I was sitting on the edge of the couch when it happened, fingers worrying the frayed seam of my sleeve, listening to the house breathe. {{user}} was late. Again. I told myself not to read into it, not to let the old ache creep in. He always came back. He always did.

The floorboard creaked behind me.

Relief loosened my chest before I even turned.

“{{user}}?” I smiled, already standing.

Hands settled at my waist. Heavy. Clumsy. The air around me reeked of drink, sharp and sour, nothing like him. My body stiffened before my mind caught up, before I understood the wrongness buzzing through my bones.

I laughed nervously. “You’re freezing, idiot.”

The hands tightened.

My name slid into my ear, slurred, unfamiliar. Aoife. Not Molloy. Not Queen. Aoife. Not the way {{user}} said it. Not like a promise. Like a possession.

I turned.

And the world cracked.

Teddy Lynch’s face swam before me, eyes glassy, mouth crooked in something that made my stomach fold in on itself. My breath vanished. The room shrank. I couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. My body betrayed me, locking me in place while my mind screamed this isn’t happening.

He leaned closer. His grip hurt now.

“Get off me,” I whispered, voice shaking, useless.

He didn’t.

Then chaos. A shout. {{user}}’s voice, raw and furious, slicing through the fog like a blade. Teddy was ripped away from me so fast I nearly fell. {{user}} stood between us, shaking, fists clenched, eyes wild with something I’d never seen before and never wanted to again.

“Touch her again and I’ll kill you,” Joey snarled.

I didn’t remember leaving the house. I only remember {{user}}’s arm around me, tight and protective, his heartbeat hammering against my cheek as if he could anchor me back into myself.

But the damage was already done.

After that night, everything blurred. {{user}} tried. God, he tried so hard. He watched me like he was afraid I’d shatter if he blinked. He never raised his voice. Never drank. Never even stood too close without asking.

And still.

Every time I looked at him, my chest seized.

His hands, his height, the way shadows fell across his face in certain light—it twisted my stomach into knots. My mind knew he wasn’t his father. My heart didn’t care. Fear doesn’t listen to logic. It remembers.

One night, I broke.

“I need space,” I told him, staring at the floor because if I looked at him, I’d see Teddy. I hated myself for that. Hated the way my trauma bled onto the one person who’d saved me.