#tw dv

“Good girl,” Steve praises and you glow. You take his tie off for him, all the while asking him questions about his day. How work was, if anything special happened, if he was hungry. (Of course he was hungry, you knew Steve had a voracious appetite for both food and… other things.) He could eat enough for three men in one sitting – which was probably why he was so big and strong and imposing. And scary. Well, you were definitely scared of him. Sometimes. But you try not to think about that.

“This looks great, sweetheart,” Steve sits down on his place at the head of the table and pulls you into his lap. That was another thing about Steve, another one of his rules. He preferred you in his lap instead of in your own seat – at the dinner table, on the couch, anywhere. Even in the presence of other people, which embarrassed you sometimes but you’d never tell him that. It was one of his rules, and that meant it had to be obeyed, no questions asked.

“Thank you, Steve. I tried really hard to make all your favourites.”

He feeds you and himself at the same time, and now it’s his turn to ask you questions.

“Oh, my day was pretty boring,” you accept the bite of chicken pot pie he feeds you, chewing thoughtfully and trying your best to ignore the way your heart starts pitter-pattering harder. “I did all the chores I was supposed to do, and then I did some shopping. I got us some pretty new bedsheets.”

“That’s nice, sweetie. Did you buy anything for yourself?”

“No. I just came straight home after that, and…” Your voice trails off, and you hope your increased heartrate and clammy palms aren’t showing in your face.

“And what?” Steve blinks, those angelic blue eyes looking at you expectantly.

You shouldn’t lie to him. He was your husband. And it was one of his main rules, after all – you weren’t allowed to lie. And it wasn’t like you’d done anything wrong…

“Well…”

The change in his demeanour is subtle, but it doesn’t escape you how he grabs your arm, his finger stroking against your bare skin as a deathly silence falls over the room, as if he’s awaiting your next words with careful patience.

You shuffle on his lap. Oh, why didn’t you just spit it out the moment he’d come home!? Now he’d think you’d deliberately kept it from him until he’d asked, and-

You take a deep breath, “Th-The car broke down on the way back.”

Silence. You dare to peak up at his eyes to see them impassive, waiting for you to continue. He gently sets the fork down beside his plate, an unreadable expression on his face that does nothing to calm your nerves.

“I don’t know what happened, but it broke down and it wouldn’t move and I…”  

“Why didn’t you call me?”

It’s a toneless question, any warmth he’d possessed earlier now gone, and it makes you start shaking even more.

“I tr-tried but there was no service, and I knew you’d be busy, and… and… I’m sorry, Steve, I know I should have called you. I know I’m meant to call you when stuff like this happens, but in that moment I–”

“How did you get home?”

Another question. His voice flat, but the grip on your arm tighter than ever. You gulp.

“L-Luckily there was someone passing by, and they said their auto-repair shop was only five minutes away, and–”

“They?”

Your hands are shaking uncontrollably now, and you clasp them in your lap in a bid to get them to still. Your breathing grows more rapid, you can feel your palms grow sweatier as you squirm under your husband’s deathly calm gaze. You’re too afraid to look directly at him, but you know he’s expecting an answer. For a split second, you consider lying. But the consequences of that notion have you spitting out the truth before you can think about it any further.

“H-He.”

Steve goes deathly still. You hear him inhale sharply, his body tensing up even more underneath you. A part of you wants to burst into tears and run, run, run! But fear has you rooted in place, and even if it didn’t, he’s got a firm grasp on you, and you could never, ever overpower him.

“You got into a car with another man.”

He doesn’t even pose it as a question. No, the words leave Steve’s mouth in a statement of contempt and accusation. Except his tone is still so levelled, so dangerously low and contained.

“N-No! No, Steve, no! He offered to tow the car, and take it back to his repair shop. H-He was fixing it, Steve! And I swear I was only there for fifteen, maybe twenty minutes! I promise, and then I came straight home!” You’re tripping over your words, trying to get your explanation out. The explanation you’d subconsciously been rehearsing in your head all day because you knew it would come to this. You knew the moment that friendly stranger had tapped on your car window and offered his help. But what else could you have done in that moment?

“Steve, I know I should’ve called you the moment I had service, but I –”

“–But you were too busy with the mechanic.”

“No, no, Stevie, it’s not like that at all!” In hopeless desperation for this not to end badly, you bravely lock eyes with him, cupping his face in your hands, “I just didn’t want to bother you, I knew you had an important meeting around that time.” And I was also too scared to call.

His grip on your arm steadily tightens, till you can feel his fingers digging into your flesh. And you can see the vein in his forehead, the way his face is flushed red, the way he’s clenching his jaw, the way his eyes look so dark.

You wince, “S-Steve, please, you’re hurting me.”

“What did you do?”

“H-Huh?”

“In those fifteen, twenty minutes you were at his shop. When you should have been calling or texting me. What did you do?” Steve grips your chin, his thumb and forefinger pressing painfully down on your skin as he makes you look up at him. His expression is unreadable, his tone still low, but you can see that vein pulsing in his forehead. You know what it means.

“Nothing, I promise! I just sat in the waiting area, and…and there was no service, and–”

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not, I swear I'm not, I-"

“You were fucking him.”

The accusation drops like a pin, except it feels more like a car crashing straight into your heart. You feel everything; hurt, panic, but most of all – fear.

And Steve’s eyes are so, so dark, and his words so matter-of-fact. He’s still got a death-grip on you, holding you firmly in his lap while you start shaking violently. Oh no, no, no, no… How could you persuade him that you hadn’t done that? How you could never do that?!

“No, Stevie, I would never! I t-told you, he was fixing the car, I barely spoke to him, I–”

“You fucked him. In the car that I bought for you. And then you thought you could keep it a secret from me.”

He isn’t hearing you. No, he’s going to that place. That place where his eyes turn black and his expression goes all far away, and his anger consumes him to the point where rationality goes completely out the window. And you’d give anything to not be dragged down into his dark place, where your pleas reach deaf ears, where your tears and screams don’t mean a single thing. Well, not until it’s all over.

“I didn’t, Steve, please believe me. I would never cheat on you, never ever. Please, you’re hurting me!”

His fingers clamp down on your upper arm so hard, you know they’ll leave a mark. Another one you’ll have to hide with a meticulous makeup routine and carefully selected clothes.

It takes all your strength to pry his hands off you, and you jump off his lap like a hot poker, slowly backing away as dread fills up your stomach. Dread that increases tenfold the moment he stands up too, up to his full height that makes you cower in total, utter fear.

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” his tone is hard now, louder, more biting, and your eyes zero in on his hands as they curl into fists at his side. “Do you think I was born yesterday?”

You continue backing away slowly, acutely aware that he’s stepping forward each time you take a step back. And like clockwork, you know how this goes. Soon your back would meet the wall, and then… Your eyes dart up behind him, up the stairs… Maybe, if you could get to the bedroom in time, perhaps lock the door?

“ANSWER ME!”

You jump, “No, Steve, I don’t! B-But I’m telling the truth. I barely spoke two words to the man, all I did was wait while he fixed the car. Please believe me,” your voice drops down to a broken whisper, “please…”

No talking to other men. It was perhaps Steve’s biggest rule. And it hadn’t always been like that, but slowly, through time, this rule had developed into one that your husband was the most obsessed with. The most angered by if ever broken by you. And what had started out as a little bit of a jealous streak had turned into white hot, obsessive, possession – almost paranoia. He saw red if a man ever looked your way, and God forbid if he thought it was the other way around…

“You’re fucking lying,” he spits out, each word coated in pure disdain that feels like ten stabs to your heart. “Had you been telling the truth, you wouldn’t have hid it from me until I asked you how your day was. You would have told me yourself, but you didn’t. You slept with someone else, and you thought you could fucking hide it from me, didn’t you?”

“No,” you whisper.

It only takes him two strides to get to you. And you’re frozen in fear but it’s like your body goes into fight or flight mode. He lunges at you, and you know he’s going for your throat but by some miracle you dodge him. And then you run, run, run for the stairs. Two at a time, oh you could make it! You’d lock yourself in the bathroom, wait for his anger to subside. You’d done that before, sometimes it would work, sometimes–

You take the stairs two at a time, but Steve’s legs are much longer than yours. He’s bigger than you in every way possible, stronger, faster too. It’s almost laughable how quickly he catches up to you, his footsteps heavily thudding on the floorboards. On the upper landing, and you’re almost at the bedroom door when he grabs your arm and yanks you back, and then–

SMACK.

The first hit always winds you. You never get used to it – his fist connecting with your jaw, the way your head snaps to the side, the ringing in your ear that blocks out all sound for a handful of moments. And then the pain, the numbing paint that’s all too familiar, radiating and spreading like hateful wildfire as you reach up to shield your face.

“Don’t fucking run from me, you little slut.” Steve slams you against the wall before pinning your wrists by your sides. “Look at me, look at me. I’m going to give you one last chance to tell the truth, and you better think very carefully before you speak, and don't you fucking lie to me. Did. You. Fuck. Him?”

A broken sob escapes your lips, a whimper filled with desperation, “N-No.”

It’s almost like he’s donned a mask as his handsome features twist into a snarl, his eyes narrowed to slits and yet you can still see the crazed darkness that consumes them like a cloud of black smoke. His lip curls in what looks to be contempt, and he shakes his head. “You’re a fucking liar.”

His grip on you tightens, if that was even possible, and his eyes flash, and suddenly he’s shaking you violently, your head hitting the hard wall with a thud as you cry and struggle against him.

“How the fuck could you? How could you sleep with him? After everything I do for you!? Answer the fucking question, how could you!?”

You want to defend yourself, tell him that you didn’t, you wouldn’t, how could he possibly believe you could? But you know there’s no point, you know he doesn’t hear anything when he gets like this. No matter how hard you cry, how much you beg and plead with him. He only sees red, never facts. And you’re still in shock from the first hit, so when you open your mouth nothing comes out.

The slap comes out of nowhere, the harsh cracking sound echoing across the hallway and bouncing off the walls as if to mock you. Your head whips to the side, and you’d have fallen down from the sheer force had he not been holding you up with his other hand.

