of water from her desk, and presses it into your hands.

"Drink." She says surprisingly gentle.