You’d just gotten home, dropping your bag by the door with a sigh so heavy it made Drew glance up immediately from where he was lounging on the couch, script in hand. His face lit up at first—just the way it always did when you walked into a room. But it faltered when he noticed how stiffly you moved.

“You okay?” he asked, setting the script down.

“Yeah,” you said a little too quickly, brushing past him into the kitchen. “Just exhausted. That last scene went forever.”

But Drew followed you. He always did.

You kept your back to him, pulling a bottle of water from the fridge, mumbling something noncommittal. And that’s when he saw it—just the faintest smudge peeking out from your concealer, near your neck. A handprint. His whole body froze.

“Wait—” he said, voice lower now, concerned. “What’s on your neck?”

You tensed. “It’s nothing.”

“Don’t do that,” Drew said gently, walking closer. “Babe. Turn around.”

You hesitated—he could see it in your posture—but eventually you turned slowly, and the moment his eyes landed on it, something shifted behind them. His jaw tightened, his hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to touch you.

“Who did that?” he asked, voice calm, but sharp enough to cut glass.

“It was during a scene,” you said quickly. “It wasn’t on purpose, he just—he got too into it, and I didn’t want to stop the take, and—”

Drew’s eyes darkened. “He choked you?”

“It wasn’t like that—”

“It was like that.” He stepped forward, finally brushing your hair back gently to see the full bruise, his fingertips featherlight. “Jesus, baby…”

You watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard, visibly trying to rein in the protective storm brewing inside him. Then, softer: “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I knew you’d be mad.”

“I’m not mad at you,” he said firmly. “I’m mad because I love you. And no one gets to hurt you, even if it’s ‘just a scene.’ That’s not okay.”

He leaned in, kissed your forehead, lingered there. “You’re telling your team tomorrow. Or I will.”