“P-Please stop,” you croak out, finally finding your voice as the tears stream down your face from the pain of it. From both the physical and the mental anguish because you’d truly done nothing wrong! Hadn’t you? Sometimes he made you question yourself with how angry he’d get at you. “Please, Steve, it hurts, I didn’t–”

“Shut the fuck up and stop lying!” Steve roars, shaking you so hard you have to close your eyes because everything’s starting to spin now. “You thought you were fucking slick, didn’t you? Fucking someone else behind my back while I was at work, then coming home and acting like everything was fine, doing your fucking chores like you didn’t just act like a goddamned whore,” he shakes you again, his grip on your shoulders so hard you feel like passing out. “-thinking I wouldn’t’ find out, thinking I’m some fucking idiot who can’t put two and two together. That’s what you thought, didn’t you? DIDN’T YOU?!”

He backhands you hard when you don’t answer, before throwing you over his shoulder like you’re a sack of potatoes. Limply, you lay there, half disorientated and half crestfallen because you can’t even find it in you to defend yourself anymore.

He strides into the bedroom before throwing you on the bed, hard. You land with a thud, still clutching your face that blooms with never ending pain. Again, you try to shield yourself, but it’s like a rabbit trying to hide from a hungry lion. A hungry lion fuelled by crazed hatred and contempt. And that’s what hurts you the most – how he looks at you like that. As if you’re the worst person in the world. As if he really hates you and truly believes you’d ever cheat on him.

“You’re mine,” Steve snarls, climbing on top of you and once more grabbing your wrists. “I don’t give a fuck if you think you’re a free piece of ass who can run around town spreading your legs for the first man who looks your way. I own you, you fucking whore, and it’s your fucking fault that I’m doing this now. But you need to fucking learn…”

“N-No, please,” you cry out weakly when he grabs the material of your dress and rips it clean in half. Oh no, not this. Please not this. Not when he was so mad, so violent, not when he had that crazy look in his eye. You couldn’t do it, you couldn’t. He wouldn’t be gentle, and it would hurt so much. And you were already hurting so much. “Steve, I’m begging you, please, please, don’t! D-Don’t, I promise I’ll be better! I didn’t cheat on you but I swear, next time I’ll call you, next time I’ll–”

Another slap to your face shuts you up, and your sobs turn silent. Still there, just silent. Filled with dread and anguish and fear for the horrific roughness that is to come. That always came no matter how hard you begged. No matter how careful you were to follow his rules. You always messed up somehow. Oh, you could’ve been better! You should’ve been better and then you wouldn’t be here! And he’d still be nice, and you’d be sitting downstairs eating dinner and laughing, and…

Oh, how did it get to this?

“Everything I do for you, and you throw it all back in my face,” Steve snarls, and he’s so unrecognisable. Like a dark stranger looming above you, pelting out harsh words that he knows will cut deep, twist like a knife straight through your heart. Make you feel like you’re the worst person alive, and certainly the worst wife. Someone who can’t do anything right. Someone who can’t even keep her husband happy.

“I give you everything you could fucking want, I provide for you, don’t I?” He grabs your face with one hand, squeezing so hard it hurts. “Don’t I? Don’t I fucking give you anything you could ask for? And all I want in return is for you to listen to me. Your goddamned loyalty, that’s all I want. For you to fucking understand that you’re my property, that you need to do what I say. And what do you end up doing? Cheating on me like the fucking whore I always knew you were.”

He makes you believe it sometimes. Well, at first you didn’t, but now you’re not too sure. Maybe you were a terrible wife, because otherwise why would he always get so mad? You always tried your best to keep him happy but you never did enough. Did other wives do more than you did? Was that why their husbands never got mad at them? Was that why they were always happy and relaxed? While you walked on eggshells, waiting for him to explode? Maybe he wouldn’t be like this if he were married to a different woman. A better woman. Someone who didn’t make as many mistakes as you did. Someone who didn’t annoy him that much. Someone who kept him happy and didn’t make him so mad all the time that he had to accuse her of cheating. Someone he didn’t look at with pure hatred in his eyes, like he was doing with you now.

Steve kisses you roughly, possessively. Pressing his lips down on yours as if he wants to imprint the feel of them on you, sear it straight into your memory. As if you could ever forget. But it’s the sweet kisses from Steve that you want to remember, not the hate-fuelled way he’s kissing you now. But you just lie there limply, lie there and let him kiss you, let him pull your now tattered dress off you. And you wonder if he can taste the saltiness of your tears, and you wonder if even a tiny part of him cares.

How did it get to this?

“I’ll show you,” Steve mutters darkly, “I’ll show you who you fucking belong to. And it’s all your fucking fault, because you’re gonna feel it. And maybe this time, you won’t fucking forget it.”

You look beyond his shoulder as he unzips his fly and pulls his hard cock out. You look at the tiny speck on the wall, focus on it really hard. Focus on it till your vision blurs, focus on it so you don’t feel the excruciating pain as he forces his huge cock inside you. Focus on it till you can’t feel his hand wrapping around your throat, till you can’t hear the pure hatred hurtling out of his mouth. Maybe if you focused hard enough, it would all go away. Like magic.

It wasn’t always like this.

You remember your first date with Steve, almost a year ago to the day. Your friends had set you up with him, telling you he was only a couple of years older than you. Great looking, had an established career. But a bit shy, a bit reserved, someone who mostly kept to himself. You’d agreed, because you were shy and reserved too, and suggested ice-skating as a first date activity to help, well, break the ice.

And it had been so funny, because Steve couldn’t ice skate for the life of him.

“I don’t know how you do it,” he’d huffed, awkwardly “skating” up to you in the middle of the rink. Except he was less skating and more just dragging his skates across the ice while holding his huge arms out to balance himself. It was comical, because he looked so big and out of place, and yet so cute that you couldn’t help but giggle.

“It just takes a while to get used to,” you’d answered, skating around him before impulsively grabbing his hands in case he fell over or something. And you’d immediately widened your eyes when you’d realised what you’d done, about to drop his hands like hot pokers because you were never this forward on a first date! But Steve had chuckled, keeping a tight grip on your gloved hands and pulling you closer.

“Nope, I just think it’s in my genetic makeup to be bad at ice skating,” he’d said as he’d let you guide him back to the side of the rink where he could hold the railing, and yet he didn’t let go of your hands as he winked. “Either that, or I’m actually a pro who’s faking it just so you’ll hold my hand.”

You’d gone to the Christmas market after that, and Steve had bought you a hot chocolate with whipped cream and marshmallows on top. You thought he’d stop holding your hand once you were off the ice, but he’d held it throughout your stroll through the markets. You’d delicately sipped your hot drink, secretly thrilled at how nice and safe it felt to hold his big, warm hand. How he was so handsome and he genuinely seemed interested in you.

“You’ve got whipped cream on your nose,” Steve had pointed out, and before you could wipe it off, he’d done it for you. And then his hand had stayed on your face, cupping it gently while the market bustled around you, busy as ever but the two of you seemed to be in your own little bubble. And then he’d kissed you, and it had felt so incredibly right. Like coming home from a long, cold day and being met with the warm familiarity of your own house. A house where you felt safe, and content, because in that moment, that’s what he made you feel.

Safe, warm, content, happy.

“I’m never letting you out of this fucking house again, you hear me?” Steve grunts, slapping your cheek not-so-lightly and knocking you out of your reverie. You blink several times, hoping it’s just a dream. But his rough thrusts remind you that it’s not, and your mouth curls in pain as his hand goes back to wrap around your throat. “Not until you learn not to act like such a goddamned slut, not until you learn to fucking listen to me, and be good. This is all your fucking fault, okay? That’s why I have to teach you.”

“St-Steve,” you cry lightly, unable to breathe because of how he’s pressing down on your neck, “I-I can’t… I can’t…”

“Shut up!” His thrusts grow harder, even more unforgiving. And all you can do is lie there and take it, and hope and pray and wish that you were somewhere else right now. With someone else. Or no one at all. His hands, which you’d known to be so gentle once upon a time, are rough as they squeeze and fondle and slap you as if you’re an animal, a toy, something he wants to pound till he breaks. “You deserve this, you little whore. Tell me, was that fucker’s cock worth it? Was it worth ruining what we have? FUCKING TELL ME!”

So unfair. It was so horrifically unfair. Because you’d never think of cheating on him, never ever. You love Steve, despite everything you love him so much. But he didn’t love you. Of course he didn’t. Maybe he had at first, but he didn’t anymore.

What had you done to make yourself so unlovable? What had you done to make him hate you so much?

Again, you think how he feels like a stranger, a stranger who’s hurting you and violating you in the most unforgiving way possible. All while you lie there and take it. And how was this Steve? The very same Steve you’d fallen in love with less than a year ago? The same Steve who’d confided everything in you? Told you that you were the one for him, told you how much he loved you, how happy he was that he’d found you? How was this the same Steve?

You still remember how surprised your friends had been with how close you and Steve had gotten in such a short amount of time. But they’d also been happy, and taken all the credit of course, as they’d set the two of you up.

And you remember feeling so goddamned happy all the time. Happy whenever you got off work and you got to see Steve. Giddy because of how comfortable you felt around him, despite knowing him for such a short period of time. One date turned to two, which turned to five, and before you knew it, you were looking forward to spending nights at his place. Cooking for him, kissing him, climbing up on his roof and talking all night while staring up into the stars.

It was during one of those moments when Steve had told you that you were the first person he’d felt close to in a very long time. He’d told you that he hadn’t had a great childhood, that his parents hadn’t been very nice people. And because of that, he’d run away when he was sixteen and never looked back. He didn’t speak to them anymore.

He’d told you he’d had a girlfriend before, and they’d been together many years until she cheated on him. And he’d squeezed your hand then, looking up at you from where his head had been resting on your lap, and the stars in the sky had reflected in his eyes so brightly, and he’d told you that you were the first person since then that he’d felt connected with, that he’d felt like he could be himself around. That he loved you so much despite the fact he’d only known you a couple of weeks. He loved you so much and so hard, that you were all he could think about. That you consumed him. And he loved that. And he loved you.

So, where did all that go?

