Ben had warned you.

He truly did. But you didn’t listen.

You still went on that date. And now you’re back in his arms, sobbing because the guy hurt you.

“Fuckin’ asshole,” he mumbled. You knew he was talking about the guy you went out with.

The guy who laid his hands on you.

The asshole who couldn’t take no for an answer.

Ben pressed a light kiss to the top of your head. He’s uncharacteristically soft around you and only you. You are his doll, his sweetheart, his babygirl. “You want me to go kill him?”

You shook your head. Because you didn’t want him to. You just wanted him to be there with you.

“Alright, doll,” he mumbles. “I won’t kill him right now.”

Ben sits you on the edge of the bed, wiping the tears from your cheeks. He takes the white sundress off of you, leaving you in the white undergarments you had on underneath. And his gaze darkens in anger as he sees the bruises.

“Fuck, sweetheart. What did I say? You need someone older. Someone who knows how to handle you.”

He doesn’t say that he means himself. But he does lean forward and press a kiss to each and every mark the guy left on your body.