It wasn’t supposed to be a big deal.

That’s what you kept telling yourself as you sat on the edge of the Gallagher couch, arms folded tight, staring at a spot on the floor that suddenly felt safer than anyone’s eyes.

“I’m fine,” you said for the third time.

Ian didn’t answer.

He stood a few feet away, jaw tight, hands clenched at his sides. He’d noticed it the second you walked in—the way you flinched when someone raised their voice, the bruise you tried to hide under your sleeve, the silence where your laugh usually was.

“I asked who did it,” he said, voice low. Too calm.

You shook your head. “Ian, please. It’s not worth—”

He stepped closer. Not angry at you. Never at you. But something in his eyes snapped when he saw your hands trembling.

“Someone doesn’t get to hurt you,” he said. “Not like that.”

When you finally told him—stumbling over the words, minimizing it like you always did—Ian felt it like a match struck inside his chest.

All the times he’d been powerless. All the times he’d watched people get hurt and couldn’t stop it.

“You didn’t deserve that,” he said immediately, fierce. “Not one second of it.”