The coffee smelled bitter this morning, the rich aroma that usually comforted me now scratching at the back of my throat like ground glass. Victor stood at the counter, his broad shoulders tense beneath the thin cotton of his t-shirt, fingers wrapped around his mug like he was afraid it might try to escape. I watched the steam curl upward, tracing the shape of his jawline in the air between us.

"Morning," he said, and the word landed too carefully on the kitchen tiles, each syllable measured and placed with surgical precision.

My own voice came out smaller than I intended. "Morning... umm."

The mug hit the counter with a sharp crack that made us both flinch. Coffee sloshed over the rim, painting dark patterns across the pale granite. Victor's eyes met mine for a fraction of a second too long—that same lingering gaze that had started all this trouble last night.

"Look, about last night—" His voice wavered, that smooth baritone catching on something rough in his throat. He cleared it, the sound unnaturally loud in the tense kitchen. "We should... talk."

The front door clicked open before he could finish, the sound slicing through whatever he'd been about to say. High heels tapped confidently across the hardwood, followed by a voice that sounded like wind chimes and broken glass.

"Honey, I missed you!"

She moved like she owned the air around her, this beautiful stranger with honey-colored hair and a smile that could probably stop traffic. Before I could process anything beyond the sudden invasion of our morning, she was kissing Victor—right there in our kitchen, her hands framing his face like she had every right to touch what I'd only ever watched from a careful distance.

Victor's entire body went rigid. The coffee cup slipped from his suddenly trembling fingers, shattering against the floor in a explosion of ceramic and dark liquid. "L-Lena," he stammered, his face blanching white as he glanced between me and this woman—Lena. "This isn't—" His voice cracked on the unfinished sentence.

Lena either didn't notice or didn't care about his panic. "Honey, I missed you," she said again, leaning in for another kiss.

His hands came up to gently push her back, but the movement looked more like a reflex than a rejection. "Lena, not now—" The words strained through clenched teeth, barely controlled. "We'll talk later."

My own hands had started shaking, a fine tremor working its way up from my fingertips until my whole body vibrated with it. The ringtone from my phone sliced through the tension—Lara's specific chime that usually made me smile. Now it felt like a lifeline thrown into choppy waters.

Victor's gaze snapped to me, something desperate and guilty swimming in those usually calm eyes. "Kitten, wait—" He took a step toward me, but Lena's hand on his arm stopped him mid-motion. The endearment he'd used since I was eight years old now felt like a brand. "Damn it..." he muttered under his breath, the words meant for himself but carrying clearly across the ruined kitchen.

I ended the call without speaking to Lara, my thumb shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone. The smile I forced onto my lips felt brittle and foreign. "Are you my uncle's girlfriend?"

Victor flinched like I'd physically struck him. Lena's grip tightened on his arm, possessive and sure.

"Yes, actually," she said smoothly, her voice dripping with condescending sweetness. "We've been—"

"Stop." Victor's voice went raw, stripped bare. "Just... stop."

The tears threatened then, hot and insistent behind my eyes. I fought them back, clenching my jaw until my teeth ached. The smile I managed felt like it might crack my face in two. "Oooo really, you both look good together." The words tasted like ash. "By the way, he is my uncle. I'm Luna. Nice to meet you, aunty." The honorific dropped like a stone between us. "I'm heading to my university then. Bye uncle, aunty."

I turned before either of them could respond, before I could see the devastation on Victor's face or the confusion on Lena's. My backpack felt heavier than usual as I slung it over my shoulder, the weight of last night's confession and this morning's revelation pressing down on me.

"Luna—" Victor's voice broke on my name, the sound tearing out of him ragged and desperate.

But I was already out the door, the screen slamming shut behind me with finality I didn't feel.

I ran.

The morning air burned in my lungs, each breath scraping against the tightness in my chest. My shoes slapped against the pavement in a rhythm that matched the frantic beat of my heart. The bus stop came into view just as the vehicle itself rounded the corner, its diesel groan sounding like salvation.

The doors hissed open and I stumbled aboard, dropping into the first available seat just as Victor reached the curb. His hand slammed against the metal exterior with a sound that echoed through the bus's interior.