That’s what you wonder now, your body jolting from each unforgiving thrust as the man who is your husband fucks you relentlessly, fucks you like he hates you. Tells you repeatedly, again and again that it’s all your fault.

Your fault. Maybe it is your fault. Oh, if only you hadn’t gone out today! If only you’d just stayed at home and been good! Then the car would’ve never broken down, and none of this would have happened, and Steve would’ve been happy. And you wouldn’t have made him upset like how you always seem to do now.

“I’ll make sure you never fucking disobey me again,” he mutters, pushing your legs up and throwing them over his shoulders while you moan in pain underneath him. His cock is a blur, pummelling in and out of you like a jackhammer. And it’s crazy, the very person who’d made you feel such pleasure in the past, could be inflicting so much pain on you now. “I’ll make sure they all know who you belong to the moment they fucking look at you. Fuck, I’ll show you.”

The contempt in his tone kills you over and over again. Makes you think you’ll never be good enough to make him happy. Make anyone happy. Maybe it was you who had ruined Steve, turned him into the monster he’d become. Maybe it was all your fault, your fault that the sweet, caring man you’d met had turned into your worst nightmare. Someone you were so fucking scared of that sometimes you couldn’t even breathe.

“I’ll knock you the fuck up,” Steve grabs your chin, pressing his forehead against yours, “Maybe then you’ll get it through your head that you’re not the free piece of ass you seem to think you are. And everyone will see who exactly you belong to.”

You whimper, too frightened to protest, your body jolting with each thrust. And it always hurts when he’s this rough, it always burns so bad because of how big he is.

You remember a few months into dating him, when he’d taken your virginity. He’d been so sweet, so gentle. Holding you close and murmuring sweet nothings in your ear while you cried in his arms despite trying to be brave. He’d told you he was big, and that it would hurt and he’d pull out if you wanted him to. But you’d held on to him so tightly that night, because despite the pain, it had been so special to you. And he’d been so kind, so tender, and you’d basked in the glow of being loved. And the pain had been worth it, because you’d felt so close to him, and he’d told you over and over again how much he loved you, how special you were. How you completed him. How you were so pretty, so exquisite, how if he could take all the pain away from you and give it to himself, he’d do it in a heartbeat.

Now, he roughly presses his huge palm against your abdomen, and you can see the outline of his cock in your stomach as he continues to jut into you with inhumane force. Each thrust makes the bed rock underneath you, the bedposts hitting the wall with thwack after thwack while you silently lay there, the tears drying up on your cheeks, and yet your whole body still burns with pain from the constant onslaught.

“God fuck, your pussy’s still so fucking tight despite how much of a fucking whore you are,” Steve mutters through gritted teeth, “I’m gonna fill you the fuck up, get you pregnant once and for all so everyone knows not to fuck with what’s mine. And I swear to God, from now on you won’t even look at another man, let alone fuck some hick ass mechanic who’s trying to take you away from me because you’re too goddamned stupid to realise it.”

He hadn’t always so possessive to the point of insanity. Not the way he is now. You remember the old Steve, how he’d see you having innocent interactions with other men and not think twice about it. But slowly and surely, that had changed.

“I don’t like you talking to other men,” Steve had admitted to you once a few weeks into your relationship. “I know it’s irrational but I just hate it.”

“Oh, Stevie, it doesn’t mean anything,” you’d giggled, although you remembered secretly feeling so giddy that he cared enough about you to be jealous. That meant he was serious about you! “It’s you that I want, I couldn’t care less about anyone else!”

“I know,” he’d sighed, grabbing your hands and pressing kisses on them in a way that made you giggle even more. “I guess it’s just something I have to work on.”

But what had started out as simple, innocuous jealousy had morphed into something so much bigger, twisted, and ugly.

It began with a simple request; “please baby, don’t talk to him. I don’t like it.” And you found yourself listening to him, thinking he’d leave you if you didn’t. You distanced yourself from any male friends you had, including co-workers and even your relatives. You couldn’t stand to see Steve upset, and he’d asked you so nicely, so why wouldn’t you listen to him?

After that, he’d made you move in with him. “It’s just easier this way,” he’d assured you, despite the fact that you’d only been going out less than two months, “I feel more comfortable knowing you’re safe in my bed at night, and then I don’t worry as much.”

Then he’d made you quit your job. “I don’t like how those men at your work look at you,” he’d said, “I’ll take care of you, sweetie. You don’t need to work anymore.” And so, you’d quit without a second thought. It’s what had made Steve happy, so why wouldn’t you listen to him?

Then, he’d wanted to know where you were all the time. “I worry about you so much, you have no idea,” he’d told you once when the two of you were in bed and he was holding you close, stroking your hair while you lay on top of his chest. “I need to know where you are all the time, okay? I just… I need to know. And who you’re with. You need to tell me, or else I’ll go insane.”

Constant check-ins, constant texts. You were allowed to go out with your girlfriends, but never past a certain time. And certainly never a holiday or a girls’ trip. He had to know who your friends were, if they had boyfriends or brother, he had to know everything. And you were so in love with him, you hadn’t even realised that maybe it was all too much.

“My ex-girlfriend was having an affair behind my back for one year,” he’d told you quietly one night. One hot August night when the two of you had climbed up on his roof, and he lay with his head in your lap. His feathery lashes fanning his cheekbones, and his face softened by the moonlight, he’d looked like an angel that night. “One whole year, and I didn’t have a clue until the day I caught her. Them. I caught them in my bed.”

You’d listened with baited breath, because Steve never really spoke much about his life before you. Not his childhood, nor his parents who he didn’t speak to. And definitely never his ex-girlfriend.

“I just can’t lose you,” he’d said, staring hard at the dark night sky, “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, if you left me. If someone took you away from me, I think I’d die.”

You’d kissed him then, and whispered against his lips, “I’m not going anywhere, Stevie. I love you so much, and there’s nobody else out there for me. Just you. So don’t worry, because you’re stuck with me for as long as you’ll have me.”

He’d sat up and taken you into his arms, hugging you so tight you couldn’t breathe – but in a good way. “Forever,” he’d mumbled into your hair, “I’ll have you forever, and then after that too. I’m never gonna let you go.”

You’d married him a month later in a small ceremony with just your family and some friends. And he’d looked so happy on that day, so handsome and happy and he’d held you close to him the whole night. You were happy too, and thrilled that he was so happy. “Now everyone knows your mine,” he’d whispered in your ear while you two slow-danced, “This is all I’ve ever wanted, you’re all I’ve ever wanted. Thank you. I love you.”

“If you ever fucking cheat on me again, I’ll kill him.” Steve grabs your jaw hard, his fingers pressing against your skin until you cry out, ripped away from the safety of your memories and back into the present. “And you too. You got that? I’ll fucking kill you both.”

You’ve cried all the tears you possibly can, and so you just lay there. Limp, shaking like a leaf yet feeling so numb. So numb and alone because he wasn’t your husband. He was a monster, a monster you didn’t even recognise. Your angelic husband warped into a monster because of you, because of you, because of you!

With a grunt, he unloads inside you. His hot cum searing you from the inside out, and there’s so much of it. And he holds you up, with your legs pressed up over his shoulders, spilling load after load of his seed into you, making sure it stays, making sure it sticks.

And then he throws you aside, rising up to his feet and staring at you with blazing eyes. He’s still fully dressed in his suit, while you lie below him in your tattered dress. The one you’d chosen so painstakingly to wear for him today.

With glassy eyes and limbs that don’t move, you watch him as he does up his fly, muttering profanity under his breath. He’s still so angry, you can tell by that vein on his forehead, and the way his fists are balled up by his sides. You hate his fists. They scare you more than anything else in the whole world.

He doesn’t utter another word. Instead, he leaves. You hear him go down the stairs, hear the jangle of the car keys, the slam and lock of the front door.

He was gone.

Your body curls up into foetal position, and you hug yourself hard. It’s the only solace you can give yourself. Everything hurts. From your face, your jaw, your arms, your whole body down to your heart and your soul. Oh, you hate yourself! For being so weak, so pathetic!

But most of all, you hate yourself for making him how he’d become. If only you’d been a better wife, if only you’d been able to make him happy. Good wives didn’t get hit. So maybe this pain was what you deserved.

If only you hadn’t lied about the car…

Oh, the car! The goddamned car! You wish to God you could turn back time. But what could you have even done differently?

You remember feeling a sense of dread the moment the car had stopped working. And it had increased tenfold when you’d taken your phone out to call Steve, only for there to be no signal. Of course, the car had decided to stop working in the middle of nowhere. It was less than ideal, since you had to get home and finish all your chores before Steve got home. Otherwise, he might get mad, and then…

“Hey there, you OK?”

The knock on your window makes you jump, and you find a man peering in at you, a friendly yet slightly concerned look on his face. Oh gosh, Steve would be so mad if I spoke to this man now, you think to yourself. And yet… there’s not much else you can do. Your car won’t start back up, and you don’t know the first thing about repairing it.

“H-Hey,” you roll your window down, trying not to look directly at the stranger’s tanned face. “I’m OK, thanks for asking. My, uh, my car isn’t though. I think. It won’t start up.”

The man nods, “Yeah, that’s why I came over. Saw you on the side of the road and knew you wouldn’t be parked here for no reason.” He pauses, listening to the hum of your engine with a thoughtful look on his face. “I think I recognise the sound. If I could get this car back to my auto-shop, I think I could fix it.”

“Really?” Hope fills your heart before reality comes crashing down. Steve wouldn’t like for you to be going into auto-shops with men you didn’t know. You weren’t allowed to talk to any man unless Steve approved it. And you gulp, thinking how mad he’d be if he found out. The hairs on the back of your neck prickle as you think about the last time he’d gotten mad at you… No, you couldn’t go with this man, it wouldn’t be worth the trouble.

“I, uh, I think I can get it to start back up myself. Thanks anyways though!” You say with false brightness. But after a few more failed attempts, you slump back against your seat in defeat, and the man chuckles.

“A valiant effort. But as I said, my shop’s only about a mile and a half down that way. And luckily, I’ve got my tow truck with me now. Let me help you, and you’ll be on your way in no time.”

