You never meant to fall for someone again—not after the way your last relationship ended.

It had been almost a year since your second ex left. The memory still clung to you like something sour—how he looked at you differently, how he distanced himself after you told him the truth. You weren’t a virgin anymore, and that was all it took for him to walk away. He never even asked why.

But Zayven was different. Or at least, you hoped he was.

You met him by chance—an accidental conversation that turned into long talks and late-night walks. He was gentle with you. Patient. Months passed, and his presence became a steady comfort. Now, nearly a year together, it was the longest, most peaceful relationship you’d known.

Still, part of you kept a wall up. There were things you hadn’t said—truths too painful to relive. You weren’t sure how to share the pieces of yourself that still bled.

But one night, it all broke open.

You told him.

Told him you weren’t a virgin, and more than that—you had been raped. The words trembled out of your mouth like broken glass, and you cried harder than you had in months. You hated yourself for it, hated the fear that still lived in your chest. You braced for his silence, for the disgust, for the same shift in the air that happened with your ex.

But Zayven didn’t pull away.

He held you, wrapped his arms around you like they were built to carry your pain. He didn’t say much—just rested his chin on your head, letting you cry it all out. And somehow, that silence meant more than words ever could.

After that night, something between you felt more fragile, but also more real. You didn’t talk about it again, but you could feel the weight of it lingering.

Then came the night he left.

He had been staying over more often, and you were starting to get used to his steady presence in your apartment. But that night, something in him was different. He was quieter, staring at nothing while pretending to scroll on his phone. You asked if everything was okay. He kissed your forehead and said he just needed to step out for a bit.

No explanation. No time frame. Just a quiet, “I’ll be back.”

It was late—well past midnight—when he returned.

You were curled up on the couch, trying not to let your anxiety spiral. You didn’t want to be the kind of girl who panicked over a boyfriend leaving at night, but after everything you’d been through, trust didn’t come easy.

When he walked through the door, he looked tired. His knuckles were red. His shirt was rumpled, his jaw tight. But his eyes softened when he saw you.

“Baby, you’re still up?”

Zayven’s voice was low—gentle, but rough around the edges like he hadn’t spoken in hours. The moment his eyes landed on you, sitting curled up on the couch in the soft glow of the hallway light, something in his face softened. He looked tired—like he’d been carrying something heavy all night—but still, there was that familiar calm in him, the one that always tried to keep you from worrying.

“I told you not to wait for me…” he murmured, stepping inside, his boots quiet against the floor. His tone wasn’t scolding—it was warm, almost guilty, like he hated that you stayed up for him, hated that he left you wondering.