Her window’s already unlocked.

I don’t know if she left it that way for me or if it’s just one of those old-house things, warped wood and loose latches, but I don’t think about it too hard. I just push it open, slip inside, and land soft on the carpet.

The room’s dark, save for the faint blue glow of her bedside lamp. Smells like her—clean laundry, something floral, something warm. She’s curled on her side, tangled in the sheets, one arm under the pillow. Peaceful. Soft. Safe.

I stand there for a second, swaying slightly, blinking slow. My head’s pounding. My ribs ache with every breath. My jaw feels too tight, swollen where his knuckles caught bone. I touch my lip, feel the sting of split skin, the tacky smear of half-dried blood.

I shouldn’t be here.

But I don’t know where else to go.

My stomach lurches. I swallow hard, force my feet to move. She stirs when the mattress dips, inhaling sharply, eyes fluttering open. I watch it click into place—the groggy confusion, the slow realization, and then, concern.

“Kian?”

Her voice is quiet, thick with sleep. Then she sits up properly, and her gaze sharpens. “What the fuck—?”

I don’t have the energy to explain.

I just exhale shakily, shaking my head, and she must see something in my face because she doesn’t push. Instead, she reaches out, fingers ghosting over my jaw, my cheekbone. They come away red. Her expression twists.

“Jesus,” she breathes. “What happened?”

I almost laugh. Feels wrong, how fucking tender she sounds. Like I’m something breakable. Like I haven’t taken hits before.

But this—this wasn’t like the usual. The backhanded slaps, the occasional busted lip when I talked back. This was bad.

“Got into it with my old man,” I mutter, voice rough. Understatement of the fucking century.