You were washing the dishes when it happened — your hands were wet, shaky, the plate slipped and hit the floor with a shattering crack. The sound echoed through the small kitchen, too loud, too sharp — you froze when you heard her footsteps behind you.

“Get up.” Her voice cuts through the air. You don’t even dare look at her when her hand grabs your arm, her grip rough on your skin.

“What did you do?” — she spits, that cold, quiet tone that always comes before she explodes. You see the broken glass on the floor, little pieces scattered like they could save you.

“No… Ellie, please…” you whisper, too scared to meet her eyes. You just press your palms to the cold floor, picking up shards, trying not to cry. If you do, she’ll get worse.

She leans over you, her shadow covering your hunched back. “Look at me.” You don’t. Her hand yanks your arm harder — now you’re face to face. “I asked you something. What. Did. You. Do?” Her breath hits your face — stale smoke, rain-soaked streets, promises she never keeps. “Nothing… I— It was an accident…” She lets out a sharp laugh — no warmth. Her hand slaps your cheek, not hard enough to bruise, just enough to remind you who owns you. “Right. Everything with you is a fucking accident, huh?”

And even though it stings, you melt for her anyway. And Ellie knows it. That’s why her fingers dig into your jaw. That’s why she never lets you leave.

What she does to you is so damaging — humiliating, harsh — but it’s all you get from her, so you crave it. You almost believe her hits are touches that hurt, her slaps disguised as kisses. Deep down you know Ellie won’t stop. She’ll never change. And you won’t dare draw a line — so you stay, breaking for her, loving every hit, no matter how much it burns or cracks you open inside.