His face softens when he sees the hesitant look on your face, and he runs a hand through his unruly brown hair before fishing something out of his pocket. “Here’s my card, just so you know I’m legit. C’mon, let me help you. I couldn’t possibly leave a lady out here all on her own with a broken-down car that’s an easy fix.”

You bite your lip. His business card did look legit. And after another quick glance at your phone – still no signal – you nod and smile at the stranger. Maybe Steve would be proud of you for taking the initiative and getting yourself out of a sticky and potentially dangerous situation.

The ride to the man’s auto-repair shop is short enough. And he spends the next fifteen minutes fixing your car, all while you sit in the waiting room fretting and typing out texts to Steve that you’re too scared to send. You need to think of the perfect way to explain what had happened with the car, the most delicate explanation that wouldn’t result in him getting mad. Oh, you didn’t want him to get mad! Not when things had been going so well recently, and he hadn’t gotten mad in a long time, and you were starting to believe that he still loved you, and wasn’t annoyed by you all the time, and didn’t hate you, and–

“She’s almost fixed!” The man had announced cheerily, walking into the waiting room and shooting you a bright smile, one that had melted off his face the moment he’d seen the look of worry on your face. “Hey, are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” standing up and smoothening down your dress, you’d shot the man a puzzled look. “What do you mean, almost?”

“Almost as in I need an extra part to complete the fix, but it won’t come in until tomorrow.” The man runs a hand through his wavy brown hair that curls charmingly at the base of his neck. “But don’t worry, she’ll be back home in your driveway by noon tomorrow at the latest. I promise.”

“T-Tomorrow?” your blood runs cold, and it’s insane how your hands start shaking instantaneously. “But it can’t stay here overnight, my…my husband, he’ll find out, and then–”

“Husband?” The man repeats slowly before quickly gathering himself and taking a step back. “Well, ma’am, I’m sure he won’t mind about the car, so long as you’re alright. And don’t worry, I can give you a lift home.”

“N-No, you don’t understand, he…” you swallow harshly, squeezing your eyes shut for a second and clasping your hands to get them to stop shaking so violently, “N-No, he can’t know I was here, he can’t, he’ll…”

“Why don’t you let me speak to him,” the mechanic says slowly, pointing at your phone. “I’m sure I could explain the problem with the engine–”

Your eyes widen in pure fear, “NO! I mean, uh, no, that won’t be necessary. I just, oh God, I-I…” Suddenly, you can’t think straight. If Steve found out you were at this man’s auto-shop alone with him, that he’d spoken to you, that you’d spoken back to him… Oh no, Steve couldn’t find out. He’d get so mad, and he’d hurt you, and then everything would be awful for days.

“Is everything okay, ma’am?” The guy has a look of serious concern painted on his face as he stands before you. He’s tall, tall just like Steve, and looks just as strong too. “I know it’s none of my business, but you look awfully scared.”

You force a laugh that comes out a tad too high-pitched, “I’m fine! I’m totally fine! I just…”

“Let me give you a lift home,” the man says gently, taking a hesitant step closer to you. “I can speak to your husband, let him know it wasn’t your fault that your car broke down.”

“That’s not what he’d be angry about,” your eyes widen when you realise you’ve said too much. “I mean, he won’t be angry at all. Not at all. Everything’s gonna be just fine.”

More than him, it seems like you’re trying to persuade yourself.

“I, uh, I’ll call myself a cab,” you say, but the man places his warm hand on your wrist to stop you, and the contact makes you jump. He’s so… gentle. It’s a strange sensation. And then he just… looks at you. For a handful of seconds that feel like ages, he just looks at you with inquisitive blue eyes, as if he’s trying to read you, or at least trying to understand.

“Please, allow me,” finally, he tears his eyes away, and he’s got his phone out and he’s already dialling the number, “the reception here isn’t great, but my phone seems to work through it.”

It’s only later, when you’re getting into the cab, that he grabs your arm once more. Well, “grab” would be the wrong word. He gently placed his hand on your arm as if to stop you, and you hesitate, half distracted by the need to get home before Steve and come up with an excuse about the car, and half curious about what the mechanic has to say.

“You have my card,” he says slowly with significance, his voice lowering to a deep rumble. “Call me tomorrow about your car. Or,” he adds when you start closing the cab door, “if you feel like there’s another reason you should call me, then please just do it. I’m here to help.”

He holds your gaze for a moment or two, a few wayward strands of his brown hair falling over his forehead before he pushes them back. You find yourself forgetting to breathe, before you quickly shake your head and force a smile before looking away.

“Thank you for your help.”

Now, you lie alone on your bed, on your side with your knees up to your chest, shielding yourself and your poor body from whatever lies ahead. You can feel the outline of the mechanic’s card in your dress pocket, and muster up the strength to take it out.

Should you call him? It’s not like you had anyone else. Your family lived miles and miles away on the other side of the country. Steve had moved you to a different state after the wedding, claiming the two of you needed a fresh new beginning to start your new life together. And so you’d left all your friends and family behind without a second thought, loyally following your husband into the sunset because you loved him and trusted him.

You’d made new friends now, but they were the wives of Steve’s friends, and you didn’t know if you could trust them. What if they took Steve’s side? What if they recognised that it was you who’d turned him so awful and mean? That it was you who was the rotten one, poisoning everything you touched because you couldn’t keep him happy, couldn’t be a good wife?

You stare so hard at the card until your vision blurs, and then you stare some more. After a while, your thoughts just cease altogether, and you just lie there. Just wishing you didn’t exist. Wishing you were never alive to begin with, wishing you never felt the immense love in your heart that you still do for Steve. Wishing love never existed and neither did you. That you just disappeared into thin air one day and Steve could move on and be happy and be better for someone who made him better. Someone he genuinely loved and cared for and wanted to be better for.

Someone who so clearly wasn’t you.

You don’t know how long you lie there. Motionless. It’s different this time. In the past, after he’s left you like this, you’ve been able to get back up. Brush yourself off, make yourself pretty again and pretend it never happened. For the sake of both of you, just pretend it never happened.

You remember the first time he’d hit you. It was a month or so after your wedding, and Steve had taken you out to a work party of his. And you’d felt so relaxed, so pretty on the arm of your husband, wearing the dress he’d chosen for you, the jewellery he’d bought you. The diamond earrings sat pretty on your ears, a present from him that very night. He’d come up behind you while you’d sat at your vanity getting ready, and kissed your cheek and told you how much he loved you, how you deserved all the prettiest things in life because you were the prettiest thing in his life.

You’d felt so at ease, being led around by Steve whilst you mingled and spoke with his work colleagues. But his good mood hadn’t lasted as the night had gone on, and halfway through the evening, you’d sensed him go silent next to you. Deathly silent. His grip around your waist had tightened to the point where it was almost uncomfortable, and his jaw was tight too. His lips set into a straight line.

He’d been just as silent on the drive back home, and it was only once the two of you were back in your bedroom, that he’d chose to speak.

“You were getting awfully comfortable with some of the men at the party,” he’d commented while you were undoing his tie.

You’d wrinkled your nose, “What?”

“Don’t say what. You know exactly what I mean.” His tone was cold, colder than you’d ever heard it. Soon, you’d grow used to the tell-tale signs that he was going into that dark, forlorn place he went to when he got like this. But back then, you didn’t really have an inkling.

“D-Did I do something to upset you, Stevie?” You’d asked hesitantly, not knowing what to make of his detached anger. You’d reached back to undo the zipper of your dress. Usually, he did it, but he wasn’t offering to do it then.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” His tone had been so cutting that you’d physically flinched, and when he’d turned back around, his eyes were blazing accusatorily, “You were acting like a goddamned slut tonight, flirting with all those men.”

You remember the insult not even hitting you, because the absurdity of his statement had taken you so far off guard that instead, a giggle had escaped from your lips. An awkward giggle, like you had no idea what to say to such an absurd accusation.

“Do you find this funny?” You’d never forget the look he’d given you then, how he’d strode across the room, how big he’d looked, how scared you’d felt in that one second.

“No, Stevie, I was just–”

The strike had come out of nowhere. Like a clap of thunder, almost. You’d heard it before you’d even felt it. The slap that seemed to reverberate off the walls, except it was his palm against your cheek. The force of it had you reeling, and you’d lost your balance. Crashed against the wall with a thud before you’d fallen down.

You still remember how unreal it all had felt. Like an out of body experience, almost. Surreal. And the pain had bloomed instantly on the side of your face, and you’d looked up at him and he’d looked down at you, a horrified look on his face. He’d held his hand out in front of him, staring at it hard, and the darkness from his eyes had cleared.

Back in the present, and you can’t stop shaking. You feel numb, empty, and yet you can’t stop shaking. You try to think back to the old Steve, the good Steve. The sweet Stevie who was a little bit shy, and yet so charming and witty at the same time. So poetically in love that he’d made you fall for him, hook, line and sinker. The romantic Steve who’d whisked you off your feet and you’d happily followed him into the sunset without a second glance backwards.

Steve. The love of your life.

You just wish he still loved you back.

You don’t know how long you lie there. Seconds, minutes, hours, they don’t mean a thing. Not when this was to be your reality for the rest of your life. Again, you feel the charming mechanic’s card in your hand, but now you can’t even muster up the energy to hold it up.

It’s the dead of the night when he finally comes back. You haven’t moved an inch, but the sound of the front door shutting and the footsteps thudding up the stairs has alarm bells going off in your head.

No, no, no. No more hitting, no more pain. You couldn’t take another slap, you couldn’t, you couldn’t, you couldn’t! In fight or flight mode, you heave yourself up, shaking with fear. The only place you can think of to hide is under the bed. And maybe he wouldn’t care to look for you, maybe he’d stay in the guest room, maybe he’d just leave you alone.

But you see Steve’s shoes as he enters your shared bedroom, and you find that you’re holding your breath. Slowly, he steps inside, and you hear him call out your name quietly. You squeeze your eyes shut, hoping to be transported away. Far, far away where nothing cruel could reach you, and you could be happy all the time and not have to feel any pain, not ever, ever, ever!

It’s when his fingers wrap around your ankle that you start crying again. But no sound comes out, perhaps because you’re in shock. Or maybe because you’re just too scared. Rigid, frozen in complete fear, you’re limp as he pulls you out from under the bed.

