YOUR POV
The chipped paint on the porch rail felt cold under my fingertips. Any minute now, Harry would pull up, and I needed to be ready. Not for a grand gesture, not for a kiss, but for the inevitable questions about the black eye hidden behind my sunglasses. The bruise throbbed with a dull ache, a familiar reminder of last night’s rage. It wasn’t my fault, not my fault Mom was gone. The cancer had stolen her, not my existence. He just needed someone to blame.
I adjusted the sunglasses, hoping the cloudy sky would lend enough justification to the absurdity of wearing them in November. He’d notice, of course. Harry always did.
The familiar rumble of his car brought me back to the present. He pulled up, grinning, and I forced a smile in return. “Hey, babe,” he said, leaning over to unlock my side. “What’s with the shades? Sun’s hiding today.”
“Habit,” I mumbled, avoiding his gaze. “I always wear them.”
He raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk tugging at his lips. “No, you don’t. Not even a little bit.”
“Is it really that big of a deal?” I asked, hoping to deflect the conversation. I felt a wetness on my side, the bandage loosening and the cut reopening. A trickle of blood threatened to seep onto the car seat. I pressed a hand against it, praying it wasn't too noticeable.
The drive was quiet, a tense hum of unspoken questions. Harry glanced at me, then back at the road, but I could feel his scrutiny burning into my side. Finally, we arrived at his place. The promise of a movie night, a small haven away from the chaos.
“I need to use the bathroom,” I said as we stepped inside, my voice barely a whisper.
“No, you don’t,” he demanded, his tone sharper than I expected.
“I have to pee, Harry,” I pleaded, glancing around as if expecting my father to materialize.
“You’re just trying to avoid me,” he said, his eyes narrowed. “I know you. You always go to the bathroom before leaving anywhere.” He moved closer, his height looming over me. “Take off the glasses, (y/n).”
Slowly, I complied. The sunglasses came off, revealing the purple bloom around my eye. I couldn’t meet his gaze, so I stared at the worn floorboards, watching a single drop of blood fall onto the wood. Harry followed my gaze, his expression hardening.
“You’re going to need to take your shirt off, Sweetheart.”
“I can just lift it up,” I countered, hoping to minimize the exposure.
“We’ve been together for two years. Now is not the time to be insecure.” His voice was laced with irritation. I sighed. It wasn’t insecurity about my body, but the bruises that marred my skin, the evidence of a life lived in fear. I shrugged off my shirt, revealing the bra beneath. The bruises around my neck and wrist were visible now. The red marks on my neck from his attempted strangulation this morning and the wrist marks from when I struggled to get away. “Oh my god. Who did this to you?”
“I took a fall down the stairs. Clumsy me,” I lied, the words tasting like ash.
“I’m not an idiot, (y/n). A fall explains the black eye, maybe the cut on your side, but it doesn’t explain the bruises on your neck and wrist.”
Silence hung heavy between us. Harry cleaned the wound on my side, bandaging it as the bleeding slowed. “(y/n), you need to tell me who did this so I can make sure you stay away from him.”
“I can’t stay away from him!” I blurted out, the words laced with desperation.
“What are you talking about?” He paused, realization dawning in his eyes. “It’s your dad, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I whispered, tears welling up. “He’s drunk, he’s abusive, he blames me for Mom’s death.” The words tumbled out, raw and broken. “He only stops when he passes out, and then it starts again at the crack of dawn. Today, he tried to choke me, then threw me into the corner of the glass coffee table.”
Harry pulled me into his arms, holding me tight. “I can’t take it anymore, Harry. I fear for my life every time I walk through that door.”
“Don’t worry, Sweetheart,” he said, his voice firm with resolve. “You’re staying with me from now on. You’ll never have to face him again. I promise.”