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That familiar tension buzzed under my skin like static.

“I missed you,” he whispered, reaching out to brush a hair from my face.

I flinched.

I could hear the footsteps from upstairs.

He froze.

“What the hell was that?”

I didn’t answer.

Because I already knew. Just didn’t know someone else heard it too.

“You brought someone with you?” he asked, scanning the ceiling.

“No.”

And then, faintly, from upstairs, that lullaby again.

His head snapped toward the sound. “What the fuck is that?”

I looked at him. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

He turned back to me, jaw tight, suddenly trying to mask the flicker of unease behind his eyes. “Don’t start with your creepy shit again.”

But the air changed.

Colder.

Heavier.

The lights flickered once.

Twice.

Then went out.

Pitch black.

Troy swore under his breath.

I could feel his hand close around my neck.

“Are you doing this on purpose?”

I couldn’t see his face. Just the sharp sting of his cheap, suffocating cologne, everywhere. I shoved at his chest, but he came back.

This time, his fist connected with my right eye. Blinding me. Pain bloomed, in hot and red. And I let it happen. I saw it coming. Could’ve moved. Should’ve screamed. Fought. But I didn’t.

I just... let it happen.

It’s wild, the way we sometimes let ourselves break. A man handing out bruises like gifts, stealing pieces of me I didn’t realize was up for grabs. And I still asked myself:What did I do to deserve this?

I kept asking.

Why?