“Oh God,” he whispers as the stark white orange light of the bedroom hits you. “Oh…Oh God… I…” his voice catches, his blue eyes clear and alert, blinking several times as he takes you in. Your poor, quivering body, and haunted, dead eyes that look anywhere except at him.

“I didn’t mean to,” he hoists you up into his lap gently as he sits on the cold floor, a mix of shock and regret on his face as he repeatedly shakes his head, surveying your face, your arms, your shoulders, your stomach, “Baby, I… Oh God, I didn’t mean it, I swear I didn’t…”

You find the tiny speck on the wall once more, and you fix your gaze upon it until it blurs. You're so numb, so far away, and you barely feel his hand as he gingerly touches the bruises and marks he’s left on you. Some old ones, some new. Some that had yet to turn dark and noticeable, some half covered in makeup from before.

Carefully, Steve strokes your face, the same side he’d slapped repeatedly only a few hours before. But the gentleness doesn’t register to you. Nothing does. You stare at the speck even harder, wondering if it was always there.

“I’m so sorry,” he breathes, his tone hushed, regretful. Filled with anguish. “Baby, I’m so sorry, I… I got angry, I shouldn’t have got angry but I just…” his voice trails off as he stares hard at his own hand. As if he can’t believe he’s done this, as if he can’t believe that his own hand was capable of doing so much damage.

The speck on the wall seems to get bigger. You wish to God it would swallow you up whole.

“I swear I won’t do it again; I won’t ever hurt you like this again, I swear on my life,” Steve holds you up against his chest, cradles you like you’re a baby. And it feels so alien, to be handled so delicately. He hugs you close, burying his face in your shoulder, and that’s when you hear his voice break, “I won’t do it again, you have my word I’ll never hurt you again. I’m so fucking sorry, oh God, I’m so sorry.”

I won’t do it again. You’d heard that before. That’s what he’d said the first time he’d hit you. That’s what he said after every time. The speck grows blurry.

“Baby, please say something,” he stops hugging you, but still holds you in his lap, his strong arms around you in a way that should make you feel safe but right now you just feel nothing. His voice is thick, “I swear on everything, I won’t lay a hand on you again. I just… I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I don’t know why I get like that. Everything goes black, and it’s like I can’t think straight and then by the time I can, it’s too late. But I swear I’ll get better, I swear on my life this won’t happen again, baby, just please. Please say something.”

If you painted over the speck, would it still be there? Would it disappear entirely, or would the paint chip off after enough time had passed, and reveal the ugliness once more?

“I’ll go to anger management, therapy, you name it,” he shakes you gently, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. “I want to get better for you, be better for you. I know I’m not a good man, baby, I know you deserve better and I’ll do anything. I swear, this is the last time I hurt you, okay? Please, just believe me, okay? Just say something.”

Steve stands up with you in his arms, your limbs falling limply down by your sides, your head lolling down too. Almost like you’re not real, like you’re a doll who was alive for a little while but you’re not anymore. You certainly don’t feel alive. You don’t feel anything. Just numbness.

Tenderly, he lays you down on the bed. The same bed he’d roughly thrown you down and violated you on just a few hours earlier. And a part of you, a tiny part of you from the deepest recesses of your mind, wants to muster up the courage to look into his eyes. To search for the man you love, to see if he’s still there. But the dark numbness eats you from the inside out, and so you just stare blankly at your speck on the wall.

“I promise I’ll change,” Steve repeats, the desperation now evident in his tone as he clutches your face, wills you to look at him. “Please, just listen to me. Believe me when I say I’ll change. Wh-When we… when we have our little girl, I’ll change. I’ll be a good husband and a good dad, make both of you happy. I won’t ever get like this again, I can promise you that now, alright? That’s a promise I’m making to you right now.”

A child? Would he hurt it too? Would he grow to hate it too, simply because it would be yours?

He grabs your hand, and his is so warm. Or is yours the one that’s freezing cold? It had been cold under the bed, but you’d liked it. Feeling cold was a different kind of pain, one that distracted you from the pain he’d caused you.

He kisses you desperately, all over your face as if trying to get you to say something back to him. Instead, you notice another speck on the ceiling above the closet. How many were there? Were they secretly laughing at you? Mocking you for staying so long in a speck-filled house?

“Baby?” Steve’s eyes glisten, his face so ghastly pale as he grabs your hand and presses more desperate kisses on it, “Baby, please say something. Say you forgive me. I-I don’t know why I do it, okay? I just, I’m so fucking terrified of someone taking you away from me. Taking away the one person, the only person, in my whole fucking life who means everything to me. I couldn’t stand it, I thought he’d take you away from me, and I just saw red, and I’m so sorry. I hate myself for doing this to you, baby. I’m so sorry, please say something!”

But you can’t! How can you, when it doesn’t even feel like you’re real anymore?

The specks are all around you now, growing larger and larger. You can hear Steve apologising over and over again, hugging you close as he begs for your forgiveness. But you’re too far away, so far away that you can barely hear him anymore. Lightyears away, in your own universe where you’re brave and confident and nobody ever messes with you. Nobody ever hurts you. And you take care of yourself, and it’s enough.

You find yourself hurtling through windows of time, entering one before flitting into the next as the specks grow so large it feels like they’re consuming you. You find yourself observing your birthday last year, when you’d baked your own cake and Steve had spent hours decorating it for you. Using your favourite-coloured frosting, and of course you’d gotten some on your face. He’d kissed it off for you, and told you that you were adorable.

Now you’re on Steve’s roof, the night he’d told you about his big promotion at work. You’d yelped in excitement, hugged him so hard it had hurt – but the good kind of hurt. And he’d had those stars in his eyes as he’d held you. “You’re my best friend, you know?” he’d said, “Every time anything good happens, you’re the first person I look for in the room to tell.”

Memory after memory, one cherished moment after another. And you’re so possessive of these moments, like you want to lock them up in a jar and keep them safe forever. Not let them get tainted like how he’d gotten tainted. Because of you, of course.

Maybe I’ll stay here, you think as the specks continue to consume you. It’s safe here. I’m happy here. He’s happy too. Maybe I’ll stay forever...

But something's stopping the specks from swallowing you up and taking you away. Taking you far, far away where Steve couldn't hurt you anymore, the place where there was only love and never hate. But something's stopping you, pulling you back like gravity that you simply couldn't defy. A stranger's voice, warm and sweet like honey, cutting through the freezing cold numbness.

“If you feel like there’s another reason you should call me, then please just do it. I’m here to help.”

You feel the card clutched tightly in your hand; the hand Steve isn’t holding on to. And it pulls you back, back, back to reality. Another memory, but this time it’s a stranger with blue eyes and a friendly smile.

The specks slowly start to disappear, and you find yourself back in your bedroom. Back in Steve’s arms. Back in his warm embrace, except it does nothing to stop you from feeling so numbingly cold.

“I love you,” Steve whispers, “I love you so much, I’d die if I lost you. Please forgive me, baby. Come back to me. I won’t ever hurt you again.”

He lifts you up and hugs you once more, holding on to you so tightly as if his life depends on it. Strokes your hair and whispers sweetly in your ear, says all the words of regret that you've heard before. But you lie motionless in his arms like a broken doll, your poor cheek resting limply on his shoulder.

And it’s over Steve’s shoulder that you look down at the card in your hand, and read the man’s name, along with his number. And suddenly, a coolness washes over you.

Your finger twitches. You take a deep breath.

“Baby?” Steve draws back till you’re both face to face once more, and his eyes have those stars in them again, the stars you'd fallen in love with, the stars you'd wanted back so bad that you'd let it get this far. He cups your face, and presses his forehead against yours.

“You forgive me, don't you?"

THE END.

"came to visit nii-san in nagano for the weekend," the twenty year old chirps cheerfully.

"she's eating me out of house and home, osamu," rintarou laments.

"got no sympathy for ya," osamu laughs. "last time ya came to visit me i had to buy twice as much rice as usual. blame yer genetics."

suna rolls his eyes but doesn't refute osamu's point. instead he carries the conversation along. "i didn't call to ask a favour, you know."

osamu wipes a cloth over his cutting board, nodding his head. "so ya said."

"she did, though."

osamu looks back up at the phone and sees both suna siblings looking at him with matching hopeful expressions—the same one that made him buy twice as much rice as usual with little-to-no complaint—and he just sighs, tossing his rag down on the worktop.

"whaddaya want?"

osamu's pretty well acquainted with osaka now, having spent the better part of his twenties living and working there. when the shop was still a bit smaller and closed in the afternoons before the dinner rush, he used to run delivery orders to offices and small catering gigs, which helped him get a feel for the city's layout too.

still, he's not familiar with this particular part of town. he double checks the address on the screen of his smart phone, then the one on the building in front of him. adjusting the paper takeout bag in his arms he punches a series of numbers into the intercom.

"hello?"

"i've got a food delivery here for apartment 615," osamu says, keeping his head bowed a little to the camera so his onigiri miya cap is on full display.

"... I didn't order anything, sorry."

osamu reads your name off the slip of paper stapled to the bag. "ordered by a suna yuriko?"

it's quiet for a moment, but osamu can tell from the static on the other end of the intercom that you're still listening. can still hear the faint sound of your sigh.

the door buzzes as it unlocks.

on his way up to the sixth floor, osamu reflects on his conversation with the youngest suna sibling.

she's my best friend, yuri-chan had said to him, her voice thick with emotion. she moved to osaka last year with her boyfriend but he's.... i'm worried about her. she hasn't answered me in days.

osamu had been resistant to the request at first. this seemed like a matter for police involvement, not an onigiri restaurant owner.

i just need to know she's okay, miya-san. please?

osamu would not consider himself a do-gooder. he's not particularly gallant or brave in any way. sure, he's happy to help out or be kind when he can, but he's no hero. the only real scraps he's ever gotten into are with his brother, after all, and those days are mostly behind him now that he's on the periphery of his thirties.

but there was something about the way yuri-chan had pleaded with him that had tugged on his heartstrings. something that made him feel inclined to act.

all he had to do was lay eyes on you. make sure you were where you were supposed to be and that you were okay. simple enough.

on the sixth floor of the unfamiliar apartment building, it doesn't take osamu long to find your unit door. osamu raps twice against it once he arrives, waiting patiently in view of the peep hole for you to answer.

