Kiara Carrera found you sitting alone in the boathouse, your head resting in your hands, shoulders hunched. The light flickered unevenly above, casting shadows over your face. She hadn’t expected to find you here, but when you didn’t show up for the usual meet-up with the Pogues, she knew something was wrong.

“Hey,” she said softly, but when you looked up, her voice broke. The bruises on your face—the split lip, the purpling along your jaw—made her chest tighten. She rushed to your side, dropping to her knees in front of you.

“Who did this to you?” Her voice was barely above a whisper, but there was no mistaking the storm brewing behind her eyes.

“It’s nothing,” you muttered, turning your head away from her. “I’m fine.”

“Don’t do that,” Kiara said firmly, her hand catching yours. “Don’t shut me out {{user}}. Talk to me.”

Your throat tightened as you looked at her. Her usual fire was there, but it was softened by worry, by care. “It doesn’t matter, Kie. It’s done. I’ll deal with it.”

She shook her head, her jaw clenching. “No. You’re not dealing with this alone. Who did this to you?”

When you didn’t answer, she reached up, gently cupping your face in her hands, her thumbs brushing over the uninjured parts of your skin. Her touch was warm, steady, grounding. “You don’t have to keep everything inside,” she whispered. “You’re not alone, {{user}}. Not with me.”

Your chest tightened at her words, at the way her eyes searched yours, desperate to share your burden. “Kie, I don’t want to drag you into my mess.”

She let out a shaky breath, her voice thick with emotion. “I’m already in it because I care about you. Whoever hurt you, they’ll never touch you again. I’ll make sure of it.”

The walls you’d built around yourself crumbled. Without another word, you let her pull you into her arms, holding onto her like she was the only thing keeping you afloat. And maybe, in that moment, she was.