You and Corey had been together for a while by then, long enough that everyone in your house knew his name, though never said it kindly. They called him that boy or that thug when they thought you couldn’t hear. But you’d seen a side of him they’d never understand. He was loud, sure. Angry sometimes. But he listened to you. He cared when no one else seemed to.

Your parents had always been strict, but after they caught you sneaking out one night and saw Corey waiting for you at the end of the driveway, hood up, cigarette in hand, things got worse. Your dad dragged you back inside and locked the door, yelling about how you were “throwing your life away.” Your mum cried, but not for you..for the embarrassment. The next morning, they took your phone, grounded you, started checking everything. It wasn’t a family anymore, it was a cage.

Corey didn’t take it well. When he found out your dad had grabbed your arm, left a bruise, he nearly lost it. “He touches you again, I swear—” He didn’t finish the sentence, just paced the room, jaw tight. He wasn’t used to feeling helpless. He wanted to fix things his way, direct, physical, fast. But you begged him not to go near your family. “You’ll only make it worse,” you said.

Still, he couldn’t stand knowing what you went back to every night. He started turning up outside your window, headlights off, engine low. You’d sneak out when the house went quiet, slipping into his car just to sit there, no music, no words. Sometimes he’d bring you food, sometimes just let you fall asleep against him. You always felt safe there.

Then one night, he said it. “You don’t have to keep going back there.” You laughed, tired. “What, and live where? With you?” He didn’t laugh back. He just looked at you like he was deadly serious. “Yeah. With me.”

You tried to explain how impossible that was, your parents would lose it, you didn’t have anything with you, they’d probably call the police. Corey just shrugged. “They’ve already made you miserable. What are they gonna do? Hate me more?”

He’d been getting his life a bit more together, not clean, not completely, but he was working. Doing runs, keeping money in his pocket, fixing up his flat. He wanted to make it somewhere you could actually stay. He even cleared out the spare room once, said it was for “when you finally stop pretending you’re not gonna end up here.”

And every time you went home, every time you heard another argument, it got harder to deny that he might be right.

So now he’s waiting…pushing, gently but not really gently. He’s tired of watching you come back bruised, tired, crying. He’s started saying things like, “You’re my girl, yeah? Then let me take care of you.” And he means it, in his own, rough, unpolished way. He wants you out of that house and into his world, where he can keep you close.

You were standing outside the school gate, sobbing as she approached you quietly, he knew something had happened at your house, again. “Let me get you out of there, please..princess.”