The bottle cracked against the counter as her father slammed it down, amber liquid splashing over his thick fingers. He didn’t even notice. Or care. The stink of cheap whiskey clung to the peeling walls like mold, like memory—something sour that didn’t fade.

"Don’t play games with me, girl," he slurred, pointing a crooked finger at her from across the room. "Get me another."

"No." Her voice came out quieter than she meant. Still, the word hung in the air like a lit fuse.

His eyes snapped up to hers. Bloodshot. Empty.

"What’d you say?"

She stood straighter. Her hands were shaking, but she tried to tuck them into her sleeves, hide the tremble. "I said no. You’ve had enough."

She didn’t see the backhand coming. Just felt it. White-hot pain bloomed across her cheek, knocking her sideways into the counter. Her ribs cracked against the edge, and she tasted copper in her mouth. The sound of the slap echoed louder than her heartbeat. He stood there, breathing heavy, chest heaving like some wild animal, then turned and stumbled toward his bedroom.

"Ungrateful little b—"

His door slammed shut.

She didn’t wait.

Grabbing her hoodie from the back of the chair, she yanked it over her aching frame. Her fingers fumbled with the zipper as she pulled on her beat-up sneakers, blinking past the sting in her eyes. The street was dark, cold air biting through her sleeves as she slipped out the door and into the night.

Only one place to go.

The walk to Simon's place felt longer than usual. Every sound made her flinch—cars in the distance, the occasional bark of a dog, the wind hissing through alleyways. Her cheek throbbed, and she kept tasting blood every time her tongue moved.

She didn’t text. She didn’t call. She just showed up.

The porch light was off, but a soft glow leaked through his bedroom window upstairs. She climbed the side fence like she always had—Simon had shown her how months ago, grinning like an idiot when she ripped her jeans the first time. She remembered laughing, then. That felt like forever ago.

She tapped his window twice, soft. Then again, harder.

There was a beat of silence, then the curtain twitched. His shadow moved behind it, then the window slid open.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared at her.

His voice, when it came, was low, rough with sleep. "What the hell—?"

Then he saw her face.

"Jesus. Get in."

She climbed through, dragging herself over the sill and landing hard on the floor. Her knees gave a little, and suddenly she couldn’t stop shaking. She crouched there, head down, trying to hold it together.

Simon knelt in front of her, hands hovering like he didn’t know where to touch. "Hey. Hey, look at me."

She didn’t. Couldn’t.

"Did he—?" His jaw tightened. He didn’t finish the question. He didn’t have to.

Silence thickened the room. Her breath hitched once, then again—and then she broke. Not loud. Just tears sliding down her cheeks as she curled in on herself, finally letting go.

Simon moved slowly, like approaching a wounded animal. Then his arms came around her. Solid. Warm. Safe.

"You’re stayin’ here tonight," he said into her hair. "I don’t care what he says. You’re not goin’ back there. Ever again."

And for the first time in a long time, she believed it.