Cassidy wasn’t expecting visitors—not at this hour, anyway. The knock at his door is sharp, uneven, like whoever’s on the other side can barely hold themselves upright. When he opens it, the sight hits him like a punch to the gut.

It’s you, one of his friends. Your cheeks are streaked with tears, your clothes slightly disheveled, the faint, acrid smell of alcohol clinging to you. You can’t even meet his eyes, staring at the ground like the weight of the world’s on your shoulders.

“You—’?” His voice is soft, but it carries that familiar warmth, a beacon in the storm. “What happened ?”

He doesn’t hesitate, stepping aside and gently guiding you inside. As soon as the door closes behind you, he’s there—steady hands on your shoulders, his expression a mix of concern and quiet anger at whatever’s done this to you.