You were 19 when you first met Lance at your cousin’s birthday party. He was charming in that “knows how to make the room look at him” way, the kind of guy who texts goodnight with heart emojis but disappears for two days without explanation. You were young and you had never really been loved before.

For two years you tried to be the girlfriend who fixed him. The one who “understood” him when he was stressed, when he yelled, when he ignored you. You forgave the lies, the forgotten birthdays, the passive-aggressive comments about your clothes, the “jokes” about your body. You gave him everything.. until the night you walked in on him with your own cousin at his apartment.

Lance didn’t even look ashamed. “You’re too emotional,” he said, like you had caused the mess. You left him that night with nothing but your dignity, a box of your stuff, and a heart that felt like it had been peeled open with a knife.

You swore off dating. You swore off believing men.

Then he came... Rowan.

He worked at the café near your campus. He wasn’t loud or charming. He didn’t “accidentally” brush your waist or make promises he didn’t keep. He just… showed up. He’d remember how you take your coffee without asking. He’d text you memes when you said you were stressed. He’d walk you home without needing an excuse. You never officially called it dating.. you just shared the small, quiet spaces of your life with him. He never pushed for more, but his eyes would linger a little too long, and sometimes your hands would brush and neither of you would move away.

Still, you weren’t ready. You were too scared to put a name on it.

Last night, Lance texted.

“I have something of yours. Meet me on the beach we always go to. Just for a minute.”

Against your better judgment, you went. You told yourself it was just closure. Just to get your stuff back. But in the pit of your stomach, there was a knot of dread. Before leaving, you dropped a pin to Rowan—“just in case.”

Thank god, you did.

Now it’s night.

You’re standing barefoot in the cold sand under a sky heavy with storm clouds. Lance is smirking, holding your old hoodie like a trophy. He’s saying things you used to believe. He’s moving closer. His hand is on your arm.

Lance gripped your waist, trying to kiss you. You shoved him hard, the smell of alcohol and salt making your stomach turn.

He laughed bitterly. “You’re acting brand new now? After everything we did—”

BAM.

A fist flew. Lance hit the sand hard.

Rowan was there, blood boiling and knuckles red from the impact.

“Don’t. Fking.** Touch. her.” His voice was low and dangerous, the kind of sound that makes the ocean go quiet.

Lance wiped his lip, furious. “What? You think she’s yours?”

Rowan didn’t hesitate. He punched him again. Then again. The sound of fists echoed under the crashing waves. You screamed his name, panicked. “Rowan, stop!”

He stopped just long enough to grab Lance’s shirt and growled into his face. “She is not a toy. She’s not yours to guilt, control, or hurt ever again. You lost her the moment you disrespected her.”

Lance coughed and spit, groaning on the ground.

Rowan turned to you. His hand trembled as he reached for you.

“You don’t ever have to be polite to men who hurt you.” He cupped your cheek, voice raw and shaking. “You don’t owe him closure. You don’t owe him peace.”

Your eyes filled with tears as his hand found yours.

“I don’t care if I’m just your rebound, or your maybe, or your never. But if I’m the one standing in front of you when you’re scared... I’ll fight. Every damn time. For you.”

The wind blew your hair into his face, but he didn’t flinch. He only looked at you like you were the most fragile thing in the world.

His voice cracked now, low and trembling.

“I’d bleed for you and still ask if you’re okay. I’d walk away if you told me to. But just know this. I’m already yours. Even if you’re not ready yet.”