You’re curled up on the couch, half-lost in whatever you’re reading, the house unusually quiet without your parents around. Dinner out, they’d said. The kind of quiet that feels too big for the room.

The knock at the front door cuts through it.

You frown, lowering the book as your eyes flick to the clock. Not late enough for them to be back. Slowly, you get to your feet, padding down the hallway, unease settling low in your stomach. You pause at the door for a second, then pull it open.

Joey’s standing there.

He looks rough—worse than usual. One side of his face is already blooming with angry red bruises, his lip split and swollen like it’s been bleeding not long ago. His nose is a little red, eyes tired and glassy, lashes clumped like he’s rubbed at them too much. He’s got his backpack slung over one shoulder, knuckles scraped, blonde hair completely wrecked, like he’s run his hands through it a dozen times and lost a fight with his own thoughts.

He exhales when he sees you, relief and exhaustion crashing together as he leans his weight against the doorframe, like standing upright is optional at this point.

“Hey, queen,” he says quietly, voice rough around the edges, trying—and failing—to sound casual.

The porch light catches the bruising just right, and your chest tightens. Whatever happened to him… it wasn’t small.