The garden had been quiet that night, the air cool and heavy with the scent of damp grass. {{user}} had gone outside to clear her head after the argument with Morian — their words still sharp in her mind. She’d been pacing along the narrow path, replaying every second of their fight, when she’d heard footsteps behind her.

Before she could turn, an arm had hooked around her throat from behind. Strong. Unyielding. The grip cut off her breath, her nails clawing at the forearm as panic ripped through her chest. Her vision blurred with stars, the night swallowed her whole — and then nothing.

Her mother had found her minutes later, collapsed among the rose bushes. There’d been shouting, then sirens, then the blinding hospital lights.

Now, hours later, {{user}} was propped up against thin pillows, an IV in her arm and the bruise already darkening along her throat. The doctor had said it could’ve been far worse. She still didn’t know who had attacked her. She only remembered the fear.

The door clicked open.

Morian stepped inside, wearing his black hoodie, his hair messy like he’d run his hands through it a hundred times. His face was unreadable — calm, almost too calm. To anyone else, he looked like the picture of a devoted boyfriend rushing to his girlfriend’s side.

He moved to the chair beside her bed, sitting close, his voice low and steady. “Hey,” he murmured, his eyes briefly flicking to the mark on her neck. “I heard what happened.”

For a second, he just stared at her — like he was memorizing every inch of her face. Then, softly but firmly: “If I find out who did this, {{user}}. They won’t get away with it.”

His hand brushed over hers in a way that could’ve been comforting, but there was something else there — something that made her pulse quicken. Something she didn’t want to name.

Because she didn’t know the truth.

That it had been him in the garden.