"Luna!" His shout carried through the closing doors, raw and desperate.

But the bus was already pulling away, leaving him standing there with Lena watching from our porch, her expression shifting from confusion to dawning understanding. I didn't look back, focusing instead on the pattern of scratches on the seat in front of me, each line and groove a distraction from the hollow ache spreading through my chest.

I forced another smile, practicing the expression in the reflection of the bus window. The girl looking back at me had too-bright eyes and a mouth that didn't quite remember how to curve upward naturally. Don't cry, I told myself, digging my nails into my palms until crescent marks bloomed on my skin. You knew this would eventually happen.

The university campus swarmed with students when I stepped off the bus, the familiar chaos a welcome distraction. I kept my head down, weaving through groups of chatting classmates until a familiar voice cut through the murmur.

"Luna!"

Lara appeared at my side, her dark eyes immediately narrowing as she took in my forced smile. "Hey, what's wrong?" she murmured, not waiting for an answer before pulling me into a tight hug. Her familiar scent—vanilla and something uniquely Lara—should have been comforting. Instead, it made my throat tighten. "You're scaring me," she said, her voice soft against my hair as she felt me tremble against her.

I pulled back, the movement too quick, too jerky. Forcing another smile that felt like a grimace, I took her hand. "Nothing. Let's go, we'll be late."

She hesitated, searching my face with that scary perceptiveness she always had. "Okay..." she finally said, letting me lead her toward our classroom but keeping close, her thumb rubbing comforting circles on my knuckles. "But we're talking later," she added firmly, and I knew it wasn't a request.

The lecture passed in a blur of meaningless words and shifting shadows. I kept my eyes fixed on the professor, not really seeing him, not really hearing anything beyond the echo of Victor's broken voice saying my name.

After class, the hallway packed with bodies pushing toward freedom. That's when I felt their eyes on me—the group of guys who always lounged near the water fountain, their gazes lingering too long, their comments just loud enough to carry.

Lara's grip on my hand tightened protectively as she shot them a glare that could peel paint. "Ignore those losers," she muttered, pulling me closer against her side. "But if they try anything, I'll make sure they regret it." Her voice dropped to a low, protective fury that usually made me feel safe.

Today, it just made me feel tired.

The crowd jostled us forward, bodies pressing close in the narrow hallway. That's when I felt it—a hand brushing against my backside, then sliding around to grope my breast with shocking boldness.

I froze, my breath catching in my throat. The world narrowed to that invasive touch, the heat of shame flooding my face.

Lara whirled around before I could even process what had happened. She shoved the guy back with surprising force, her entire body coiled with rage as she stepped between us. "Touch her again and I'll break your fucking fingers!" she snarled, the venom in her voice clearing a small circle around us in the suddenly silent hallway.

Her eyes found mine, the fury in them softening into concern. "Luna, you okay?"

I was trembling, the fine shakes from this morning returning full force. Forcing that familiar, brittle smile, I whispered the lie that was becoming my new normal. "I'm fine. Don't worry."

Lara's hand found mine again, her grip firm and steadying. "Like hell you are," she said softly, her thumb tracing circles on my wrist. "But we'll fix that."

The world tilted sideways, my vision swimming with unshed tears that made the streetlights blur into hazy halos. Lara’s arm was an iron band around my shoulders, her grip so tight it felt like the only thing holding my shattered pieces together. The murmurs of our classmates faded behind us, swallowed by the city’s nighttime hum.

“No, you’re *not* fine,” she whispered fiercely into my hair, her breath warm against my scalp. The words vibrated through me, bypassing all my carefully constructed defenses. “And you don’t have to pretend with me. Let’s get out of here.”

I managed a shaky nod, the movement causing a traitorous tear to escape and trace a cold path down my cheek. My voice, when it came, was barely audible. “Okay.”

She didn’t let go, her own eyes suspiciously bright as she tucked me more securely against her side, my smaller frame disappearing into the shelter of her determined stride. “My place,” she murmured, her voice thick with an emotion I couldn’t name. “We’ll order crap food and watch terrible movies until you *actually* smile.” Her grip tightened—a palpable, physical promise that she wouldn’t let me fall apart completely.

