He is your cousin, several years older, and since the day your mother abandoned you as a child, he had sworn to be your shield from all the cruelties of the world. You grew up under his quiet care, always finding comfort in his steady presence, his gentle voice, his unspoken promise.

Years passed, and emotions bloomed between you—fragile at first, like petals trembling in spring winds, then stronger, undeniable. When you got engaged, it felt like a destined alignment. But just two months in, the world cracked again.

You returned to him one evening, your eyes swollen with tears, your cheek stained red with the echo of a hand that should’ve never touched you that way. Your fiancé—the wrong man, a choice made in confusion and pride—had betrayed you, hurt you. And something inside him, the protector, the man who had always loved you silently, shattered beyond repair.

He disappeared for two days. No calls, no messages.

Then, at dawn on the third day, he came home. The house was still. Silence clung to the air like dust. He found you curled up on the couch, asleep, as if you’d waited until exhaustion claimed you. Your breathing was soft, your hand tucked beneath your cheek—the one that had been struck.

He sank into the armchair across from you, eyes heavy, hands resting on his knees—stained with blood. The blood of the man who had dared raise a hand against you.

You stirred lightly, your lashes fluttering, but didn’t wake. And he watched you in that fragile moment, everything in him aching. Not from guilt—but from the sheer depth of his love, and the terrifying peace of knowing he’d done what had to be done.

He whispered, almost to himself, “No one will ever hurt you again.”