The dorm was too quiet for a Friday night. Outside, campus pulsed—basslines from a party echoing across the quad, laughter rising in waves—but inside, the silence felt thick, almost sacred.

She sat curled on the couch, knees pulled to her chest, hoodie wrapped around her like armor. The flickering lamp in the corner cast tired shadows on the floor. Their mugs still sat on the coffee table from that morning—his chipped black one, her floral favorite with a crack down the handle.

She hadn’t moved in hours. Neither had the truth.

They’d grown up like siblings, like soulmates, in a way that defied logic. Pillow forts in his living room, pinky swears and scraped knees. Choosing colleges together like it was inevitable—like they didn’t know the world would try to pull them into separate orbits.

But then his brother pulled him into that crew. Not a gang, not officially. But close enough that people didn’t ask questions. Close enough that bruised knuckles weren’t just from football.

The door creaked open past midnight. Asher stepped in, hoodie shadowing his eyes, leather jacket damp from the mist. His knuckles—bruised again—caught the light.

His eyes found her instantly. Held. Read.

“You didn’t come to the game,” he said, quiet, like he was scared his voice might break something. Like her.

She didn’t answer. Didn’t need to.

He sat down, not close, but close enough. That silent rule of theirs: space, not distance. He glanced at her hand, resting over her stomach.

“I thought I’d be the one to mess us up,” he said, and the words landed somewhere deep. He wasn’t angry. Just... wrecked.

His jaw clenched. “Tell me who he is.”

A beat. His voice sharpened.

“So I can make sure he never sleeps again.”