"you can just leave it outside, please!" he hears you say from inside. your voice is close, like you're right there on the other side of the door.

"sorry miss, restaurant policy. the boss would be mad if i didn't hand it off to ya directly."

he is the boss, but you don't need to know that.

it's quiet for a moment, and then osamu hears a few locks click. he's relieved as the door begins to open.

the relief doesn't last.

you've got the door open only wide enough for the bag of onigiri to be passed through, half your face hidden on the other side. the half he can see though is swollen and bruised along the top of your cheek. behind you, osamu catches a glimpse of your apartment—turned practically upside down.

there's papers and various other things littered on the ground. a picture askew, and a mirror shattered on the wall beside it. osamu feels many things at once. concern, disbelief, anger.

he looks at you, and you stare back like a deer caught in the headlights, shrinking slightly under his stare. for a moment he's reminded of the stray cat he caught behind the restaurant a few years ago, stealing food out of the dumpster. remembers how mistrustfully it had stared at him when he first cornered it in the alley.

internally osamu is cursing the suna siblings, cursing whatever piece of shit did this to you, and cursing his own nature.

Fear was all you had ever known. It was a familiar feeling. It rushed through your body, coursing through your veins. It made your heart race and your breathing shallow. It made your legs ache and tremble as you looked for the nearest exit or thought of a way to defend yourself.

Whenever you were young, your parents weren't exactly like others. Your classmates would complain about their own parents from time to time, but not for the same reason that you did. You didn't even complain, honestly. You were usually pretty quiet because you knew what would happen if your teachers overheard you. They'd call your parents, and then whenever you got home, you'd earn more fresh bruises.

Your classmates would always complain about how their parents never let them get the expensive, trendy toy that was on the shelves. They complained of chores and time taken away from their television and dolls.

You would have killed for that, though. Just to have parents who loved you was considered a blessing, and you were one of the unfortunate children who lacked it. It made you feel different. You always felt like an outcast. You could never join in on conversations about others appreciating their parents... because what did you have to appreciate about yours?

They swore it made you tougher. Stronger. More resilient. Every time they struck you, they swore it was for your own good and not their own sick, twisted pleasure that they gained from abusing their power. They didn't full-on beat you senseless, but a slap for being "disrespectful" or a smack to the head were regular occurrences. It hurt enough to remind you every time you looked at them, and they also usually hit hard enough to leave a mark. The bruises never lasted too long, but they lasted long enough to ache and tell you not to talk back next time.

It didn't make you stronger, though. It made you feel weak and powerless. You always felt like a newborn animal born in an open field, wobbling up on unfamiliar legs to get a breath of the fresh breeze before a predator knocked you right back down. It always knocked the air out of you, and you were left helpless.

But unlike a newborn animal, you had no parents. You had nobody to defend you from the harsh, cold world. Instead, they encouraged it and introduced it to you early in the cruelest ways. You had no warm caregiver to supply the love you craved. They abandoned you. Despite being present, they were never actually there. Never mentally, never emotionally, but always physically.

They always claimed that the lectures were to make you quick-witted and sharp-tongued so you could defend yourself. They left out the part where people don't usually curse at the top of their lungs at a 6-year-old. Kids your age were usually spoken to in a soft manner. They were corrected gently instead of harshly. They weren't beaten down to be made tough. They were loved and were taught that love was the strongest force, not hands.

The worst part was the fear they instilled into you, though. It was absolute hell, and there was no way out for years on end.

Intimidation and fear-based obedience were their favorites, and for the longest time, you thought that you were just too soft, like they always told you.

But the looks from other parents and grandparents in public told you differently.

One time, you were in a grocery store with your mother. You were around 8 years old. You were tired and thirsty, as you had been walking around the store for hours now just so she could find the deal on new cooking utensils that she wanted.

You were starting to whine, even grabbing a bottle from a nearby cooler and showing it to her, begging her to buy it so you'd have something to drink. You were starting to get fussy at this point, as most children your age would if they were tired and thirsty.

Your mother didn't usually neglect your basic needs such as food, water, shelter, and clothing, but she did usually neglect your feelings and mistook them for a tantrum 9 times out of 10.

She snapped back to look at you, smacking your hand harshly and ordering you to put it back. You quickly did so, but she didn't stop there.

"If you want to be such a brat, maybe I should just let you thirst to death, huh?" she mumbled.

You froze, but your heart was pounding.

You quickly scrambled to give her an apology, and after a few seconds, she accepted it.

"Listen to mommy from now on, or else I might have to act on my words. Mommy doesn't want to do that," she cooed, acting as if her gentle tone was making the words any better.

You swallowed the lump of fear and thirst down, staring at the floor with blurred vision from your tears. Other children looked. So did parents and grandparents. The adults felt for you, but they prevented their children from saying anything.

That was one of the many examples of fear-based obedience from your parents.

The most memorable intimidation tactic you could remember was used by your father. You were in the 6th grade, so you were around 11. Not too young, but not old enough to really understand everything yet. You weren't dumb, but you also didn't know how to properly defend yourself. Your response was always to freeze and cower.

You had received a bad grade on a test. Your parents always stressed the importance of education, and although you knew how much of a privilege it was to have a quality education, your stress was beginning to affect you. You had too much homework that week, and although you ended up making it all up and receiving good grades on them, you had forgotten all about your test. You didn't study, and you ended up getting 70% instead of your usual 95% or above.

To say your dad was pissed was an understatement. He was furious. He kept on getting in your face, yelling and screaming about how ungrateful and lazy you were. He went on and on about how you should've done better. How you should've pulled your head out of your ass and just gotten the studying done instead of focusing on other things.

Whenever you opened your mouth to speak, though, you didn't even get a word out. He was already in your face, asking what you were going to do about it in a cruel, mocking tone.

You just pressed your lips together and bit the bottom one, tears quickly threatening to escape.

Why was he being so aggressive? It was one bad grade. Even your teachers acknowledged you as a gifted, talented, and hard-working student. Why couldn't your dad ever see the same?

All he ever saw was a disappointment, and you had known that from a young age. Still, you had hope. But that hope quickly melted into self-hatred.

You were snapped out of your thoughts whenever you heard a loud noise, though. You looked up and gasped, stepping back when you saw that he had punched a hole in the wall.

Your heart was really racing now. Whenever he got in your face again, you flinched and squeezed your eyes shut, a frightened whimper escaping as well as a few tears.

"That wall should've been you. Keep being lazy, and maybe a picture frame won't hide the marks I'm gonna leave on you like they do on the walls."

You wanted to say you were strong. You wanted to so badly. You just wanted to feel big and powerful like the other kids in your grade.

Instead, you felt overlooked and trampled on. You felt trapped. It wasn't just disappointing. It was depressing. It was an endless cycle of fear, and there was no way out.

Your parents began caring less as you got older. By the time you were 13, you picked up dancing and singing as a hobby. Despite all of the aches and bruises, you could move your body and use your voice pretty well. You got better within a few months, attracting the attention from some girl groups.

But whenever they saw how jumpy you were, they just nervously chuckled and brushed you aside. They didn't need someone with that type of behavior. What would the media think then?

Even though no groups took you in for a while, you were just glad to be away from your parents.

You did end up catching another group's attention, though. But to your surprise, it wasn't a girl group. It was three boys. They all looked at least 3 years older than you, but they were kind.

They didn't stalk you, obviously, but they would sometimes watch your dance practices and ask for tips and advice. You four soon became friends, and after a week or so, the oldest, Chan, offered you a position in the dance line of his group.

Although he did warn you that it was all guys, you didn't care. You were just happy to be in a group with people who actually enjoyed being around you.

But that fear always lingered.

Chan soon realized you were too much like him. You were a perfectionist in every way. You would sometimes extend your practices by an hour or even longer to perfect your vocals and choreography. It was admirable in a way, but he was mostly concerned. You were 13. Why were you already pushing yourself this hard?

More boys joined, and eventually, there were eight of them and one of you. You didn't mind. You had spent months with these guys, and now you'd be able to perform at concerts with them!

Whenever you all debuted as nine, you felt like you finally had a purpose in life. You were 14 at the time, having started your freshman year in high school.

You told them that you wanted to do online schooling and finish the rest of your high school years just to make sure you at least had a high school diploma. They all agreed and told you they'd only schedule you for long practices on days they knew you weren't busy.

Whenever you were having trouble and getting lower scores in certain subjects, they didn't judge you. They didn't scream or yell or curse. They didn't hit you or call you lazy and stupid. They just supported you and asked if there was anything they could do to help you raise your scores.

Huh. That was weird. Not being called lazy and being offered help instead of earning a new bruise was odd to you. You weren't even biologically related to these guys, and they treated you better than your parents.

You managed to graduate early during your senior year, and then your career really began at 17. You were soon featured in more music videos and songs.

Your voice added diversity to the boys' songs. You even had a few singles, and fans went wild over them. They claimed you had the voice of an angel. It was so gentle yet so energetic, and it really made you stick out in the group.

Who knew somebody who had been through so much hell could be so loved?

You always prepared yourself for the verbal attacks from fans, but surprisingly, they never came. You weren't scolded for your talents. You weren't ridiculed. You were loved and favored.

That was 3 years ago, though. This was now. Now, you were the least biased member. Even worse than Seungmin and Changbin. Fans didn't exactly hate you, but they didn't love you either. Things had changed.

Ever since you became a young adult, your mental health began going downhill. Not in the depressed way, but in the paranoid way.

You were never scared of the boys, but lately, you had been getting more and more triggered by everything. Loud noises terrified you. Sudden movements made you cower. Playful slaps made you flinch.

You felt like everyone was out to get you. Every time one of the boys suddenly hugged you, you froze and internally panicked. You were always looking for a way out instead of just enjoying the moment. It felt like a demand, honestly. Always having to look for an exit instead of comfort and affection made you feel guilty.

The boys never really caught onto it a couple of years ago, but lately, you had been so jumpy that they joked about changing your skzoo from a cat to a kangaroo.