Hailing a cab with one hand, the other still anchoring me to her side, she gave me a look that was equal parts stern and heartbroken. “And if you cry, I cry,” she warned, only half-joking as she nudged me into the backseat. “No shame in it. Screw anyone who says otherwise.”

The city slid by outside the window, a blur of neon and shadows that mirrored the chaos in my chest. It was only when we were halfway to her apartment that the practicalities of the night dawned on me. “Lara,” I said softly, my fingers twisting in my lap. “I need to… call my uncle.”

She nodded, already pulling out her phone. The cheerful ringtone sounded absurdly loud in the tense silence of the cab. “Hi Mr. Alistair! Just wanted to ask if Luna can stay over tonight?” she chirped, her voice adopting a practiced, casual tone that belied the white-knuckled grip she had on my knee. She paused, frowning slightly at whatever he said on the other end. “Uh… yeah, she’s right here. You wanna talk to her?” She offered me the phone with a shrug, her eyes full of unspoken sympathy.

The cool plastic felt foreign in my trembling hand. I took a breath that felt like shards of glass in my lungs. “Hello… uncle.” The title felt strange and heavy on my tongue, a formality I never used with him. The silence on the other end stretched, taut and fragile.

His breath hitched audibly over the line, a sharp, pained sound. “Kitten…” His voice was rough, scraped raw, like he’d been running. Or crying. The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea through me. “Are you—” He cut himself off, exhaling shakily. I could almost see him running a hand through his dark hair, a gesture of frustration I knew so well. “Just… be safe. Come home whenever you’re ready.” The words sounded torn out of him, each one a small surrender.

“T…thank you, uncle,” I whispered, the formal address a flimsy shield for everything I couldn’t say.

The line went silent for a beat too long, filled only with the sound of his unsteady breathing. “Always,” he finally whispered, so quiet I almost missed it, the word carrying the weight of a thousand unspoken promises and regrets. “Always, kitten.” Then the call ended with a soft, definitive click, leaving me with the ghost of his voice echoing in the hollow space he’d left behind.

“He said yes,” I murmured, handing the phone back to Lara.

She tucked it away, giving me a searching look that saw straight through my fragile composure. Her hand found mine, squeezing gently. “Alright, sleepover it is,” she said softly, steering me toward her apartment building. “And… whatever’s going on with you two? We don’t have to talk about it. Unless you want to.” Her voice was careful, gentle, leaving the choice entirely and utterly mine.

Lara’s apartment was a sanctuary of low light and familiar clutter. The absence of her parents, who lived out of state, meant we had the space to ourselves, a rare and precious privacy. We changed into soft, worn pajamas, the simple act of dressing in something comfortable feeling like a small step back toward normalcy. Settling on the couch amidst a fortress of pillows and blankets, she handed me a mug of hot chocolate so rich and sweet it momentarily stole my breath.

She nudged my knee with hers, her expression gentle but insistent. “Okay, spill,” she said, her eyes soft but unwavering. “You’ve been off all day. And don’t say ‘nothing’—I know you too well for that.”

I looked at her, at the genuine concern etched on her face, and then turned my gaze to the steam rising from my mug. The confession bubbled up, a toxic, shameful thing I’d kept locked away for so long. A sigh escaped me, heavy with the weight of it. “I…I like my uncle,” I began, the words clumsy and inadequate. “Not as his niece, but something more. Which I shouldn’t have done. I know.” My voice broke on the last word, the dam finally cracking. “Voice break” i...i know it too i just keeping fooling me but..but”

Lara’s breath caught, a sharp inhalation. But she didn’t pull away, didn’t recoil in judgment. Instead, her hand tightened around mine, her grip warm and solid. “Hey… look at me,” she murmured, waiting until my tear-filled eyes met her steady, compassionate gaze. “Feelings aren’t wrong. Messy? Hell yes. But not *wrong*.” She reached out, swiping at my tears with her thumb, her touch incredibly gentle. “You’re not broken for this.”

