The front door clicks shut softer than it has any right to, and you stand there for a second longer than necessary, fingers still curled around the knob like if you let go too fast, the night might come crashing back in with you.

The house is quiet in that familiar, almost-safe way. The TV murmurs faintly from the living room—your mom’s show, laugh track canned and hollow. Dustin’s voice pipes up once, asking a question you don’t hear the answer to. You don’t give them a chance to look at you.

You keep your head down and move fast.

“Hey, sweetheart?” your mom calls, distracted more than suspicious.

“Just tired,” you say, forcing the words out evenly. They scrape your throat raw.

You take the stairs two at a time, every step sending a dull ache through your ribs, your face throbbing in time with your pulse. By the time you reach your room, your hands are shaking. You close the door behind you and lean your forehead against it for a brief second, breathing shallow, counting—one, two, three—until the tightness in your chest eases enough to move.

The bathroom light flicks on, too bright, too honest.

The mirror doesn’t soften anything. A split lip. Red blooming beneath your eye, already turning dark at the edges. Finger-shaped bruises you don’t want to think about. Your stomach twists, anger and shame tangling together until you’re not sure which one makes you feel worse.

You turn the faucet on and cup water into your hands, wincing as it hits your lip. A quiet sound escapes you before you can stop it. You dab at your face with a washcloth, careful, methodical—like if you’re gentle enough, this can all be undone.

You don’t hear Eddie at first.

He’s careful climbing up the side of the house, practiced and quiet, like he’s done this a hundred times—because he has. He freezes when he sees the light spilling from beneath the bathroom door, his grin already half-formed from the stupid joke he was going to make dying on his lips.

“Baby?” Eddie’s voice is soft when he knocks on the window frame, concern threading through it immediately. “Angel?”

You stiffen.

The window slides open before you can stop him, Eddie slipping inside with all the grace of someone who absolutely should not be graceful. He’s already talking, already smiling—until he sees you reflected in the mirror.

The smile drops.

Eddie doesn’t say anything at first. He just stares, eyes darkening, jaw tightening so hard you can see the muscle jump. He crosses the room in three long strides, stopping just behind you, like he’s afraid if he moves too fast he’ll scare you.

“Hey,” he murmurs, voice breaking around the word. “Hey, no, no… c’mere.”

He doesn’t touch you yet. Just waits, hands hovering at your sides, giving you the choice.

“What happened?” he asks quietly, every ounce of joking gone. “Who did this to you, huh?”

His reflection meets yours in the mirror—wild hair, worried eyes, fear barely held in check. When you finally turn toward him, Eddie’s breath catches like he’s been punched.

“Oh, Angel…” He cups your face carefully, thumbs gentle as they brush your cheeks, avoiding the bruises like they’re sacred ground. “I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re safe now, okay? I swear—you’re not alone. Not ever.”