Every time they raised their voice, even in a joking way, you went quiet. Even if you had been speaking earlier, you'd go silent until they asked if everything was okay. You took that as permission to continue talking.

The boys were also pretty touchy, which you never used to mind. You were never exactly seen as the affectionate one in the group, but that didn't mean you didn't love a good hug every now and again. You never pushed away your members. You just didn't embrace it like they did.

Now, every hug felt suffocating. Every sudden touch was a threat. Every playful pinch suddenly made you believe they were trying to bruise you just like your parents used to.

But the thing that they saw the most was how often you flinched and cowered back.

You knew the boys were strong, but you also knew they'd never intentionally hurt you. Your brain always betrayed you, though. It constantly told you that you were in danger and that the boys would harm you when you least expected it.

You could never fully trust any of them. You were never truly comfortable.

And you hated it. You hated it with every fiber of your being. You couldn't bond and show affection like they could.

One prime example was during a game interview. The game was similar to wrestling, and it involved a lot of physical activity and touch.

Before you could protest, the game began. Everyone was on their own. Everybody had a card with a name written on it that they had randomly picked out of a basket.

Yours said Han, so you had to tackle Han before he could make it across the room. Good thing there were a bunch of chairs in the way to slow him down!

You had to admit that you felt a bit nervous, though. Seungmin noticed the way your hands were trembling slightly, but he thought it was just excitement or anticipation for the game to actually begin, so he didn't comment on it or ask you.

Turns out Chan's card had your name on it. You hadn't caught it, but he had that up-to-no-good expression on his face with his sinister smile.

It was everybody going at once, and the last person standing would be the winner. There was no prize. It was just entertainment and content for STAY.

But as soon as you all began going in different directions, you saw Chan quickly approaching you. Even though you tried to tell yourself it was just a game, whenever he actually got his hands close to you, you flinched back. Hard. Your hands instinctively went up to shield your face, and you turned to the side and squeezed your eyes shut. Flinching was normal, but when you opened your eyes, you still had that fearful look in your eyes.

You tried to play it off by laughing just like the rest of them, but Chan couldn't brush that off. Flinching was a natural human response, but it also wasn't usually that severe. You had flinched back like you expected him to harm you or something.

He also nervously laughed while tackling you to cover up his concern, but the look in your eyes definitely caught him off guard.

He had never seen you scared like that before, and it worried him.

He took a quick second to check up on you. His smile was gone for a little while as he quietly asked you if everything was alright.

Your voice was a bit shaky, but you told him it was fine and that you just hadn't seen him. He'd just scared you.

But you weren't being entirely honest. You weren't just scared. You were terrified. As soon as you saw his hands, you immediately pictured your father's own hands, slapping you when you "caught an attitude with him."

Chan gave you a gentle hug, but when he looked down, he felt his heart shatter a bit.

Your eyes were glossy with a small amount of tears. You were blinking pretty quickly to get rid of them for the cameras, but you couldn't hide how terrified you had been in that moment.

He just rubbed your shoulder in a soothing manner and took you over to sit next to Hyunjin, who had been tackled by Han.

Chan soon joined back in the game, and Hyunjin noticed how shaken up you were. He didn't demand an explanation. He just offered his hand. You took it, and he gently rubbed his thumb over your knuckles in an attempt to soothe you.

It worked, and you smiled softly as you both watched the other boys compete.

The biggest trigger yet would happen today, though. You just didn't know it yet.

It was just like any other morning. Early, exhausting, and bright as the sunlight poured through your small dorm bedroom window. It gathered on your face, making you groan and whine before reluctantly rolling over to check the time on your phone.

7 A.M. Practice began at 10. That gave you around 3 hours to get ready.

Getting ready wasn't the triggering part. Practice wasn't the triggering part. But during the afternoon, at around 5 P.M., you nearly had a come-apart over something that would be viewed as small to anyone else.

The boys were preparing an early dinner while all over at Felix and Seungmin's dorm. You walked in while Han was helping Minho and Chan. Felix had asked you to get him something to drink since he was busy working on something, and you agreed with a warm smile.

You made your way to the kitchen, forgetting to take your socks off to prevent yourself from slipping on the slick tile floor.

Han greeted you with a smile and a quick hug, and you reciprocated it with a gentle grin of your own before reaching up to get a cup for Felix. You managed to grab it, but you had to reach up on your tippy-toes to get your hand around it.

'Just don't slip. Just don't slip. Just don't-'

You felt your toes slip out from beneath you, making you lose all of your balance. Your arm hit the wooden cupboard as you fell forward onto the counter. Your diaphragm rammed into the counter, and then you hit your face on your way down, busting your lip in the process.

But the worst part wasn't the physical injuries you sustained. It was the sound.

The sound of glass shattering as soon as the cup left your hand and hit the ground. The same mistake you always made as a kid that earned you the meaner beatings. Not just a slap. Multiple. Hell, maybe even a sprained wrist if your parents were angry enough.

You quickly scrambled to your feet, lip already glistening with a small amount of bright red blood, and saw the glass cup that had shattered into hundreds of tiny pieces.

The boys reacted quickly, Chan grabbing both Han and Minho to make sure they were alright.

Since the cup was closest to you, a few small shards ended up piercing your legs.

None of the boys were injured, but you were. You were bleeding. Your lip was busted, and you had glass embedded in your skin.

But you didn't react. You just froze and stared at the ground. The pain didn't fully register to you. Sure, it stung, but the stinging couldn't compare to the pounding in your chest and the rushing of blood in your ears. Your windpipe felt blocked suddenly. Your hands were shaking.

Chan looked over and saw that you had been injured by the glass. You were wearing shorts, so you had around 5 pieces stuck in your skin.

But before he could even begin moving, you did. You got on the ground and swept the smaller shards and pieces of glass into a pile with your hands. No rag. No paper towel. No broom or dustpan. Just your bare, shaky hands.

You weren't even able to get it all into one pile before you heard Minho yelling at you to stop.

"Y/Nnie! Stop it! What are you-" he yelled as he quickly approached you, leaning down to grab your hands away.

But, instead, you flinched. You flinched even harder than you did with Chan that day.

Your hands flew up to your face, your body leaning back as you cowered, preparing for any sort of impact.

"I'm - I'm sorry! I'm sorry, I didn't mean to..!" you pleaded, your voice already louder than normal.

Minho quickly grabbed your hands, trying to calm you down, but it just sent you further into a panic.

He couldn't even get a word out before you rapidly began trying to explain yourself again.

"I didn't mean to drop it! I - I promise I didn't! I'll clean it up!" you stammered, your head still turned away from him, only focused on the mess.

"Y/Nnie, calm down. Stop. I don't want you getting hurt," he explained, his voice softer than usual.

You hadn't even realized you were tearing up until you felt the familiar burn in your eyes. You felt like you couldn't breathe.

He wouldn't hit you. He wasn't going to. He would never.

You quickly wiped your tears away with your fingers, but you felt something warm smeared on your cheek instead.

You hadn't even registered it, but you had cut your hands while desperately trying to clean up the glass. There were even a few tiny pieces still stuck in your skin.

Chan froze, but he quickly snapped out of it, telling Han to go get some tweezers. Minho went to go get the broom and a small vacuum, as well as some gloves to prevent getting cut.

Han went to go get the tweezers to get the glass out of your palms.

Chan quickly went over. He wasn't angry, but your brain altered his face in a way. He looked angry. You swore he did. He had that same expression that your dad always did before he hurt you.

And when he reached towards your face to inspect your busted lip and the blood on your cheek, you felt adrenaline rush through you.

"Stop! Don't- I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" you yelped quickly.

There was genuine terror in your voice.

Minho and Han had both returned, and they quickly looked over to see what was going on. They had never heard you that scared before.

But Chan wasn't doing anything. He was just standing in front of you.

Nobody knew what was going on. Why were you acting like this all over a broken cup? It was just an accident. Accidents happen.

All of the noise attracted the other boys. Seungmin was the first to come into the kitchen, asking what had happened and if everybody was okay. Whenever he saw how stressed out you were, he quickly walked over and told Chan to give you some room.

You and Seungmin were always close. You knew things about each other that nobody else did. He didn't know about your childhood abuse, but he did know something definitely happened between you and your parents. You were unusually jumpy one time after coming back from a weekend at your parents' house. You were more alert, more emotional, more defensive, but never more relaxed.

You just stared at your bloodied hands. The panic was still there, but it was slowly starting to leave. Your breathing returned to normal, quick breaths, but your heart was still hammering in your chest.

Minho quickly knelt down to clean up the broken glass.

They weren't going to harm you. You knew that. But that constant wave of anxiety induced nausea continued to coil in your gut, waiting to be snapped when you were triggered too much.

You looked confused. Your hands were shaking. You looked so out of it, and maybe that's why Han knew that you were on the verge of a breakdown in the middle of the kitchen.

He quickly walked over to you, asking if it was alright to touch you. You didn't answer. You opened your mouth, but nothing came out except for a breathless pant. You seemed short on air, and you couldn't get more in.

It had already gone too far. What had triggered you, he didn't know. But what he did know was that he needed to get you away from the rest of the members. Too many people were probably adding to the overwhelming feeling.

He took you out of the kitchen, through the living room and hallway, all the way outside. It didn't take long, but it felt like forever. You felt weak, just like you had all those years ago.

The fact that it still affected you this deeply after all this time was upsetting. You were just a child. Now, you were a young adult, yet you still didn't know how to deal with it. It was as if you never processed it as a child, and it would stay that way whenever something triggered you.

Han shut the door to prevent any of the warm air from escaping into the cool night. He sat you down, your back pressed against the outside wall of the dorm.

For a few seconds, he was silent.

But seeing how terrified you were made him scared not to say anything.

"Hey, can you tell me what happened back there?" he asked softly, trying to figure out what had triggered you so horribly.

You managed to catch your breath, tears already clinging to your lashes as they tried to escape.

"I - I don't know. I thought-" you stammered, your voice wobbly.

Han didn't interrupt. He just listened with the gentlest expression.

"I thought someone was gonna hurt me," you choked out, a lump already forming in your throat.

But that confused him. Why would you think that? They had never hurt you before. Why would they start now? Over accidentally dropping a glass?

