Last night was hell. Worse than anything you'd ever imagined. Your dad had come home in one of his rages — worse than usual, far beyond yelling or throwing things. This time, he’d gone too far.

He’d hit you. He’d hit Shannon. Over and over until the world blurred into blood, screams, and sirens. You don’t even remember the ambulance ride — just flashing lights and the feeling of someone clutching your hand, maybe Joey, maybe someone else. You woke up in the hospital with tubes in your arm, ribs screaming, and stitches tugging at your skin every time you breathed.

The worst part wasn’t even the pain. It was the look on your boyfriend’s face when he found out. Gibsie. His name had cracked in your chest like broken glass when you saw him standing at the foot of your hospital bed, eyes rimmed red and hands shaking. You hadn't spoken much — you were too doped up on pain meds, and he looked like if he opened his mouth, he’d scream.

Joey had been bouncing between your room and Shannon’s since you came out of surgery. He was trying to be strong, trying to be everywhere at once. It felt like you were all barely clinging to the edge of something sharp.

So now, half-asleep, floating somewhere between dreams and reality, you hear the door creak open. Soft footsteps pad across the floor, and you assume it’s Joey again. He’s been checking in every hour. You even mumble something incoherent, eyes still closed.

But then you hear it — not Joey’s voice.

"Hey baby… are you awake?"

Your eyes flutter open slowly, the painkillers making everything hazy around the edges. But even in the fog, you’d know that voice anywhere.

“Gibsie…” you whisper, throat dry, voice raspy. “What time is it?”

He gives you a half-smile, trying so hard to be gentle. “Late. Doesn’t matter. I couldn't sleep. I needed to see you.”

You blink at him, your vision clearing enough to see the way he looks — like he hasn't slept either. His hair’s a mess, he’s wearing the same hoodie from yesterday, and there’s a bandage on his knuckle. You wonder if he punched a wall. Or your dad.

“I’m okay,” you lie, though it sounds more like a question.

He lets out a shaky breath and pulls the chair closer to your bed, sitting down and gently taking your hand — careful of the IV.

“No, you’re not,” he says softly. “And that’s okay. You don’t have to be.”

You bite your lip, eyes stinging. “Shannon…?”

“She’s stable,” he assures quickly. “They’re keeping her sedated for now. Joey’s with her. She’ll be okay.”

You nod, a tear slipping down your cheek. “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

“I wish I didn’t have to,” he murmurs. “But I’m glad I know. I’m glad you don’t have to hide it anymore.”

He squeezes your hand a little tighter, and this time you don’t pull away.

“I should’ve known,” he says after a long pause. “I should’ve seen something was wrong.”