The door wasn’t locked.

That was the first thing I noticed when I touched the handle, hesitant. It was past midnight, but her bedroom light was still on, casting her silhouette behind the thin white curtain. She sat on the floor, leaning against her bed, knees pulled tight to her chest and head bowed low, as if she wanted to disappear from the world. The jacket my brother gave her was tossed carelessly in the corner of the room—damp, wrinkled, and stained from the rain.

I closed the door quietly, almost soundless. My steps moved slowly across the carpet. The only sound was our breathing—hers, unsteady and shallow, and mine, never quite calming. But she didn’t turn. Just stayed still in the darkness of her own mind.

“I can’t stand seeing you like this anymore,” I whispered as I stopped in front of her.

No reaction. But she knew I was there.

I lowered myself to the ground, one knee touching the floor first, then the other. I sat facing her. Her face was still downturned, her chin nearly resting on her knees. Her hands clutched the sleeves of her shirt, like she was afraid her body might fall apart without something to hold on to.

My hand reached out, slow and steady, touching her knee. My fingers trembled slightly as I touched the warmth of her skin beneath the thin fabric. “He’s not going to change,” I said at last, my voice deep and heavy. “And you know that.”

She didn’t answer, but I saw her jaw tighten. I knew my words hurt her—and I hated myself for saying them, but I would hate myself more if I kept letting her suffer alone.

“He’s my brother,” I continued, my voice dropping lower, “but that doesn’t make him worthy of you. You deserve better.”

I lifted my hand, touching her cheek with my open palm. Soft. Careful. Her skin was cold from the tears that had only just dried, but warm underneath. My thumb stroked her cheekbone slowly, then trailed down the curve of her jaw. I leaned in a little, and from this close, I could smell the faint scent of her shampoo in her hair.

“Someone who knows how to treat you right,” I murmured, my voice lowering, almost only between the two of us.

My other hand moved to her side, tracing her arm with the back of my fingers, then sliding around her waist slowly. I pulled her closer, easing her into my chest. She didn’t resist. Her body was tense at first, but gradually, her neck rested against my shoulder, and I felt a deep breath leave her chest.

My forehead touched hers. Our noses brushed. Our breaths mixed in the narrow space between our faces.

“Why do you keep holding on, huh?” My voice was hoarse, nearly cracking in the closeness. “Do you really think he’ll ever change? Until when? Until you’re completely broken?”

My fingers slid through her damp hair, brushing behind her ear, then cradled the back of her neck. My grip was firm but calm—not to hold her back, but to make her feel I was real. That I could be the place she returned to, if only she let me.

“Look at me,”

I looked into her—honestly, deeply—then leaned in. My lips touched her forehead. A long moment. Then down to her cheek, one light kiss, filled with promise. My touch wasn’t just a need to possess her—I wanted to heal her. I wanted to be the place where she could stop surviving and start feeling loved.

“Let me be your man,” I whispered, my breath brushing the trembling edge of her lips. “Then I’ll protect you until my very last breath.”