"Who?" he asked.

"Chan... I don't know. I just saw his hands get too close, and I just kind of froze up and got scared," you replied, wiping your eyes with the sleeves of your sweatshirt.

Han sat there with you for a couple more minutes in silence, letting you gather yourself again before asking if you wanted to go inside.

You nodded, and for once, you were the one to initiate the physical affection. You reached for his hand and grabbed it. Maybe for comfort, maybe for stability. You didn't know. He noticed, but he didn't comment on it. He just grabbed yours back, giving it a gentle squeeze. A promise that his hands would always be there for comfort, not evil.

You two headed in, and just as you thought, the other boys were right there.

Chan, Seungmin, Minho, and Felix looked the most worried. The others were still worried too, of course, but those four had been there to experience the whole mini breakdown you had, so they were the most concerned.

Chan was the first to approach you. Slowly this time. He looked torn, probably from the fact that you had been so afraid of him for seemingly no reason. He always protected you. He would never harm you in any way. Maybe that was why the genuine terror in your voice had gotten to him so badly.

He didn't look angry anymore. He never did. You didn't know why you believed yourself earlier. Maybe it was just your brain trying to protect you.

"Are you okay now?" he asked softly.

You nodded, guilt seeping into your expression.

"I'm- I don't know why I acted like that. I'm sorry," you mumbled.

Your hands shook a bit again, and Han gave you another gentle squeeze to remind you that he was still there.

"It's fine. I'm not mad. Nobody is. We just want to make sure you're okay," he replied.

He still looked worried, but he didn't press for an explanation. Nobody did.

They all just reassured you that it was fine and that they would never hurt you no matter what. Even if you had done something to anger them, they'd never put their hands on you in a harmful manner.

Dinner was quiet. Awkward, almost. Hyunjin, Changbin, and Jeongin were more talkative than the others. You still looked a bit shaken up.

You didn't eat much. The nausea still lingered. You barely even drank. You could barely stomach anything.

You felt warmer than usual, too. Maybe it was just your nerves sending false signals to your brain that you were in danger.

You helped clean up after dinner. You were silent, but you weren't as tense as earlier.

That night, as soon as you headed to your room, Han told the boys what had happened earlier whenever he took you outside. He wasn't trying to betray your trust or privacy, but he felt like they deserved to know. Maybe it would offer an explanation on why you were so jumpy earlier.

Seungmin became more suspicious now. The week that followed last year after you had visited your parents, your constantly cautious mindset, the way you had acted tonight... it was all abnormal. You weren't just scared. There was something wrong. There had to be a valid reason for you to react the way you did, especially if you were scared that they of all people would hurt you for a simple accident.

So, he decided to tell them. Maybe your parents were the reason you were like this, as sad as that is.

"She's always really jumpy when she comes back from her parents' house," he spoke up.

The others looked at him. Felix then nodded.

"Yeah. I honestly noticed that whenever we try to hug her, she almost... like... cowers back. She's been like that since pre-debut," Felix added on.

"Does she really think we'd hit her, though?" Changbin asked.

"Maybe someone has hit her before," Minho spoke up.

The room fell quiet.

"People don't act like that for no reason. Something had to have happened. We've never acted like we would harm her before. She knows that. Maybe she has memories of someone who used to do it to her," he continued.

It was quiet again for a few seconds.

"Do you think her parents used to abuse her? Like Felix said, she's acted that way since she was young. This isn't anything new," Han mumbled.

Minho shrugged, but Felix and Seungmin both nodded.

"Honestly, that's what it's pointing to. She doesn't talk about her parents, and when she has to go visit them, she always comes back ten times jumpier than normal," Seungmin said. He firmly believed that whatever your parents did with you was the reason you acted the way you did.

"She literally almost slapped me the other day because I grabbed her arm without warning," Felix continued.

Chan opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.

"She's not scared of you, hyung," Changbin said, looking over at Chan. "She trusts you a lot. I'm sure she knows you'd never hurt her. She always speaks pretty highly of you."

Chan nodded, but he still had a bad feeling about this entire thing. Were your parents really that horrible that they would abuse you when you were younger? They'd abuse a child for simple mistakes?

"Do you think we should talk to her about it?" he asked.

The other boys shrugged.

"Maybe tomorrow. Let's give her tonight to get some rest. She might not want to talk about it right now since it's still pretty fresh on all of our minds," Hyunjin chimed in.

They all nodded, said goodnight to each other, and headed to bed.

The next morning was just like yesterday's. Bright and early.

You checked your phone again, like you always did. The time read 6:47 A.M. You were up a bit earlier than yesterday, but practice wasn't until later that afternoon. Still, though, you knew that since you were already up, it'd be hard to fall back asleep.

So, you stretched and sat up, yawning and rubbing your eyes. You felt like a Disney princess, except much less aesthetic.

The morning went on normally. You stayed in your room, deciding to tidy it up since it had gotten pretty bad over the last few weeks. Life was busy, and you never had time to clean up after yourself, so it was nice to finally be able to do so.

At around 8:15, you heard footsteps down the hallway. You recognized them. They belonged to Changbin.

That was another habit that you had formed during your early childhood. While living with the boys, it only took you around two months to recognize all of their footsteps. How heavy they sounded, their pace, the way the floors creaked or stayed quiet, you paid attention to it all.

Because you used to listen for your parents to try and avoid that beating.

Changbin stopped right outside of your door, knocking. He didn't even speak, so he was shocked when he heard you say his name.

"Come in, Binnie," you called out, still folding your socks, unfazed.

He opened the door, puzzled.

"How did you know it was me? I didn't even talk!" he asked, eyes wide as he let out a quick, amazed laugh.

You just smiled softly.

"I recognized your footsteps. Yours are heavier than the other half of the boys, and your pace was the same as always," you explained.

"Heavier? Are you calling me fat?!" he gasped dramatically, a hand flying to his heart.

You laughed and set your socks down, getting up and heading over to him with a warm smile.

"Shut up. You know you're not fat," you mumbled in response, to which he just chuckled and smiled.

"Anyways," you continued as he fell silent for a bit. "Why are you in my room? Do you need something?"

His smile faltered this time.

"Oh, right. I just... uhm... I wanted to see if you could tell me and the others why you act the way you do when we play around with you. You know, hugging and all that," he mumbled.

Your smile also dropped pretty quickly.

"Oh, it's just- uh-" you stammered, unable to think of an excuse. You knew you couldn't lie to them. They were your family.

It was just Changbin right now, though. It wasn't like all of the boys were watching you.

So, you took a deep breath and put on a small smile.

"I- uhm... so, my parents... I never talk about them, right?" you began.

He just nodded, his expression already softening as he went to go close the door behind him.

You two made your way to your bed, taking a seat on the side of it.

"Well, there's a reason for that. If I enjoyed my parents' company, I'd talk about them all the time. Really, I would. But it's not that easy when I don't like being around them. I hate it, actually. I hate them. They're awful parents," you continued, getting a bit bolder as you went on.

Changbin's expression didn't change. He didn't judge you for saying that. He just sat there quietly and listened, still as ever.

"When I was growing up, my parents were never really there for me. The only thing they ever did was abuse me. Physically, mentally, emotionally... they did it all. Nothing was off limits for them. Sometimes, I wonder why they even had me since they apparently hated me so much. They wouldn't exactly neglect me, but they definitely didn't support or love me either," you said, voice beginning to shake.

"My dad was always an angry man. He used to use fear to make me listen. If I didn't listen, it was a slap to the face or a new bruise on my shoulder," you explained.

His face twisted in concern now.

"Y/Nnie..." he mumbled. He sounded torn.

You just shrugged.

"It's fine. My mom used to do the same thing. She was more passionate about hitting me, though. Said it made me tougher."

You felt fresh tears stinging your eyes by now.

The room was silent for a few long seconds before Changbin interrupted it.

"How old were you when it started..?" he asked quietly.

You looked off to the side for a bit to think.

"The screaming and name-calling began when I was 6. The physical abuse started a few months later, so I was around 6 and a half," you answered.

And even though he wasn't the one who had to go through it, hearing how young you were when this all happened made his eyes go glossy. You were just beginning elementary school when all of this happened, and he wondered how any parent could do that to their own child. To any child.

"But it's okay. I guess that's why I got so scared last night when I dropped that glass. I remember I used to do it all the time when I was younger, and it always pissed my mom off really bad. I earned a nasty bruise from her one time. It took a whole two weeks to go away," you continued, trying to explain why you had acted out so badly last night.

Changbin was silent now. He wiped at his eyes, and so did you.

"I'm sorry," he whispered.

"For what?" you asked through a teary laugh. "You didn't do anything."

"I know, but I wish I could've stopped it somehow. I wish you didn't have to be afraid of love just because of angry people," he mumbled.

You reached over to grab his hand, rubbing your thumb over his knuckles in a gentle manner. He looked up at you, and you smiled back at him.

"Binnie, it's okay. I know I'll never have to be afraid again, you know?"

He paused for a bit.

"You won't? Not even when we give you affection?"

You paused this time.

"Especially when you guys give me affection. I know you'd never hurt me. You guys just have to be patient with me," you said, your voice gentle.

Changbin smiled softly.

"We can do that. You know we can."

This time, when he hugged you, you weren't afraid. You weren't cautious. You were warm. You were safe.

You had forgotten all about your fears. They were replaced with love. Raw, loyal love.

And for the first time, you didn't push it away. You embraced it. You let yourself go, knowing your boys would always be there to catch you.

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guys this is NOT proofread, so i'm sorry if it doesn't make sense 🥹‼️ i've literally just been working on this little by little for the past week...

ugh i listened to fable by gigi Perez while writing the last few little paragraphs and genuinely felt like Shakespeare although this is literally just fanfiction being written by a teenage girl in her tumblr era

ANYWAYS IM SO SORRY FOR NOT POSTING FOR A WHILE!! SCHOOL AND LIFE GOT IN THE WAY BUT NOW IM ON THANKSGIVING BREAK SO YAYAYAYAYAYYYY

THANK YOU SOSO MUCH FOR READING, AND I HOPE YOU ENJOYED IT!!! <3