A sob escaped me, ragged and broken. “I don’t know… he has a girlfriend. Not, you can say fiancée, I think.” The word was a bitter pill on my tongue. “I break down.”

That’s when she pulled me into a fierce, all-encompassing hug, her voice muffled against my hair. “Screw ‘fiancée,’” she muttered, the words vibrating with a protective fury. “You’re *family*. That’s not nothing.” She leaned back, her hands cupping my face, forcing me to see the absolute conviction in her eyes. “And you’re not alone in this, okay? I’ve got you.”

For the first time all night, a genuine, wobbly smile touched my lips. It felt foreign and fragile, but it was real. I leaned into her, returning the hug with a strength I didn’t know I still possessed.

She hugged me back just as tightly, rocking us slightly as if she could physically steady the earthquake inside me. “Damn right you’re smiling,” she teased, but her own voice was thick with unshed tears. I felt her swipe at her eyes when she thought I wasn’t looking. “Now help me pick a movie so terrible it’ll make us forget *everything* for a few hours.”

We ended up with a rom-com so achingly predictable it was almost painful, but it served its purpose. The tension slowly bled from my shoulders, replaced by the simple, comforting weight of Lara’s arm slung over my shoulders and the shared warmth of the blanket. Eventually, the screen flickered into credits, and sleep pulled at us both.

She tugged the blanket over both of us, her arm remaining a protective, heavy weight across my shoulders even as her breathing deepened into the rhythm of sleep. “G’night, Luna,” she mumbled, her voice already heavy with dreams. “Love you… mean it.” The words were drowsy but fierce, and curled against her side, surrounded by the scent of her shampoo and the soft sounds of her breathing, I felt, for the first time all day, a fragile sense of safety.

***

The morning light was kinder than I expected, filtering through her thin curtains in soft, golden shafts. Lara groaned, stretching with a series of pops and cracks before her eyes immediately found me. “Ugh, my back,” she grumbled, but her tone shifted from complaint to concern in an instant. “Hey. You okay?” Her hand found mine under the tangled blanket, squeezing gently.

I managed a small nod, the reality of the day ahead settling like a stone in my stomach. “Yes. Let’s get ready. I have to go home too.”

She nodded, rubbing the sleep from her eyes before fixing me with a pointed look. “Text me when you get home,” she insisted, already bustling about and shoving a granola bar into my bag. “And… we’ll talk more later, yeah?” Her smile was small, but it was steady—a lifeline thrown across the uncertain waters I had to navigate.

“Yeah,” I agreed, the word feeling insufficient.

At the door, she pulled me into one last, quick, bone-crushing hug. “Remember—*not* broken,” she whispered fiercely into my ear, her voice a vow. Then she shoved me playfully toward the stairs. “Now go before I start crying again. I’m *not* a morning person.”

The walk back to my uncle’s apartment felt longer than usual, every step heavy with dread. I rehearsed a dozen casual greetings in my head, each one sounding more false than the last. Pushing the key into the lock, I took a steadying breath and stepped inside.

The scene that greeted me stopped my heart mid-beat.

They were on the couch, tangled together in a way that was intimate and effortless. Victor’s hand was buried in the woman’s—his *fiancée’s*—hair, her head tilted back in laughter. The morning sun caught the diamond on her finger, sending a cruel, glittering spike straight through my chest.

My stomach dropped. The world narrowed to that single, devastating image. I froze in the doorway, my backpack slipping from my numb fingers to thud softly on the floor.

Victor jerked away as if electrocuted, his face paling to a sickly shade. “Kitten—” he started, his voice strangled. He reached for me, a desperate, aborted gesture, but I was already stumbling back, the need to flee a primal instinct overriding everything else.

“Wait, *please*—” His voice cracked, raw with a panic that mirrored the frantic beating of my own heart.

I forced my own voice to work, layering it with a smile that felt like it was cracking my face. “Uncle, you sh..should have told me.” The words were light, airy, a pathetic attempt at nonchalance. “Don’t mind me, please continue. I have class, so I will get out quickly.” I turned to leave, my body moving on autopilot, desperate for the clean, cold air of the hallway.

