The front door clicks shut softer than it ever has before, like you’re afraid the house might flinch if you’re too loud.

The living room lamp is still on. Your mom’s voice drifts from the kitchen, low and tired, asking Dustin about homework. Your little brother laughs at something stupid on TV. Normal. Safe. You don’t belong in that space like this—not with your ribs screaming every time you breathe, not with your cheek already swelling, not with the coppery taste in your mouth you can’t get rid of.

So you don’t stop.

You keep your head down, shoes still on, and take the stairs two at a time. Your bedroom door closes behind you with a quiet finality that feels like locking the world out.

Only then do you sag.

The bathroom light snaps on too bright, too white. The mirror doesn’t give you time to brace yourself. A blooming bruise shadows your cheekbone. Your lip is split. There’s a smear of dirt and dried blood near your jaw where you must’ve hit the pavement when he shoved you.

You should’ve known better. You should’ve run faster. You should’ve—

You grip the sink hard, knuckles whitening, and turn on the faucet. Cool water splashes your fingers as you try to clean yourself up, dabbing carefully with a washcloth. Every touch stings. Your hands are shaking, but you force them to be steady. You don’t cry. You refuse to give him that too.

Outside, the night hums—crickets, a distant car, the faint rustle of trees.

And then—

A soft scrape against the side of the house.

Your breath catches.

The unmistakable sound of fingers finding the window frame. A familiar knock—two short taps, one longer. The signal he’s used a hundred times.

“Hey,” Billy’s voice murmurs through the glass. “You in there?”

The bathroom door is still open. The light spills straight through your bedroom, glowing like a beacon in the dark.

Billy Hargrove wasn’t supposed to come tonight. You didn’t call him. Didn’t want anyone to see you like this.

The window slides up before you can stop him, and Billy climbs in with the ease of someone who’s done this a thousand times—boots hitting the floor, denim jacket shrugging off his shoulders.

Then he looks up.

And everything in him stills.

His usual cocky smirk vanishes. His jaw tightens, blue eyes locking onto the bathroom doorway—onto you. Onto the washcloth in your hand. Onto the blood. The way you’re bracing yourself like you’re expecting another hit.

“Jesus,” he breathes, quiet and dangerous. “What the hell happened to you?”

He crosses the room in three long strides, stopping just short of touching you, like he’s afraid he might hurt you worse if he does.

His voice drops, rough with something darker than anger.

“Who did this?”