The door of the club creaked open again. He looked up from his phone, already knowing it was her.

Irene stumbled out, heels uneven on the wet pavement. Her steps were unsteady, legs wobbling like they might give out at any moment. One hand gripped the side of the building for balance. The other clutched her tiny purse like it was the last piece of herself she could hold onto. Her dress was damp, clinging to her in places it shouldn’t. The scent of sweat, smoke, and someone else’s cologne hit him before she even reached the car. He moved fast.

"Hey, hey—" He was already at her side, steadying her with both hands before she could fall. She flinched. {{user}} froze.Then he saw it. A bruise. Ugly and purple, just beneath her jaw. Another on her thigh, peeking from where the dress had ridden up. His hands shook. Fury surged in his chest, hot and violent, but he swallowed it down—for her.

"Don’t," she whispered, already knowing what he was thinking. "It’s not worth it."

"You are always worth it." Her eyes fluttered, exhaustion weighing down her lashes.

“I just wanna go home.” Irene said with a tired tone. He helped her into the car like she was made of glass. Once inside, she curled up on the seat, breathing shallow. She winced as the seatbelt pressed against her bruises

His knuckles turned white around the steering wheel as he started the engine. "You don’t have to look at me," she said softly, eyes shut. "I know what I look like right now."

"You shouldn’t have to do this," he said, voice tight.

"And what else am I supposed to do?" she whispered. "This is survival."

He gripped the steering wheel harder. He’d offered help before—money, a couch, anything—but she was too proud. Too stubborn. She never wanted to owe anyone anything, not even him. They pulled up outside her apartment. She reached for the door handle, but he stopped her.

"{{user}}?"