He was faster. His hand closed around my wrist, not rough, but desperate. His grip was a brand. “No—*stop*,” he rasped, his eyes burning into mine, begging, pleading, full of a turmoil I couldn’t begin to decipher. “She’s leaving. *You* stay. Please.” The last word was barely audible, trembling on the edge of a breakdown.

I looked from his agonized face to the woman’s cool, composed expression. The contrast was a fresh wound. “I have to go, uncle,” I insisted, my voice miraculously steady. “Otherwise I will be late.”

His grip tightened for a single, heart-stopping heartbeat—a flash of possession, of refusal—before he forced his fingers to uncurl, his jaw clenching so tight I could see the muscle jump. He let go. “Then go,” he murmured, the words rough, scraped from the depths of his being. “But we *will* talk tonight. No running from this, kitten.” The unspoken plea hung in the air between us, thick and suffocating.

I turned away, my smile still firmly in place, a brittle mask. “Bye, uncle. And aunty.” I looked directly at the woman, meeting her measured gaze. “Have a good time.”

His breath hitched behind me, a sound of pure pain. I heard the rustle of fabric, the twitch of his hand as if he wanted to reach for me again. “Luna—” His voice broke, shattered.

But the woman cleared her throat, a soft, pointed sound that sliced through the moment. He swallowed hard, the sound audible in the sudden silence. “…Be safe,” he finished, the words sounding like they were being torn from his throat, each one a piece of him left bleeding on the floor.

I didn’t look back. I walked out, the door clicking shut behind me with a finality that echoed in my soul. The silence that settled over me as I walked away was heavier than any noise, a thick, smothering blanket woven from shame, heartbreak, and the ghost of his shattered voice.

The shaky exhale left his lips before he could stop it, his hand raking through his hair as if trying to physically tear the tension from his scalp. When he finally sat across from me, the table between us felt both like a fortress wall and the flimsiest of barriers. The wood grain swam in my vision as I focused on anything but the intensity burning in his eyes.

"That woman..." he began, voice lowered to something intimate and urgent that made the fine hairs on my arms stand up. "It's not what you think." The words hung between us, charged and heavy. "She's just a colleague. There's nothing between us."

My throat tightened. I could still see it—the way his hand had rested on the small of her back, the easy tilt of his head as he laughed at something she said. The way their lips had met, brief but unmistakable, before he noticed me watching from across the street.

"But you... you..." His words faltered, and his eyes—those familiar dark eyes I'd known since childhood—searched mine with a desperation that made my breath catch. They were pleading, vulnerable, completely unlike the steady gaze of the man who'd taught me to ride a bike, who'd bandaged my scraped knees, who'd been my rock when the world felt too loud.

The childhood endearment slipped out before I could stop it, a defense mechanism as old as our relationship. "Ooo... really but you were kissing her and she is beautiful." I forced a lightness into my tone that I didn't feel, waving a hand as if swatting away a trivial concern. "And you're getting old. Shouldn't you make a family now and stop worrying about me? I can take care of me."

The reaction was immediate, violent in its suddenness. His chair scraped back with a sound that ripped through the quiet apartment, and he was standing, hands braced on the table, knuckles white. The usually calm planes of his face were sharp with something fierce and raw.

"I don't *want* a family if it's not *you*." The words were gritted out, his voice trembling with an emotion so vast it seemed to shake the very air between us. "That kiss meant *nothing*. But the way you looked at me before you left? That's been *killing* me all day."

Every cell in my body went still. This was the line we never crossed, the truth we never spoke. I fell back on the familiar title, a shield against the terrifying intimacy of his confession. "What are you talking about, uncle? I'm your niece." The word felt like ash in my mouth. "And the feelings I have then mean nothing... you should care about yourself now."

The crack of his palm hitting the table made me jump, the dishes rattling a sharp, discordant symphony. It was the first time he'd ever raised his voice at me, the first time I'd ever seen this version of him—unraveled and dangerous.

