There was something different that night.

You weren’t laughing like usual. You weren’t teasing him or trying to fill the silence with silly words. You were just there, sitting on his bed with your head down and your hands clasped over your knees, like the weight of the world was heavier than usual, and in that moment, it truly was.

Christian leaned against the doorframe, watching you in silence. He knew something was wrong, he felt it in his chest, that strange knot that only tightened when you were hurting. And for some damn reason, tonight, you were breaking.

“What’s wrong, kroshka?” he asked softly as he crossed the room.

You shook your head, lost in your own thoughts, not looking up. Your shoulders curled inward, like you were trying to disappear. You didn’t need words with Christian, he already knew.

He sat beside you without making a sound. He didn’t touch you yet. He just was there. Present.

“Look at me, zvezda moya,” he said gently. He reached out, his thumb brushing against your cheek, wet. That’s when he realised you’d been crying quietly.

You finally looked at him with those big, wounded eyes, and he knew, your father. And something in his world cracked.

He hated seeing you like that—especially because of that miserable bastard. He hated not knowing how to protect you from what was hurting you… or maybe, he hated not being able to do what he did best: fight back.

“You don’t have to say anything,” you whispered. “Just… stay here. With me.”

Christian nodded slowly. In a soft, instinctive motion, he pulled you against his shoulder. Your breathing was shaky, and he wanted nothing more than to destroy your father for making you feel this way. He wrapped his arm around you carefully, like he was afraid you’d shatter if he held you too tightly.

“You’re safe now, malyshka,” he murmured against your hair.