"*Stop* calling me 'uncle' like that." The growl was low, animalistic, his chest heaving as if he'd been running. "You think I haven't *seen* how you look at me? How *I* look at *you*?" His eyes burned into mine, stripping away every pretense, every carefully constructed wall. "God, kitten... we're both liars."

Kitten. The old pet name, from a time when his touches were chaste and his protectiveness simple. Now it sounded like a confession, a secret pact. The air was too thick to breathe. I stood up, my legs feeling unsteady beneath me. I had to stop this before it consumed us both.

"Uncle, we should stop here," I said, forcing a smile that felt like a crack in porcelain. "If it gets out of hand..."

I turned to leave, but his hand caught mine. His grip was desperate but gentle, his skin warm against my cold fingers. His eyes were burning coals, full of unspoken words and years of suppressed wanting.

"Then let it." The whisper was raw, stripped bare. "Let it *all* out of hand, kitten. Because pretending is *killing* me."

His thumb brushed against the frantic pulse at my wrist, a silent plea that echoed the frantic beating of my own heart. And then his arms were around me, pulling me against the solid warmth of his chest. I could feel the rapid thud of his heartbeat against my cheek, a wild drumming that matched my own.

"Let's.... let's sleep together, kitten," he whispered into my hair, his breath hot against my ear, his voice a shuddering thing. "And forget what relationship we have."

The words were a seduction and a destruction all at once. His arms tightened, possessive and pleading. "I've spent *years* trying to be what you needed... but tonight?" A rough, ragged exhale warmed my skin. "Let me be what you *want*."

His hands slid down my back, a slow, deliberate caress that promised everything and threatened to ruin everything. Panic, sharp and cold, sliced through the heat of the moment. I pushed against his chest, stumbling back a step.

"Uncle, it's dangerous..." My voice was thin, reedy. "You shouldn't say this."

The effect was instantaneous. He stumbled back as if I'd struck him, his face crumbling. He raked both hands through his hair, his expression twisted with a self-loathing so profound it was painful to witness.

"You're right—*god*, you're right." His voice cracked, raw and broken. "But tell me to stop, kitten. *Really* stop. Because I don't know if I can walk away this time."

His chest heaved like he was drowning, and for a terrifying second, something in him snapped. He moved with a speed that stole my breath, his hand closing around my wrist with a force that wasn't gentle. He pulled me toward his bedroom, his movements frantic, desperate. The click of the lock echoed in the sudden silence. He didn't throw me, but I fell back onto his bed, the comforter swallowing me. And in that moment, seeing the determined, almost wild look in his eyes, a primal fear flooded my system. My breath hitched, and I know he saw it—the pure, unadulterated terror.

He froze. Completely. His grip on my wrist went slack, falling away as if my skin had burned him. Horror flooded his expression, washing away the desire, the desperation, leaving behind a stark, sickening realization of what he was about to do.

"*No*—" He stumbled back from the bed, hands shaking so violently he could barely steady them. "Christ, what am I—" His voice broke, the sound tearing from his throat. He fumbled with the lock, finally wrenching the door open. He didn't look at me. "Go. *Please*. Before I... just *go*."

I didn't need telling twice. I scrambled off the bed, my heart hammering against my ribs, and ran. I didn't stop until I was in my room, the lock clicking into place a feeble defense against the earthquake that had just shattered our world. I slid down the door to the floor, the sobs tearing from me, loud and ugly in the empty silence.

From the other side of the apartment, a sickening thud echoed—his fist connecting with the wall. It was followed by a shattered, guttural sob that was worse than any shout.

"*Luna*—" His voice was raw with agony, muffled by the door. "I’m... I’m so sorry. *Fuck*, I’ll leave. You’ll never have to see me again."

The sound of his retreating footsteps was heavy, final, each one a nail in the coffin of what we had been.

***

The next morning, the apartment was an echo chamber of silence. It was too quiet, the kind of quiet that presses on your eardrums. I emerged slowly, every sense on high alert. He was gone. The air didn't even smell like him anymore. On the kitchen counter, a square of paper was weighted down by a key. His handwriting, usually so precise and controlled, was a mess of sharp angles and deep grooves.

*Gone to clear my head. Stay safe.*

*-V*

The pen had pressed down so hard it had torn the paper in places. I traced the ragged edge of the tear, a physical manifestation of the rupture between us. Stay safe. From what? From him? From the world? From the feeling that everything had permanently, irrevocably broken?

I got out, the need to escape the oppressive silence of the apartment outweighing my desire to hide. Uni was a blur of faces and voices that didn't penetrate the numb shell I'd crawled into. I moved through the halls like a ghost, unseen and unseeing. Later, driven by a morbid need for normalcy or perhaps just a desperate hope that he'd magically returned, I found myself walking back toward his apartment.

I never made it.

The shadow fell over me first, then the hands. Rough, impersonal. The boys from uni—the ones whose eyes had always followed me with a calculating, dirty hunger I'd learned to ignore. Panic, cold and sharp, lanced through the numbness. I struggled, but there were too many of them. A cloth, sweet and chemical, pressed over my nose and mouth. The world swam, then went black.

***

Time became a fractured, painful thing. Two weeks in a space that smelled of damp concrete, stale cigarettes, and fear. They took turns. The act was a brutal, mechanical violation, a constant reminder that my body was no longer my own. They used my phone once, my vision blurry, my fingers clumsy, to message Lara. *Not feeling well. Won't be in class for a while.* The lie was a life raft in a sea of horror, but it felt like another violation.

When they finally left me, dumping me near my neighborhood like trash, the first thing I was aware of was the silence. The crushing, complete silence after weeks of noise and pain. The second thing was the nausea, a rolling, persistent sickness that had nothing to do with hunger or fear. I stumbled home, my body aching in places I didn't know could ache. The apartment was still empty. Victor hadn't come back.

The tears didn't come at first. There was just a vast, hollow emptiness. I walked into the bathroom, my movements robotic. I turned on the shower, but I didn't get in. Instead, I sank to the floor, the cold tiles a shock against my skin. I found a rough washcloth and started scrubbing. At first, it was just a desperate attempt to feel clean, to erase the smell of them, the feel of their hands. But the scrubbing became harder, more frantic. I scrubbed until my skin burned, until it turned an angry red, until tiny beads of blood welled up from the abrasions.

"Why... why me?" The sob tore from my throat, raw and broken, echoing off the sterile white tiles. My voice was hoarse from disuse, from screams that had gone unheard. My trembling fingers pressed against my lower stomach, where a new, different kind of ache had begun to bloom. "Victor... where *are* you?"

The silence that answered was more profound, more devastating than any reply he could have given.

Exhaustion eventually pulled me from the bathroom floor. I crawled into my bed, the sheets still holding the faint, ghostly scent of his cologne. It was a cruel mockery. The bed creaked under my weight as I curled into the tightest ball possible, trying to disappear.

My phone buzzed on the nightstand, a jarring intrusion. A text from Lara lit up the screen.

*Luna, where *are* you? Answer me. *Please*.*

The words blurred as fresh, hot tears scalded my cheeks. She had been trying to reach me for days. I typed a response with shaking fingers, the letters swimming.

*Lara....* I couldn't form any other words. Just her name. Then, another sob. *I'm sorry...*

The phone slipped from my grasp, clattering to the floor. Another wave of grief, sharp and suffocating, wracked my body. The empty apartment seemed to swallow the sound whole.

Her reply was instantaneous, frantic.

*I'm coming over. *Don't move.**

Seconds later, the familiar roar of her motorcycle engine cut through the quiet street below.

***

The door burst open before I could even sit up. Lara stood there, her leather jacket still on, her face pale under the hallway light. Her eyes, usually bright with mischief, scanned the room and then landed on me. They took in my disheveled hair, the hollows under my eyes, the way I was curled in on myself. Then her gaze dropped, sharpening, zeroing in on the faint, yellowing bruises that still circled my wrists.

"*Oh god*—" Her voice cracked, all the air leaving her in a rush. She was across the room in two strides, dropping to her knees beside the bed and pulling me into a crushing hug. Her arms were tight, solid, real. "Who did this?" she demanded, her voice a low, dangerous tremor. "Tell me *who*." Her hands on my back trembled, but it wasn't from fear. It was a barely restrained, volcanic fury.

I just cried, the sobs shaking my entire frame. What were names? What would they change? "What will change who did it?" I choked out, the words muffled against her shoulder. It was a plea for her to understand the futility.

She held me tighter, her own tears warm and wet against my hair. Her voice dropped to a venomous, deadly whisper right by my ear.

"Names, Luna. *Give me names*." The words were gritted out, her fingers digging into my back with a possessive, protective intensity. "I'll burn this whole fucking city down for you."

The promise was absolute, terrifying in its ferocity. And for a fleeting second, the part of me that was still broken wanted to let her. But the larger part, the part that was just so, so tired, recoiled.

"Please don't," I begged, clinging to her. "I don't want anything. Just stay with me, Lara. Please, just stay."

She exhaled sharply, a sound of frustration and heartbreak mingled. She pressed her forehead to mine, her arms tightening their hold.

"Always," she murmured, her voice thick with unshed tears. "But this isn't over, Lu. Not until they're *gone*." Her hand came up to stroke my hair, a gesture so gentle it was at odds with the blazing rage in her eyes.

The thought of her hunting them, of more violence, more darkness, made something inside me snap. "If you want that," I whispered, my voice trembling uncontrollably, "then i...I will cut my veins."

Her reaction was instantaneous and violent. Her grip on me turned vice-like as she jerked back, her eyes wild with a panic I'd never seen in her before.

"*Don't you fucking dare*—" Her voice shattered as she grabbed my wrists, yanking my hands away from my body as if I already held a blade. "You *live*, Luna. You live and we *ruin them*." Tears streaked through the fury on her face, a testament to her own terror.

The dam broke. "NO NO.... I don't want that! Why can't anybody understand me?" The scream was ripped from somewhere deep and primal, raw and deafening in the small room.

She reacted instantly, clamping a hand gently but firmly over my mouth, pulling me back against her chest. She rocked me, her own body shaking with silent sobs.

"*I understand*," she choked out, the words a broken whisper against my hair. "But I won't let you die for *them*." She held me tighter, her next words so quiet I almost didn't hear them. "Not when I *just* got you back."

The fight left me as suddenly as it had come, leaving me boneless and exhausted. "Then please don't ask me," I whispered, my voice ragged. "And don't do anything. Please."

She exhaled a long, shaky breath, the tension slowly leaving her shoulders. She pressed a soft, lingering kiss to my temple before pulling back to cup my face in her hands. Her thumbs gently wiped the tears from my cheeks.

"Okay," she murmured, her own eyes glistening. "No names. No revenge. Just... *breathe*, Lu." Her voice cracked on the simple instruction. "We'll get through this. *Together*."

I managed a weak, trembling nod. "Yes."

She didn't let go. Instead, she climbed onto the bed proper and pulled me into her lap, wrapping both arms around me in a cocoon of safety. Her chin rested atop my head.

"Shhh... I've got you," she whispered, rocking us gently back and forth. "We'll sit here as long as you need. Just *feel* me, Lu. You're not alone."

And I did. I focused on the steady, solid beat of her heart against my ear—a rhythm, an anchor in the storm that had become my life. We stayed like that until exhaustion pulled us both into a fitful, tangled sleep.

***

The next day, her determination was a quiet, steady force. She didn't ask again. She just guided me, her hand a constant, reassuring pressure on my back. The hospital was a blur of bright lights and soft voices. I answered questions numbly, letting Lara handle the words when mine failed. Then came the examination, the blood test, the wait.

The doctor, a woman with kind eyes and a gentle voice, came back into the room with a chart. She looked from me to Lara, her expression carefully neutral.

"The blood test confirms it," she said softly. "You're pregnant."

The word hung in the sterile air, a final, irrevocable verdict. Pregnant. A life growing inside me, conceived in violence, a permanent scar from the darkness. Lara's hand found mine, squeezing so tight it was almost painful. Her grip was the only thing holding me to the earth as the room seemed to tilt on its axis. The silence stretched, dense and suffocating, filled with the terrible weight of that single, devastating word.